I.

IT appears to me, that if we conſider the improvement of human ſociety, from rude beginnings to a ſtate of greater perfection, po⯑lytheiſm or idolatry was, and neceſſarily muſt have been, the firſt and moſt antient religion of mankind. This opinion I ſhall endeavour to confirm by the following arguments.

'TIS a matter of fact unconteſtable, that about 1700 years ago all mankind were idolaters. The doubtful and ſceptical principles of a few philoſophers, or the theiſm, and that too not entirely pure, of one or two nations, form no objection worth regarding. Behold then the clear teſtimony of hiſtory. The farther we mount up into antiquity, the more do we find mankind plunged into idolatry. No marks, no ſymptoms of any more perfect religion. The moſt antient records of human race ſtill preſent us with polytheiſm as the popular and eſtabliſhed ſyſtem. The north, the ſouth, the eaſt, the weſt, give their unanimous teſtimony to the ſame fact. What can be oppoſed to ſo full an evidence?

[4] As far as writing or hiſtory reaches, man⯑kind, in antient times, appear univerſally to have been polytheiſts. Shall we aſſert, that, in more antient times, before the knowledge of letters, or the diſcovery of any art or ſcience, men entertained the principles of pure theiſm? That is, while they were ignorant and barba⯑rous, they diſcovered truth: But fell into error, as ſoon as they acquired learning and polite⯑neſs.

BUT in this aſſertion you not only contradict all appearance of probability, but alſo our pre⯑ſent experience concerning the principles and opinions of barbarous nations. The ſavage tribes of America, Africa, and Aſia are all ido⯑laters. Not a ſingle exception to this rule. Inſomuch, that, were a traveller to tranſport himſelf into any unknown region; if he found inhabitants cultivated with arts and ſciences, tho' even upon that ſuppoſition there are odds againſt their being theiſts, yet could he notſafely, till farther enquiry, pronounce any thing on that head: But if he found them ignorant and barbarous, he might beforehand declare them idolaters; and there ſcarce is a poſſibility of his being miſtaken.

[5] IT ſeems certain, that, according to the natu⯑ral progreſs of human thought, the ignorant multitude muſt firſt entertain ſome groveling and familiar notion of ſuperior powers, before they ſtretch their conception to that perfect be⯑ing, who beſtowed order on the whole frame of nature. We may as reaſonably imagine, that men inhabited palaces before huts and cot⯑tages, or ſtudied geometry before agriculture; as aſſert that the deity appeared to them a pure ſpirit, omniſcient, omnipotent, and omnipre⯑ſent, before he was apprehended to be a power⯑ful, tho' limited being, with human paſſions and appetites, limbs and organs. The mind riſes gradually, from inferior to ſuperior: By ab⯑ſtracting from what is imperfect, it forms an idea of perfection: And ſlowly diſtinguiſhing the nobler parts of its frame from the groſſer, it learns to transfer only the former, much ele⯑vated and refined, to its divinity. Nothing could diſturb this natural progreſs of thought, but ſome obvious and invincible argument, which might immediately lead the mind into the pure principles of theiſm, and make it over⯑leap, at one bound, the vaſt interval, which is interpoſed betwixt the human and the divine na⯑ture. [6] But tho' I allow, that the order and frame of the univerſe, when accurately examin⯑ed, affords ſuch an argument; yet I can never think that this conſideration could have an influ⯑ence on manking, when they formed their firſt, rude notions of religion.

THE cauſes of objects, which are quite fami⯑liar to us, never ſtrike our attention or curioſity; and however extraordinary or ſurprizing theſe objects may be in themſelves, they are paſt over, by the raw and ignorant multitude, without much examination or enquiry. Adam, riſing at once, in paradiſe, and in the full perfection of his faculties, would naturally, as repreſented by Milton, be aſtoniſhed at the glorious appear⯑ances of nature, the heavens, the air, the earth, his own organs and members; and would be led to aſk, whence this wonderful ſcene aroſe. But a barbarous, neceſſitous animal (ſuch as man is on the firſt origin of ſociety) preſſed by ſuch numerous wants and paſſions, has no leiſure to admire the regular face of na⯑ture, or make enquiries concerning the cauſe of objects, to which, from his infancy, he has been gradually accuſtomed. On the contrary, the more regular and uniform, that is, the more [7] perfect, nature appears, the more is he fami⯑liarized to it, and the leſs inclined to ſcrutinize and examine it. A monſtrous birth excites his curioſity, and is deemed a prodigy. It alarms him from its novelty; and immediately ſets him a trembling, and ſacrificing, and praying. But an animal compleat in all its limbs and or⯑gans, is to him an ordinary ſpectacle, and pro⯑duces no religious opinion or affection. Aſk him, whence that animal aroſe; he will tell you, from the copulation of its parents. And theſe, whence? From the copulation of theirs. A few removes ſatisfy his curioſity, and ſets the objects at ſuch a diſtance, that he entirely loſes [...]ight of them. Imagine not, that he will ſo much as ſtart the queſtion, whence the firſt ani⯑mal; much leſs, whence the whole ſyſtem or united fabric of the univerſe aroſe. Or, if you ſtart ſuch a queſtion to him, expect not, that he will employ his mind with any anxiety about a ſubject, ſo remote, ſo unintereſting, and which ſo much exceeds the bounds of his capa⯑city.

BUT farther, if men were at firſt led into the belief of one ſupreme being, by reaſoning from the frame of nature, they could never poſſibly [8] leave that belief, in order to embrace idolatry; but the ſame principles of reaſoning, which at firſt produced, and diffuſed over mankind, ſo magnificent an opinion, muſt be able, with greater facility, to preſerve it. The firſt inven⯑tion and proof of any doctrine is infinitely more difficult than the ſupporting and retaining it.

THERE is a great difference betwixt hiſtorical facts and ſpeculative opinions; nor is the know⯑ledge of the one propagated in the ſame manner with that of the other. An hiſtorical fact, while it paſſes by oral tradition from eye-wit⯑neſſes and contemporaries, is diſguiſed in every ſucceſſive narration, and may at laſt retain but very ſmall, if any, reſemblance of the original truth, on which it was founded. The frail memories of men, their love of exaggeration, their ſupine careleſſneſs; theſe principles, if not corrected by books and writing, ſoon per⯑vert the account of hiſtorical events; where ar⯑gument or reaſoning has little or no place, nor can ever recal the truth, which has once eſcap⯑ed thoſe narrations. 'Tis thus the fables of Hercules, Theſeus, Bacchus are ſuppoſed to have been originally founded in true hiſtory, cor⯑rupted by tradition. But with regard to ſpecu⯑lative [9] opinions, the caſe is far otherwiſe. If theſe opinions be founded in arguments ſo clear and obvious as to carry conviction with the ge⯑nerality of mankind, the ſame arguments, which at firſt diffuſed the opinions, will ſtill preſerve them in their original purity. If the arguments be more abſtruſe, and more remote from vulgar apprehenſions, the opinions will always be confined to a few perſons; and as ſoon as men leave the contemplation of the ar⯑guments, the opinions will immediately be loſt and buried in oblivion. Which ever ſide of this dilemma we take, it muſt appear impoſſible, that theiſm could, from reaſoning, have been the primary religion of human race, and have afterwards, by its corruption, given birth to ido⯑latry and to all the various ſuperſtitions of the heathen world. Reaſon, when very obvious, prevents theſe corruptions: When abſtruſe, it keeps the principles entirely from the knowledge of the vulgar, who are alone liable to corrupt any principles, or opinions.

II.

IF we would, therefore, indulge our curio⯑ſity, in enquiring concerning the origin of reli⯑gion, we muſt turn our thoughts towards ido⯑latry or polytheiſm, the primitive Religion of uninſtructed mankind.

WERE men led into the apprehenſion of in⯑viſible, intelligent power by a contemplation of the works of nature, they could never poſſibly entertain any conception but of one ſingle be⯑ing, who beſtowed exiſtence and order on this vaſt machine, and adjuſted all its parts, ac⯑cording to one regular plan or connected ſyſtem. For tho', to perſons of a certain turn of mind, it may not appear altogether abſurd, that ſeve⯑ral independent beings, endowed with ſuperior wiſdom, might conſpire in the contrivance and execution of one regular plan; yet is this a mere arbitrary ſuppoſition, which, even if al⯑lowed poſſible, muſt be confeſſed neither to be ſupported by probability nor neceſſity. All things in the univerſe are evidently of a piece. Every thing is adjuſted to every thing. One [11] deſign prevails thro' the whole. And this uniformity leads the mind to acknowledge one author; becauſe the conception of different au⯑thors, without any diſtinction of attributes or operations, ſerves only to give perplexity to the imagination, without beſtowing any ſatisfaction on the underſtanding^a.

ON the other hand, if, leaving the works of nature, we trace the footſteps of inviſible pow⯑er in the various and contrary events of human life, we are neceſſarily led into polytheiſm, and to the acknowledgment of ſeveral limited and imperfect deities. Storms and tempeſts ruin what is nouriſhed by the ſun. The ſun de⯑ſtroys what is foſtered by the moiſture of dews and rains. War may be favourable to a na⯑tion, whom the inclemency of the ſeaſons af⯑flicts with famine. Sickneſs and peſtilence may depopulate a kingdom, amidſt the moſt profuſe plenty. The ſame nation is not, at the [12] ſame time, equally ſucceſsful by ſea and by land. And a nation, which now triumphs over its enemies, may anon ſubmit to their more proſ⯑perous arms. In ſhort, the conduct of events or what we call the plan of a particular provi⯑dence, is ſo full of variety and uncertainty, that, if we ſuppoſe it immediately ordered by any in⯑telligent beings, we muſt acknowledge a con⯑trariety in their deſigns and intentions, a con⯑ſtant combat of oppoſite powers, and a repen⯑tance or change of intention in the ſame power, from impotence or levity. Each nation has its tutelar deity. Each element is ſubjected to its inviſible power or agent. The province of each god is ſeparate from that of another. Nor are the operations of the ſame god always cer⯑tain and invariable. To day, he protects: To morrow, he abandons us. Prayers and ſacrifi⯑ces, rites and ceremonies, well or ill perform⯑ed, are the ſources of his favour or enmity, and produce all the good or ill fortune, which are to be found amongſt mankind.

WE may conclude, therefore, that, in all nations, which have embraced polytheiſm or idolatry, the firſt ideas of religion aroſe not from a contemplation of the works of nature, [13] but from a concern with regard to the events of life, and from the inceſſant hopes and fears, which actuate the human mind. Accordingly, we find, that all idolaters, having ſeparated the provinces of their deities, have recourſe to that inviſible agent, to whoſe authority they are im⯑mediately ſubjected, and whoſe province it is to ſuperintend that courſe of actions, in which they are, at any time, engaged. Juno is in⯑voked at marriages; Lucina at births. Nep⯑tune receives the prayers of ſeamen; and Mars of warriors. The huſbandman cultivates his field under the protection of Ceres; and the merchant acknowledges the authority of Mer⯑cury. Each natural event is ſuppoſed to be go⯑verned by ſome intelligent agent; and nothing proſperous or adverſe can happen in life, which may not be the ſubject of peculiar prayers or thankſgivings^b.

[14] IT muſt neceſſarily, indeed, be allowed, that, in order to carry men's attention be⯑yond the viſible courſe of things, or lead them into any inference concerning inviſible intelli⯑gent power, they muſt be actuated by ſome paſſion, which prompts their thought and reflection; ſome motive, which urges their firſt enquiry. But what paſſion ſhall we here have recourſe to, for explaining an effect of ſuch mighty conſequence? Not ſpecula⯑tive curioſity ſurely, or the pure love of truth. That motive is too refined for ſuch groſs ap⯑prehenſions, and would lead men into en⯑quiries concerning the frame of nature; a ſub⯑ject too large and comprehenſive for their narrow capacities. No paſſions, therefore, can be ſuppoſed to work upon ſuch barbarians, but the ordinary affections of human life; the anxious concern for happineſs, the dread of future miſery, the terror of death, the thirſt of revenge, the appetite for food and other neceſſaries. Agitated by hopes and fears of this nature, eſpecially the latter, men ſcruti⯑nize, with a trembling curioſity, the courſe of future cauſes, and examine the various and [15] contrary events of human life. And in this diſordered ſcene, with eyes ſtill more diſordered and aſtoniſhed, they ſee the firſt obſcure traces of divinity.

III.

WE are placed in this world, as in a great theatre, where the true ſprings and cauſes of every event, are entirely unknown to us; nor have we either ſufficient wiſdom to foreſee, or power to prevent thoſe ills, with which we are continually threatened. We hang in per⯑petual ſuſpenſe betwixt life and death, health and ſickneſs, plenty and want; which are diſtri⯑buted amongſt the human ſpecies by ſecret and unknown cauſes, whoſe operation is oft unex⯑pected, and always unaccountable. Theſe un⯑known cauſes, then, become the conſtant ob⯑ject of our hope and fear; and while the paſ⯑ſions are kept in perpetual alarm by an anxious expectation of the events, the imagination is equally employed in forming ideas of thoſe powers, on which we have ſo entire a depen⯑dance. Could men anatomize nature, accord⯑ing to the moſt probable, at leaſt the moſt in⯑telligible philoſophy, they would find, that theſe cauſes are nothing but the particular fabric and ſtructure of the minute parts of their own bodies and of external objects; and that, by a regular and conſtant machinery, all the events are pro⯑duced, [17] about which they are ſo much concerned. But this philoſophy exceeds the comprehenſion of the ignorant multitude, who can only con⯑ceive the unknown cauſes in a general and con⯑fuſed manner; tho' their imagination, perpe⯑tually employed on the ſame ſubject, muſt la⯑bour to form ſome particular and diſtinct idea of them. The more they conſider theſe cauſes themſelves, and the uncertainty of their opera⯑tion, the leſs ſatisfaction do they meet with in their reſearch; and, however unwilling, they muſt at laſt have abandoned ſo arduous an at⯑tempt, were it not for a propenſity in human nature, which leads into a ſyſtem, that gives them ſome ſeeming ſatisfaction.

THERE is an univerſal tendency amongſt mankind to conceive all beings like themſelves, and to transfer to every object thoſe qualities, with which they are familiarly acquainted, and of which they are intimately conſcious. We find human faces in the moon, armies in the clouds; and by a natural propenſity, if not corrected by experience and reflection, aſcribe malice and good-will to every thing, that hurts or pleaſes us. Hence the frequency and beauty of the proſopopoeia in poetry, where trees, [18] mountains and ſtreams are perſoniſied, and the inanimate parts of nature acquire ſentiment and paſſion. And tho' theſe poetical figures and expreſſions gain not on the belief, they may ſerve, at leaſt, to prove a certain tendency in the imagination, without which they could nei⯑ther be beautiful nor natural. Nor is a river⯑god or hama-dryad always taken for a mere poetical or imaginary perſonage; but may ſome⯑times enter into the real creed of the ignorant vulgar; while each grove or field is repreſented as poſſeſt of a particular genius or inviſible power, which inhabits and protects it. Nay, philoſo⯑phers cannot entirely exempt themſelves from this natural frailty; but have oft aſcribed to in⯑animate matter the horror of a vacuum, ſym⯑pathies, antipathies, and other affections of human nature. The abſurdity is not leſs, while we caſt our eyes upwards; and transfer⯑ring, as is too uſual, human paſſions and infirmi⯑ties to the deity, repreſent him as jealous and revengeful, capricious and partial, and, in ſhort, a wicked and fooliſh man in every reſpect, but his ſuperior power and authority. No wonder, then, that mankind, being placed in ſuch an abſolute ignorance of cauſes, and being at the ſame time ſo anxious concerning their future [19] fortunes, ſhould immediatly acknowledge a de⯑pendence on inviſible powers, poſſeſt of ſenti⯑ment and intelligence. The unknown cauſes, which continually employ their thought, appear⯑ing always in the ſame aſpect, are all appre⯑hended to be of the ſame kind or ſpecies. Nor is it long before we aſcribe to them thought, and reaſon, and paſſion, and ſometimes even the limbs and figures of men, in order to bring them nearer to a reſemblance with ourſelves.

IN proportion as any man's courſe of life is governed by accident, we always find, that he encreaſes in ſuperſtition; as may particularly be obſerved of gameſters and ſailors, who, tho', of all mankind, the leaſt capable of ſerious me⯑ditation, abound moſt in frivolous and ſuperſti⯑tious apprehenſions. The gods, ſays Coriolanus in Dionyſius ^*, have an influence in every affair; but above all, in war; where the event is ſo uncertain. All human life, eſpecially before the inſtitution of order and good government, being ſubject to fortuitous accidents; it is na⯑tural, that ſuperſtition ſhould prevail every where in barbarous ages, and put men on the moſt [20] earneſt enquiry concerning thoſe inviſible powers, who diſpoſe of their happineſs or miſery. Ig⯑norant of aſtronomy and the anatomy of plants and animals, and too little curious to obſerve the admirable adjuſtment of final cauſes; they remain ſtill unacquainted with a firſt and ſu⯑preme creator, and with that infinitely perfect ſpirit, who alone, by his almighty will, be⯑ſtowed order on the whole frame of nature, Such a magnificent idea is too big for their nar⯑row conceptions, which can neither obſerve the beauty of the work, nor comprehend the gran⯑deur of its author. They ſuppoſe their deities, however potent and inviſible, to be nothing but a ſpecies of human creatures, perhaps raiſed from among mankind, and retaining all human paſſions and appetites, along with corporeal limbs and organs. Such limited beings, tho' maſters of human fate, being, each of them, incapable of extending his influence every where, muſt be vaſtly multiplied, in order to anſwer that variety of events, which happen over the whole face of nature. Thus every place is ſtored with a crowd of local deities; and thus idola⯑try has prevailed, and ſtill prevails, among the greateſt part of uninſtructed mankind^*.

[21] ANY of the human affections may lead us into the notion of inviſible, intelligent power; hope as well as fear, gratitude as well as afflic⯑tion: But if we examine our own hearts, or obſerve what paſſes around us, we ſhall find, that men are much oſtener thrown on their knees by the melancholy than by the agreeable paſſions. Proſperity is eaſily received as our due, and few queſtions are aſked concerning its cauſe or author. It engenders cheerful⯑neſs and activity and alacrity and a lively en⯑joyment of every ſocial and ſenſual pleaſure: And during this ſtate of mind, men have little leiſure or inclination to think of the unknown, inviſible regions. On the other hand, every diſaſtrous accident alarms us, and ſets us on enquiries concerning the principles whence it aroſe: Apprehenſions ſpring up with regard to futurity: And the mind, ſunk into diffidence, terror, and melancholy, has recourſe to every [22] method of appeaſing thoſe ſecret, intelligent powers, on whom our fortune is ſuppoſed en⯑tirely to depend.

NO topic is more uſual with all popular di⯑vines than to diſplay the advantages of affliction, in bringing men to a due ſenſe of religion; by ſubduing their confidence and ſenſuality, which, in times of proſperity, make them forgetful of a divine providence. Nor is this topic confined merely to modern religions. The ancients have alſo employed it. Fortune has never libe⯑rally, without envy, ſays a Greek hiſtorian^a, beſtowed an unmixt happineſs on mankind; but with all her gifts has ever conjoined ſome diſaſtrous circumſtance, in order to chaſtize men into a reve⯑rence for the gods, whom, in a continued courſe of proſperity, they are apt to neglect and forget.

WHAT age or period of life is the moſt addicted to ſuperſtition? The weakeſt and moſt timid. What ſex? The ſame anſwer muſt be given. The leaders and examples of every kind of ſuperſti⯑tion, ſays Strabo ^b, are the women. Theſe ex⯑cite the men to devotion and ſupplications, and the obſervance of religious days. It is rare to meet [23] with one, that lives apart from the females, and yet is addicted to ſuch practiſes. And nothing can, for this reaſon, be more improbable, than the account given of an order of men amongſt the Getes, who practiſed celibacy, and were notwithſtanding the moſt religious fanatics. A method of reaſoning, which would lead us to entertain a very bad idea of the devotion of monks; did we not know by an experience, not ſo common, perhaps, in Strabo's days, that one may practice celibacy, and profeſs chaſtity; and yet maintain the cloſeſt connexions and moſt entire ſympathy with that timorous and pious ſex.

IV.

THE only point of theology, in which we ſhall find a conſent of mankind almoſt uni⯑verſal, is, that there is inviſible, intelligent power in the world: But whether this power be ſupreme or ſubordinate, whether confined to one being or diſtributed amongſt ſeveral, what attributes, qualities, connexions or principles of action ought to be aſcribed to thoſe beings; concerning all theſe points, there is the wideſt difference in the popular ſyſtems of theology. Our anceſtors in Europe, before the revival of let⯑ters, believed, as we do at preſent, that there was one ſupreme God, the author of nature, whoſe power, tho', in itſelf, uncontrolable, yet was often exerted by the interpoſition of his angels and ſubordinate miniſters, who executed his ſacred purpoſes. But they alſo believed, that all nature was full of other inviſible powers; fairies, goblins, elves, ſprights; beings, ſtronger and mightier than men, but much inferior to the celeſtial natures, who ſurround the throne of God. Now ſuppoſe, that any one, in thoſe ages, had denied the exiſtence of God and of his angels; would not his impiety juſtly have [25] deſerved the appellation of atheiſm, even tho' he had ſtill allowed, by ſome odd capricious reaſoning, that the popular ſtories of elves and fairies were juſt and well-grounded? The dif⯑ference, on the one hand, betwixt ſuch a perſon and a genuine theiſt is infinitely greater, than that, on the other, betwixt him and one, that abſolutely excludes all inviſible, intelligent power. And it is a fallacy, merely from the caſual reſemblance of names, without any con⯑formity of meaning, to rank ſuch oppoſite opini⯑ons under the ſame denomination.

TO any one, who conſiders juſtly of the matter, it will appear, that the gods of all polytheiſts or idolaters are no better than the elves or fairies of our anceſtors, and merit as little any pious worſhip or veneration. Theſe pretended religioniſts are really a kind of ſuper⯑ſtitious atheiſts, and acknowledge no being, that correſponds to our idea of a deity. No firſt principle of mind or thought: No ſupreme go⯑vernment and adminiſtration: No divine con⯑trivance or intention in the fabric of the world.

[26] THE Chineſe, when ^a their prayers are not anſwered, beat their idols. The deities of the Laplanders are any large ſtone which they meet with of an extraordinary ſhape^b. The Egyp⯑tian mythologiſts, in order to account for ani⯑mal worſhip, ſaid, that the gods, purſued by the violence of earth-born men, who were their enemies, had formerly been obliged to diſguiſe themſelves under the ſemblance of beaſts^c. The Caunii, a nation in the leſſer Aſia, reſolving to admit no ſtrange gods amongſt them, regularly, at certain ſeaſons, aſſembled themſelves com⯑pleatly armed, beat the air with their lances, and proceeded in that manner to their frontiers; in order, as they ſaid, to expel the foreign deities^d. Not even the immortal gods, ſaid ſome German nations to Caeſar, are a match for the Suevi ^e.

MANY ills, ſays Dione in Homer to Venus wounded by Diomede, many ills, my daughter, have the gods inflicted on men: And many ills, in return, have men inflicted on the gods^f. We [27] need but open any claſſic author to meet with theſe groſs repreſentations of the deities; and Longinus ^a with reaſon obſerves, that ſuch ideas of the divine nature, if literally taken, contain a true atheiſm.

SOME writers^b have been ſurpriſed, that the the impieties of Ariſtophanes ſhould have been tolerated, nay publickly acted and applauded, by the Athenians; a people ſo ſuperſtitious and ſo jealous of the public religion, that, at that very time, they put Socrates to death for his ima⯑gined incredulity. But theſe writers conſider not, that the ludicrous, familiar images, under which the gods are repreſented by that comic poet, inſtead of appearing impious, were the genuine lights, in which the ancients conceived their divinities. What conduct can be more criminal or mean, than that of Jupiter in the Amphitryon? Yet that play, which repreſented his gallant exploits, was ſuppoſed ſo agreeable to him, that it was always acted in Rome by pu⯑blic authority, when the State was threatened with peſtilence, famine, or any general cala⯑mity^c. The Romans ſuppoſed, that, like all old [28] letchers, he would be highly pleaſed with the re⯑hearſal of his former feats of activity and vigour, and that no topic was ſo proper, upon which to flatter his pride and vanity.

THE Lacedemonians, ſays Xenophon ^a, always, during war, put up their petitions very early in the morning, in order to be beforehand with their enemies, and by being the firſt ſolicitors, pre-engage the gods in their favour. We may gather from Seneca ^b, that it was uſual for the votaries in the temples, to make intereſt with the beadles or ſextons, in order to have a ſeat near the image of the deity, that they might be the beſt heard in their prayers and applica⯑tions to him. The Tyrians, when beſieged by Alexander, threw chains on the ſtatue of Her⯑cules, to prevent that deity from deſerting to the enemy^c. Auguſtus, having twice loſt his fleet by ſtorms, forbad Neptune to be carried in pro⯑ceſſion along with the other gods; and fancied, that he had ſufficiently revenged himſelf by that expedient^d. After Germanicus's death, the people were ſo enraged at their gods, that they ſtoned [29] them in their temples; and openly renounced all allegiance to them^a.

TO aſcribe the origin and fabric of the uni⯑verſe to theſe imperfect beings never enters into the imagination of any polytheiſt or idolater. Heſiod, whoſe writings, along with thoſe of Homer, contained the canonical ſyſtem of the heathens^b; Heſiod, I ſay, ſuppoſes gods and men to have ſprung equally from the unknown powers of nature^c. And thro' the whole theo⯑gony of that author, Pandora is the only in⯑ſtance of creation or a voluntary production; and ſhe too was formed by the gods merely from deſpight to Prometheus, who had furniſhed men with ſtolen fire from the celeſtial regions^d. The ancient mythologiſts, indeed, ſeem throughout to have rather embraced the idea of generation than that of creation, or formation; and to have thence accounted for the origin of this univerſe.

OVID, who lived in a learned age, and had been inſtructed by philoſophers in the principles of a [30] divine creation or formation of the world; find⯑ing, that ſuch an idea would not agree with the popular mythology, which he delivers, leaves it, in a manner, looſe and detached from his ſyſtem. Quiſquis fuit ille Deorum ^a: Which⯑ever of the gods it was, ſays he, that diſſipated the chaos, and introduced order into the uni⯑verſe. It could neither be Saturn, he knew, nor Jupiter, nor Neptune, nor any of the re⯑ceived deities of paganiſm. His theological ſy⯑ſtem had taught him nothing upon that head, and he leaves the matter equally undetermined.

Diodorus Siculus ^b, beginning his work with an enumeration of the moſt reaſonable opinions concerning the origin of the world, makes no mention of a deity or intelligent mind; tho' it is evident from his hiſtory, that that author had a much greater proneneſs to ſuperſtition than to irreligion. And in another paſſage^c, talking of the Ichthyophages, a nation in India, he ſays, that there being ſo great difficulty in accounting for their deſcent, we muſt conclude them to be aborigines, without any beginning of their gene⯑ration, propagating their race from all eternity; [31] as ſome of the phyſiologers, in treating of the origin of nature, have juſtly obſerved. ‘"But in ſuch ſubjects as theſe,"’ adds the hiſtorian, ‘"which exceed all human capacity, it may well happen, that thoſe, who diſcourſe the moſt, know the leaſt; reaching a ſpecious appear⯑ance of truth in their reaſonings, while ex⯑tremely wide of the real truth and matter of fact."’

A ſtrange ſentiment in our eyes, to be em⯑braced by a profeſt and zealous religioniſt^a! But it was merely by accident, that the queſtion concerning the origin of the world did ever in antient times enter into religious ſyſtems, or was treated of by theologers. The philoſo⯑phers alone made profeſſion of delivering ſyſtems of this nature; and it was pretty late too before theſe bethought themſelves of having recourſe to a mind or ſupreme intelligence, as the firſt cauſe of all. So far was it from being eſteemed [32] prophane in thoſe days to account for the origin of things without a deity, that Thales, Anaxi⯑menes, Heraclitus, and others, who embraced that ſyſtem of coſmogony, paſt unqueſtioned; while Anaxagoras, the firſt undoubted theiſt among the philoſophers, was perhaps the firſt that ever was accuſed of atheiſm^a.

WE are told by Sextus Empiricus ^b, that Epi⯑curus, when a boy, reading with his preceptor theſe verſes of Heſiod:

the young ſcholar firſt betrayed his inquiſitive genius, by aſking, And choas whence? But was [33] told by his preceptor, that he muſt have recourſe to the philoſophers for a ſolution of ſuch que⯑ſtions. And from this hint, Epicurus left phi⯑lology and all other ſtudies, in order to betake himſelf to that ſcience, whence alone he ex⯑pected ſatisfaction with regard to theſe ſublime ſubjects.

THE common people were never likely to puſh their reſearches ſo far, or derive from rea⯑ſoning their ſyſtems of religion; when philolo⯑gers and mythologiſts, we ſee, ſcarce ever diſ⯑covered ſo much penetration. And even the philoſophers, who diſcourſed of ſuch topics, readily aſſented to the groſſeſt theory, and ad⯑mitted the joint origin of gods and men from night and chaos; from fire, water, air, or what⯑ever they eſtabliſhed to be the ruling element.

NOR was it only on their firſt origin, that the gods were ſuppoſed dependent on the powers of nature. Thro' the whole period of their exiſtence, they were ſubjected to the dominion of fate or deſtiny. Think of the force of neceſ⯑ſity, ſays Agrippa to the Roman people, that force, to which even the gods muſt ſubmit ^a. And [34] the younger Pliny ^a, ſuitable to this way of rea⯑ſoning, tells us, that, amidſt the darkneſs, hor⯑ror, and confuſion, which enſued upon the firſt eruption of Veſuvius, ſeveral concluded, that all nature was going to wrack, and that gods and men were periſhing in one common ruin.

IT is great complaiſance, indeed, if we dig⯑nify with the name of religion ſuch an imperfect ſyſtem of theology, and put it on a level with latter ſyſtems, which are founded on principles more juſt and more ſublime. For my part, I can ſcarce allow the principles even of Marcus Aurelius, Plutarch, and ſome other Stoics and Academics, tho' infinitely more refined than the pagan ſuperſtition, to be worthy of the honour⯑able denomination of theiſm. For if the my⯑thology of the heathens reſemble the antient European ſyſtem of ſpiritual beings, excluding God and angels, and leaving only fairies and ſprights; the creed of theſe philoſophers may juſtly be ſaid to exclude a deity, and to leave only angels and fairies.

V.

BUT it is chiefly our preſent buſineſs to conſider the groſs polytheiſm and idolatry of the vulgar, and to trace all its various appear⯑ances, in the principles of human nature, whence they are derived.

WHOEVER learns, by argument, the exiſt⯑ence of inviſible, intelligent power, muſt reaſon from the admirable contrivance of natural ob⯑jects, and muſt ſuppoſe the world to be the workmanſhip of that divine being, the original cauſe of all things. But the vulgar polytheiſt, ſo far from admitting that idea, deifies every part of the univerſe, and conceives all the con⯑ſpicuous productions of nature to be themſelves ſo many real divinities. The fun, moon, and ſtars are all gods, according to his ſyſtem: Fountains are inhabited by nymphs, and trees by hamadryads: Even monkies, dogs, cats, and other animals often become ſacred in his eyes, and ſtrike him with a religious veneration. And thus, however ſtrong men's propenſity to be⯑lieve inviſible, intelligent power in nature, their propenſity is equally ſtrong to reſt their [36] attention on ſenſible, viſible objects; and in order to reconcile theſe oppoſite inclinations, they are led to unite the inviſible power with ſome viſible object.

THE diſtribution alſo of diſtinct provinces to the ſeveral deities is apt to cauſe ſome allegory, both phyſical and moral, to enter into the vulgar ſyſtems of polytheiſm. The god of war will naturally be repreſented as furious, cruel, and impetuous: The god of poetry as elegant, polite, and amiable: The god of merchandiſe, eſpecially in early times, as thieviſh and deceit⯑ful. The allegories, ſuppoſed in Homer and other mythologiſts, I allow, have been often ſo ſtrained, that men of ſenſe are apt entirely to reject them, and to conſider them as the pro⯑duct merely of the fancy and conceit of critics and commentators. But that allegory really has place in the heathen mythology is unde⯑niable even on the leaſt reflection. Cupid the ſon of Venus; the Muſes the daughters of memory; Prometheus the wiſe brother, and Epimetheus the fooliſh; Hygieia or the goddeſs of health deſcended from Aeſculapius or the god of phyſic: Who ſees not, in theſe, and in many other inſtances, the plain traces of alle⯑gory? [37] When a god is ſuppoſed to preſide over any paſſion, event, or ſyſtem of actions; it is almoſt unavoidable to give him a genealogy, attributes, and adventures, ſuitable to his ſup⯑poſed powers and influence; and to carry on that ſimilitude and compariſon, which is natu⯑rally ſo agreeable to the mind of man.

ALLEGORIES, indeed, entirely perfect, we ought not to expect as the products of ignorance and ſuperſtition; there being no work of genius, that requires a nicer hand, or has been more rarely executed with ſucceſs. That Fear and Terror are the ſons of Mars is juſt; but why by Venus ^a? That Harmony is the daughter of Venus is regular; but why by Mars ^b? That Sleep is the brother of Death is ſuitable; but why deſcribe him as enamoured of one of the Graces^c? And ſince the ancient mythologiſts fall into miſtakes ſo groſs and obvious, we have no reaſon ſurely to expect ſuch refined and long⯑ſpun allegories, as ſome have endeavoured to deduce from their fictions^d.

[38] THE deities of the vulgar are ſo little ſupe⯑rior to human creatures, that where men are affected with ſtrong ſentiments of veneration or gratitude for any hero or public benefactor; no⯑thing can be more natural than to convert him into a god, and fill the heavens, after this man⯑ner, with continual recruits from amongſt man⯑kind. Moſt of the divinities of the antient world are ſuppoſed to have once been men, and to have been beholden for their apotheoſis to the admiration and affection of the people. And the real hiſtory of their adventures, corrupted by tradition, and elevated by the marvellous, be⯑came a plentiful ſource of fable; eſpecially in paſſing thro' the hands of poets, allegoriſts, and prieſts, who ſucceſſively improved upon the wonder and aſtoniſhment of the ignorant mul⯑titude.

PAINTERS too and ſculptors came in for their ſhare of profit in the ſacred myſteries; and fur⯑niſhing men with ſenſible repreſentations of their [39] divinities, whom they cloathed in human fi⯑gures, gave great encreaſe to the public devo⯑tion, and determined its object. It was pro⯑bably for want of theſe arts in rude and barba⯑rous ages, that men deified plants, animals, and even brute, unorganized matter; and rather than be without a ſenſible object of worſhip, affixed divinity to ſuch ungainly forms. Could any ſtatuary of Syria, in early times, have formed a juſt figure of Apollo, the conic ſtone, Heliogabalus, had never become the object of ſuch profound adoration, and been received as a repreſentation of the ſolar deity^a.

STILPO was baniſhed by the council of Areo⯑pagus for affirming that the Minerva in the ci⯑tadel was no divinity; but the workmanſhip of Phidias, the ſculptor^b. What degree of reaſon may we expect in the religious belief of the vulgar in other nations; when Athenians and Areopagites could entertain ſuch groſs concep⯑tions?

[40] THESE then are the general principles of polytheiſm, founded in human nature, and little or nothing dependent on caprice and accident. As the cauſes, which beſtow on us happineſs or miſery, are, in general, very unknown and uncertain, our anxious concern endeavours to attain a determinate idea of them; and finds no better expedient than to repreſent them as in⯑telligent, voluntary agents, like ourſelves; only ſomewhat ſuperior in power and wiſdom. The limited influence of theſe agents, and their great proximity to human weakneſs, introduce the va⯑rious diſtribution and diviſion of their authority; and thereby give riſe to allegory. The ſame principles naturally deiſy mortals, ſuperior in power, courage, or underſtanding, and pro⯑duce hero-worſhip; along with fabulous hi⯑ſtory and mythological tradition, in all its wild and unaccountable forms. And as an in⯑viſible ſpiritual intelligence is an object too re⯑fined for vulgar apprehenſion, men naturally affix it to ſome ſenſible repreſentation; ſuch as either the more conſpicuous parts of nature, or the ſtatues, images, and pictures, which a more refined age forms of its divinities.

[41] ALMOST all idolaters, of whatever age or country, concur in theſe general principles and conceptions; and even the particular characters and provinces, which they aſſign to their deities are not extremely different^a. The Greek and Roman travellers and conquerors, without much difficulty, found their own deities every where; and ſaid, this is Mercury, that Venus; this Mars, that Neptune; by whatever titles the ſtrange gods may be denominated. The goddeſs Hertha of our Saxon anceſtors ſeems to be no other, ac⯑cording to Tacitus ^b, than the Mater Tellus of the Romans; and his conjecture was evidently juſt.

VI.

THE doctrine of one ſupreme deity, the author of nature, is very antient, has ſpread it⯑ſelf over great and populous nations, and among them has been embraced by all ranks and con⯑dition of perſons: But whoever thinks that it has owed its ſucceſs to the prevalent force of thoſe invincible reaſons, on which it is undoubt⯑edly founded, would ſhow himſelf little ac⯑quainted with the ignorance and ſtupidity of the people, and their incurable prejudices in favour of their particular ſuperſtitions. Even at this day, and in Europe, aſk any of the vulgar, why he believes in an omnipotent creator of the world; he will never mention the beauty of final cauſes, of which he is wholly ignorant: He will not hold out his hand, and bid you con⯑template the ſuppleneſs and variety of joints in his fingers, their bending all one way, the coun⯑terpoiſe which they receive from the thumb, the ſoftneſs and fleſhy parts of the inſide of his hand, with all the other circumſtances, which render that member fit for the uſe, to which it was deſtined. To theſe he has been long accu⯑ſtomed; and he beholds them with liſtleſſneſs [43] and unconcern. He will tell you of the ſudden and unexpected death of ſuch a one: The fall and bruiſe of ſuch another: The exceſſive drought of this ſeaſon: The cold and rains of another. Theſe he aſcribes to the immediate operation of providence: And ſuch events, as, with good reaſoners, are the chief difficulties in admitting a ſupreme intelligence, are with him the ſole arguments for it.

MANY theiſts, even the moſt zealous and refined, have denied a particular providence, and have aſſerted, that the Sovereign mind or firſt principle of all things, having fixt general laws, by which nature is governed, gives free and uninterrupted courſe to theſe laws, and di⯑ſturbs not, at every turn, the ſettled order of events, by particular volitions. From the beau⯑tiful connexion, ſay they, and rigid obſervance of eſtabliſhed rules, we draw the chief argument for theiſm; and from the ſame principles are enabled to anſwer the principal objections againſt it. But ſo little is this underſtood by the gene⯑rality of mankind, that, wherever they obſerve any one to aſcribe all events to natural cauſes, and to remove the particular interpoſal of a deity, they are apt to ſuſpect him of the groſſeſt infi⯑delity. [44] A little philoſophy, ſays my Lord Bacon, makes men atheiſts: A great deal reconciles them to religion. For men, being taught, by ſuper⯑ſtitious prejudices, to lay the ſtreſs on a wrong place; when that fails them, and they diſcover, by a little reflection, that the courſe of nature is regular and uniform, their whole faith totters, and falls to ruin. But being taught, by more reflection, that this very regularity and unifor⯑mity is the ſtrongeſt proof of deſign and of a ſupreme intelligence, they return to that belief, which they had deſerted; and they are now able to eſtabliſh it on a firmer and more durable foundation.

CONVULSIONS in nature, diſorders, prodi⯑gies, miracles, tho' the moſt oppoſite to the plan of a wiſe ſuperintendent, impreſs mankind with the ſtrongeſt ſentiments of religion; the cauſes of events ſeeming then the moſt unknown and unaccountable. Madneſs, fury, rage, and an inflamed imagination, tho' they ſink men neareſt the level of beaſts, are, for a like reaſon, often ſuppoſed to be the only diſpoſitions, in which we can have any immediate communica⯑tion with the deity.

[45] WE may conclude, therefore, upon the whole, that ſince the vulgar, in nations, which have embraced the doctrine of theiſm, ſtill build it upon irrational and ſuperſtitious opinions, they are never led into that opinion by any proceſs of argument, but by a certain train of thinking, more ſuitable to their genius and capacity.

IT may readily happen, in an idolatrous na⯑tion, that, tho' men admit the exiſtence of ſe⯑veral limited deities, yet may there be ſome one god, whom, in a particular manner, they make the object of their worſhip and adoration. They may either ſuppoſe, that, in the diſtribu⯑tion of power and territory among the gods, their nation was ſubjected to the juriſdiction of that particular deity; or reducing heavenly ob⯑jects to the model of things below, they may repreſent one god as the prince or ſupreme ma⯑giſtrate of the reſt, who, tho' of the ſame nature, rules them with an authority, like that which an earthly ſovereign exerciſes over his ſubjects and vaſſals. Whether this god, therefore, be conſidered as their peculiar patron, or as the general ſovereign of heaven, his votaries will endeavour, by every act, to inſinuate themſelves into his favour; and ſuppoſing him to be pleaſed, [46] like themſelves, with praiſe and flattery, there is no eulogy or exaggeration, which will be ſpared in their addreſſes to him. In proportion as men's fears or diſtreſſes become more urgent, they ſtill invent new ſtrains of adulation; and even he who out-does his predeceſſors, in ſwel⯑ling up the titles of his divinity, is ſure to be out-done by his ſucceſſors, in newer and more pompous epithets of praiſe. Thus they pro⯑ceed; till at laſt they arrive at infinity itſelf, beyond which there is no farther progreſs: And it is well, if, in ſtriving to get farther, and to repreſent a magnificent ſimplicity, they run not into inexplicable myſtery, and deſtroy the intelligent nature of their deity; on which alone any rational worſhip or adoration can be founded. While they confine themſelves to the notion of a perfect being, the crea⯑tor of the world, they coincide, by chance, with the principles of reaſon and true philoſo⯑phy; tho' they are guided to that notion, not by reaſon, of which they are in a great meaſure incapable, but by the adulation and fears of the moſt vulgar ſuperſtition.

WE often find amongſt barbarous nations, and even ſometimes amongſt civilized, that, [47] when every ſtrain of flattery has been exhauſted towards arbitrary princes; when every human quality has been applauded to the utmoſt; their ſervile courtiers repreſent them, at laſt, as real divinities, and point them out to the people as objects of adoration. How much more natu⯑ral, therefore, is it, that a limited deity, who at firſt is ſuppoſed only the immediate author of the particular goods and ills in life, ſhould in the end be repreſented as ſovereign maker and modifier of the univerſe?

EVEN where this notion of a ſupreme deity is already eſtabliſhed; tho' it ought naturally to leſſen every other worſhip, and abaſe every ob⯑ject of reverence, yet if a nation has entertained the opinion of a ſubordinate tutelar divinity, faint, or angel; their addreſſes to that being gradually riſe upon them, and encroach on the adoration due to their ſupreme deity. The virgin Mary, ere checkt by the reformation, had proceeded, from being merely a good wo⯑man to uſurp many attributes of the Almighty^a: [48] God and St. Nicholas go hand in hand, in all the prayers and petitions of the Muſcovites.

THUS the deity, who, from love, converted himſelf into a bull, in order to carry off Europa; and who, from ambition, dethroned his father, Saturn, became the Optimus Maximus of the heathens. Thus, notwithſtanding the ſublime ideas ſuggeſted by Moſes and the inſpired writers, many vulgar Jews ſeem ſtill to have conceived the ſupreme Being as a mere topical deity or national protector.

RATHER than relinquiſh this propenſity to adulation, religioniſts, in all ages, have involved themſelves in the greateſt abſurdities and con⯑tradictions.

HOMER, in one paſſage, calls Oceanus and Tethys the original parents of all things, con⯑formable [49] to the eſtabliſhed mythology and tra⯑dition of the Greeks: Yet, in other paſſages, he could not forbear complimenting Jupiter, the reigning deity, with that magnificent appella⯑tion; and accordingly denominates him the fa⯑ther of gods and men. He forgets, that every temple, every ſtreet was full of the anceſtors, uncles, brothers, and ſiſters of this Jupiter; who was in reality nothing but an upſtart parri⯑cide and uſurper. A like contradiction is ob⯑ſervable in Heſiod; and is ſo much the leſs ex⯑cuſable, that his profeſſed intention was to deliver a true genealogy of the gods.

WERE there a religion (and we may ſuſpect Mahometaniſm of this inconſiſtence) which ſome⯑times painted the deity in the moſt ſublime co⯑lours, as the creator of heaven and earth; ſome⯑times degraded him nearly to a level with hu⯑man creatures in his powers and faculties; while at the ſame time it aſcribed to him ſuitable in⯑firmities, paſſions, and partialities of the moral kind: That religion, after it was extinct, would alſo be cited as an inſtance of thoſe contradic⯑tions, which ariſe from the groſs, vulgar, natu⯑ral conceptions of mankind, oppoſed to their continual propenſity towards flattery and ex⯑aggeration. [50] aggeration. Nothing indeed would prove more ſtrongly the divine origin of any religion, than to find (and happily this is the caſe with Chri⯑ſtianity) that it is free from a contradiction, ſo incident to human nature.

VII.

IT appears certain, that, tho' the original notions of the vulgar repreſent the Divinity as a very limited being, and conſider him only as the particular cauſe of health or ſickneſs; plenty or want; proſperity or adverſity; yet when more magnificent ideas are urged upon them, they eſteem it dangerous to refuſe their aſſent. Will you ſay, that your deity is finite and bounded in his perfections; may be overcome by a greater force; is ſubject to human paſſions, pains, and infirmities; has a beginning, and may have an end? This they dare not affirm; but thinking it ſafeſt to comply with the higher encomiums, they endeavour, by an affected raviſhment and devotion, to ingratiate them⯑ſelves with him. As a confirmation of this, we may obſerve, that the aſſent of the vulgar is, in this caſe, merely verbal, and that they are in⯑capable of conceiving thoſe ſublime qualities, which they ſeemingly attribute to the deity. Their real idea of him, notwithſtanding their pompous language, is ſtill as poor and frivolous as ever.

[52] THAT original intelligence, ſay the Magi⯑ans, who is the firſt principle of all things, diſ⯑covers himſelf immediately to the mind and under⯑ſtanding alone; but has placed the ſun as his image in the viſible univerſe; and when that bright luminary diffuſes its beams over the earth and the firmament, it is a faint copy of the glo⯑ry, which reſides in the higher heavens. If you would eſcape the diſpleaſure of this divine being, you muſt be careful never to ſet your bare foot upon the ground, nor ſpit into a fire, nor throw any water upon it, even tho' it were conſuming a whole city^a. Who can expreſs the perfections of the Almighty, ſay the Maho⯑metans? Even the nobleſt of his works, if compared to him, are but duſt and rubbiſh. How much more muſt human conception fall ſhort of his infinite perfections? His ſmile and favour renders men for ever happy; and to ob⯑tain it for your children, the beſt method is to cut off from them, while infants, a little bit of ſkin, about half the breadth of a farthing. Take two bits of cloath^b, ſay the Roman catholics, about an inch or an inch and a half ſquare, join them by the corners with two ſtrings or pieces [53] of tape about ſixteen inches long, throw this over your head, and make one of the bits of cloath lie upon your breaſt, and the other upon your back, keeping them next your ſkin. There is not a better ſecret for recommending yourſelf to that infinite Being, who exiſts from eternity to eternity.

THE Getes, commonly called immortal, from their ſteddy belief of the ſoul's immortality, were genuine theiſts and unitarians. They af⯑firmed Zamolxis, their deity, to be the only true god; and aſſerted the worſhip of all other na⯑tions to be addreſſed to mere fictions and chimeras. But were their religious principles any more re⯑fined, on account of theſe magnificent preten⯑ſions? Every fifth year they ſacrified a human victim, whom they ſent as a meſſenger to their deity, in order to inform him of their wants and neceſſities. And when it thundered, they were ſo provoked, that, in order to return the defi⯑ance, they let fly arrows at him, and declined not the combat as unequal. Such at leaſt is the account, which Herodotus gives of the theiſm of the immortal Getes ^a.

VIII.

IT is remarkable, that the principles of re⯑ligion have a kind of flux and reflux in the human mind, and that men have a natural ten⯑dency to riſe from idolatry to theiſm, and to ſink again from theiſm into idolatry. The vul⯑gar, that is, indeed, all mankind, a few ex⯑cepted, being ignorant and uninſtructed, never elevate their contemplation to the heavens, or penetrate by their diſquiſitions into the ſecret ſtructure of vegetable or animal bodies; ſo as to diſcover a ſupreme mind or original provi⯑dence, which beſtowed order on every part of nature. They conſider theſe admirable works in a more confined and ſelfiſh view; and find⯑ing their own happineſs and miſery to depend on the ſecret influence and unforeſeen concur⯑rence of external objects, they regard, with per⯑petual attention, the unknown cauſes, which go⯑vern all theſe natural events, and diſtribute plea⯑ſure and pain, good and ill, by their powerful, but ſilent, operation. The unknown cauſes are ſtill appealed to, at every emergence; and in this general appearance or confuſed image, are the perpetual objects of human hopes and [55] fears, wiſhes and apprehenſions. By degrees, the active imagination of men, uneaſy in this abſtract conception of objects, about which it is inceſſantly employed, begins to render them more particular, and to cloathe them in ſhapes more ſuitable to its natural comprehenſion. It repreſents them to be ſenſible, intelligent beings, like mankind; actuated by love and hatred, and flexible by gifts and entreaties, by prayers and ſacrifices. Hence the origin of religion: And hence the origin of idolatry or polytheiſm.

BUT the ſame anxious concern for happineſs, which engenders the idea of theſe inviſible, intelligent powers, allows not mankind to re⯑main long in the firſt ſimple conception of them; as powerful, but limited beings; maſters of human fate, but ſlaves to deſtiny and the courſe of nature. Men's exaggerated praiſes and com⯑pliments ſtill ſwell their idea upon them; and elevating their deities to the utmoſt bounds of perfection, at laſt beget the attributes of unity and infinity, ſimplicity and ſpirituality. Such refined ideas, being ſomewhat diſproportioned to vulgar comprehenſion, remain not long in their original purity; but require to be ſup⯑ported by the notion of inferior mediators or [56] ſubordinate agents, which interpoſe betwixt mankind and their ſupreme deity. Theſe demi-gods or middle beings, partaking more of human nature, and being more familiar to us, become the chief objects of devotion, and gradually recal that idolatry, which had been formerly baniſhed by the ardent prayers and pa⯑negyrics of timorous and indigent mortals. But as theſe idolatrous religions fall every day into groſſer and more vulgar conceptions, they at laſt deſtroy themſelves, and, by the vile repre⯑ſentations, which they form of their deities, make the tide turn again towards theiſm. But ſo great is the propenſity, in this alternate revo⯑lution of human ſentiments, to return back to idolatry, that the utmoſt precaution is not able effectually to prevent it. And of this, ſome theiſts, particularly the Jews and Mahometans, have been ſenſible; as appears by their baniſh⯑ing all the arts of ſtatuary and painting, and not allowing the repreſentations, even of human figures, to be taken by marble or colours; leſt the common infirmity of mankind ſhould thence produce idolatry. The feeble apprehenſions of men cannot be ſatisfied with conceiving their deity as a pure ſpirit and perfect intelligence; and yet their natural terrors keep them from [57] imputing to him the leaſt ſhadow of limitation and imperfection. They fluctuate betwixt theſe oppoſite ſentiments. The ſame infirmity ſtill drags them downwards, from an omnipotent and ſpiritual deity to a limited and corporeal one, and from a corporeal and limited deity to a ſtatue or viſible repreſentation. The ſame endeavour at elevation ſtill puſhes them upwards, from the ſtatue or material image to the invi⯑ſible power; and from the inviſible power to an infinitely perfect deity, the creator and ſo⯑vereign of the univerſe.

IX.

POLYTHEISM or idolatrous worſhip, being founded entirely in vulgar traditions, is liable to this great inconvenience, that any practice or opinion, however barbarous or corrupted, may be authorized by it; and full ſcope is left for knavery to impoſe on credulity, till morals and humanity be expelled from the religious ſyſtems of mankind. At the ſame time, idola⯑try is attended with this evident advantage, that, by limiting the powers and functions of its dei⯑ties, it naturally admits the gods of other ſects and nations to a ſhare of divinity, and renders all the various deities, as well as rites, cere⯑monies, or traditions, compatible with each other^a. Theiſm is oppoſite both in its advan⯑tages [59] and diſadvantages. As that ſyſtem ſup⯑poſes one ſole deity, the perfection of reaſon and goodneſs, it ſhould, if juſtly proſecuted, baniſh every thing frivolous, unreaſonable, or inhuman from religious worſhip, and ſet before men the moſt illuſtrious example, as well as the moſt commanding motives of juſtice and benevolence. Theſe mighty advantages are not indeed over⯑ballanced, (for that is not poſſible) but ſome⯑what diminiſhed, by inconveniencies, which, ariſe from the vices and prejudices of mankind. While one ſole object of devotion is acknow⯑ledged, the worſhip of other deities is regarded as abſurd and impious. Nay, this unity of ob⯑ject ſeems naturally to require the unity of faith and ceremonies, and furniſhes deſigning men with a pretext for repreſenting their adverſaries as prophane, and the ſubjects of divine as well as human vengeance. For as each ſect is poſi⯑tive, that its own faith and worſhip are entirely acceptable to the deity, and as no one can con⯑ceive, that the ſame being ſhould be pleaſed with different and oppoſite rites and principles; the ſeveral ſects fall naturally into animoſity, [60] and mutually diſcharge on each other, that ſa⯑cred zeal and rancour, the moſt furious and im⯑placable of all human paſſions.

THE tolerating ſpirit of idolaters both in an⯑tient and modern times, is very obvious to any one, who is the leaſt converſant in the writings of hiſtorians or travellers. When the oracle of Delphi was aſked, what rites or worſhip were moſt acceptable to the gods? Thoſe legally eſtabliſhed in each city, replied the oracle^a. Even prieſts, in thoſe ages, could, it ſeems, allow ſalvation to thoſe of a different communion. The Romans commonly adopted the gods of the conquered people; and never diſputed the attri⯑butes of thoſe topical and national deities, in whoſe territories they reſided. The religious wars and perſecutions of the Egyptian idolaters are indeed an exception to this rule; but are accounted for by antient authors from reaſons very ſingular and remarkable. Different ſpecies of animals were the deities of the different ſects of the Egyptians; and the deities being in con⯑tinual war, engaged their votaries in the ſame contention. The worſhipers of dogs could not long remain in peace with the adorers of [61] cats or wolves^a. And where that reaſon took not place, the Egyptian ſuperſtition was not ſo incompatible as is commonly imagined; ſince we learn from Herodotus ^b, that very large con⯑tributions were given by Amaſis towards rebuild⯑ing the temple of Delphi.

THE intolerance of almoſt all religions, which have maintained the unity of god, is as remarkable as the contrary principle in poly⯑theiſts. The implacable, narrow ſpirit of the Jews is well known. Mahometaniſm ſet out with ſtill more bloody principles; and even to this day, deals out damnation, tho' not fire and faggot, to all other ſects. And if, amongſt Chriſtians, the Engliſh and Dutch have embraced the principles of toleration, this ſingularity has proceeded from the ſteddy reſolution of the civil magiſtrate, in oppoſition to the continued efforts of prieſts and bigots.

THE diſciples of Zoroaſter ſhut the doors of heaven againſt all but the Magians ^c. Nothing could more obſtruct the progreſs of the Perſian conqueſts, than the furious zeal of that nation [62] againſt the temples and images of the Greeks. And after the overthrow of that empire, we find Alexander, as a polytheiſt, immediately re⯑eſtabliſhing the worſhip of the Babylonians, which their former princes, as monotheiſts, had carefully aboliſhed^a. Even the blind and devoted attachment of that conqueror to the Greek ſuper⯑ſtition hindered not but he himſelf ſacrificed ac⯑cording to the Babyloniſh rites and ceremonies^b.

So ſociable is polytheiſm, that the utmoſt fierceneſs and averſion, which it meets with in an oppoſite religion, is ſcarce able to diſguſt it, and keep it at a diſtance. Auguſtus praiſed extremely the reſerve of his grandſon, Caius Caeſar, when, paſſing by Jeruſalem, he deigned not to ſacrifice according to the Jewiſh law. But for what reaſon did Auguſtus ſo much ap⯑prove of this conduct? Only, becauſe that re⯑ligion was by the pagans eſteemed ignoble and barbarous^c.

I may venture to affirm, that few corruptions of idolatry and polytheiſm are more pernicious to political ſociety than this corruption of [63] theiſm^a, when carried to the utmoſt height. The human ſacrifices of the Carthaginians, Me⯑xicans, and many barbarous nations^b, ſcarce ex⯑ceed the inquiſition and perſecutions of Rome and Madrid. For beſides, that the effuſion of blood may not be ſo great in the former caſe as in the latter; beſides this, I ſay, the human victims, being choſen by lot or by ſome exte⯑rior ſigns, affect not, in ſo conſiderable a de⯑gree, the reſt of the ſociety. Whereas virtue, knowledge, love of liberty, are the qualities, which call down the fatal vengeance of inquiſi⯑tors; and when expelled, leave the ſociety in the moſt ſhameful ignorance, corruption, and bondage. The illegal murder of one man by a tyrant is more pernicious than the death of a thouſand by peſtilence, famine, or any undi⯑ſtinguiſhing calamity.

[64] IN the temple of Diana at Aricia near Rome, whoever murdered the preſent prieſt, was le⯑gally entitled to be inſtalled his ſucceſſor^a. A very ſingular inſtitution! For, however bar⯑barous and bloody the common ſuperſtitions often are to the laity, they uſually turn to the advantage of the holy order.

X.

FROM the compariſon of theiſm and ido⯑latry, we may form ſome other obſervations, which will alſo confirm the vulgar obſervation, that the corruption of the beſt things gives riſe to the worſt.

WHERE the deity is repreſented as infinitely ſuperior to mankind, this belief, tho' altogether juſt, is apt, when joined with ſuperſtitious ter⯑rors, to ſink the human mind into the loweſt ſubmiſſion and abaſement, and to repreſent the monkiſh virtues of mortification, pennance, hu⯑mility and paſſive ſuffering, as the only quali⯑ties, which are acceptable to him. But where the gods are conceived to be only a little ſupe⯑rior to mankind, and to have been, many of them, advanced from that inferior rank, we are more at our eaſe in our addreſſes to them, and may even, without profaneneſs, aſpire ſome⯑times to a rivalſhip and emulation of them. Hence activity, ſpirit, courage, magnanimity, love of liberty, and all the virtues, which ag⯑grandize a people.

[66] THE heroes in paganiſm correſpond exactly to the ſaints in popery and holy derviſes in Ma⯑hometaniſm. The place of Hercules, Theſeus, Hector, Romulus, is now ſupplied by Dominic, Francis, Anthony, and Benedict. And inſtead of the deſtruction of monſters, the ſubduing ty⯑rants, the defence of our n [...]tive country; cele⯑ſtial honours are obtained by whippings and faſtings, by cow rdice and humility, by abject ſubmiſſion and ſlaviſh obedience.

ONE great incitement to the pious Alexander in his warlike expeditions was his rivalſhip of Hercules and Bacchus, whom he juſtly pretended to have excelled^a. Braſidas, that generous and noble Sparian, after falling in battle, had heroic honours paid him by the inhabitants of Amphipolis, whoſe defence he had embraced^b. And in general, all founders of ſtates and colo⯑nies amongſt the Greeks were raiſed to this in⯑ferior rank of divinity, by thoſe who reaped the benefit of their labours.

THIS gave riſe to the obſervation of Machia⯑vel ^c, that the doctrines of the Chriſtian reli⯑gion [67] (meaning the catholic; for he knew no other) which recommend only paſſive courage and ſuffering, had ſubdued the ſpirit of man⯑kind, and had fitted them for ſlavery and ſub⯑jection. And this obſervation would certainly be juſt, were there not many other circum⯑ſtances in human ſociety, which controul the genius and character of a religion.

BRASIDAS ſeized a mouſe, and being bit by it, let it go. There is nothing ſo contemptible, ſays he, but what may be ſafe, if it has but cou⯑rage to defend itſelf ^a. Bellarmine, patiently and humbly allowed the fleas and other odious vermin to prey upon him. We ſhall have heaven, ſays he, to reward us for our ſufferings: But theſe poor creatures have nothing but the enjoyment of the preſent life ^b. Such difference is there betwixt the maxims of a Greek hero and a Catholic ſaint.

XI.

HERE is another obſervation to the ſame purpoſe, and a new proof that the corruption of the beſt things begets the worſt. If we exa⯑mine, without prejudice, the antient heathen mythology, as contained in the poets, we ſhall not diſcover in it any ſuch monſtrous abſurdity, as we may be apt at firſt to apprehend. Where is the difficulty of conceiving, that the ſame powers or principles, whatever they were, which formed this viſible world, men and animals, produced alſo a ſpecies of intelligent creatures, of more refined ſubſtance and greater authority than the reſt? That theſe creatures may be ca⯑pricious, revengeful, paſſionate, voluptuous, is eaſily conceived; nor is any circumſtance more apt, amongſt ourſelves, to engender ſuch vices, than the licence of abſolute authority. And in ſhort, the whole mythological ſyſtem is ſo na⯑tural, that, in the vaſt variety of planets and worlds, contained in this univerſe, it ſeems more than probable, that, ſomewhere or other, it is really carried into execution.

[69] THE chief objection to it with regard to this planet, is, that it is not aſcertained by any juſt reaſon or authority. The antient tradition, in⯑ſiſted on by the heathen prieſts and theologers, is but a weak foundation; and tranſmitted alſo ſuch a number of contradictory reports, ſupport⯑ed, all of them, by equal authority, that it be⯑came abſolutely impoſſible to fix a preference amongſt them. A few volumes, therefore, muſt contain all the polemical writings of pagan prieſts. And their whole theology muſt conſiſt more of traditional ſtories and ſuperſtitious prac⯑tices than of philoſophical argument and con⯑troverſy.

BUT where theiſm forms the fundamental principle of any popular religion, that tenet is ſo conformable to ſound reaſon, that philoſophy is apt to incorporate itſelf with ſuch a ſyſtem of theology. And if the other dogmas of that ſyſtem be contained in a ſacred book, ſuch as the Alcoran, or be determined by any viſible authority, like that of the Roman pontif, ſpe⯑culative reaſoners naturally carry on their aſſent, and embrace a theory, which has been inſtilled into them by their earlieſt education, and which alſo poſſeſſes ſome degree of conſiſtence and [70] uniformity. But as theſe appearances do often, all of them, prove deceitful, philoſophy will ſoon find herſelf very unequally yoaked with her new aſſociate; and inſtead of regulating each principle, as they advance together, ſhe is at every turn perverted to ſerve the purpoſes of ſuperſtition. For beſides the unavoidable incoherencies, which muſt be reconciled and adjuſted; one may ſafely affirm, that all po⯑pular theology, eſpecially the ſcholaſtic, has a kind of appetite for abſurdity and contradiction. If that theology went not beyond reaſon and common ſenſe, her doctrines would appear too eaſy and familiar. Amazement muſt of neceſ⯑ſity be raiſed: Myſtery affected: Darkneſs and obſcurity ſought after: And a foundation of me⯑rit afforded the devout votaries, who deſire an opportunity of ſubduing their rebellious reaſon, by the belief of the moſt unintelligible ſophiſms.

ECCLESIASTICAL hiſtory ſufficiently confirms theſe reflections. When a controverſy is ſtarted, ſome people pretend always with certainty to conjecture the iſſue. Which ever opinion, ſay they, is moſt contrary to plain ſenſe is ſure to prevail; even where the general intereſt of the ſyſtem requires not that deciſion. Tho' the [71] reproach of hereſy may, for ſome time, be bandied about amongſt the diſputants, it always reſts at laſt on the ſide of reaſon. Any one, it is pretended, that has but learning enough of this kind to know the definition of Arian, Pelagian, Eraſtian, Socinian, Sabellian, Eutychian, Ne⯑ſtorian, Monethelite, &c. not to mention Pro⯑teſtant, whoſe fate is yet uncertain, will be con⯑vinced of the truth of this obſervation. And thus a ſyſtem becomes more abſurd in the end, merely from its being reaſonable and philoſo⯑phical in the beginning.

TO oppoſe the torrent of ſcholaſtic religion by ſuch feeble maxims as theſe, that it is im⯑poſſible for the ſame thing to be and not to be, that the whole is greater than a part, that two and three make five; is pretending to ſtop the ocean with a bull-ruſh. Will you ſet up profane reaſon againſt ſacred myſtery? No puniſhment is great enough for your impiety. And the ſame fires, which were kindled for heretics, will ſerve alſo for the deſtruction of philoſophers.

XII.

WE meet every day with people ſo ſceptical with regard to hiſtory, that they aſſert it impoſſi⯑ble for any nation ever to believe ſuch abſurd principles as thoſe of Greek and Egyptian pa⯑ganiſm; and at the ſame time ſo dogmatical with regard to religion, that they think the ſame abſurdities are to be found in no other communions. Cambyſes entertained like preju⯑dices; and very impiouſly ridiculed, and even wounded, Apis, the great god of the Egyptians, who appeared to his profane ſenſes nothing but a large ſpotted bull. But Herodotus ^a judiciouſly aſcribes this ſally of paſſion to a real madneſs or diſorder of the brain: Otherwiſe, ſays the hi⯑ſtorian, he would never have openly affronted any eſtabliſhed worſhip. For on that head, continues he, every nation are beſt ſatisfied with their own, and think they have the advantage over every other nation.

IT muſt be allowed, that the Roman catho⯑lics are a very learned ſect; and that no one [73] communion, but that of the church of England, can diſpute their being the moſt learned of all the chriſtian churches: Yet Averroes, the fa⯑mous Arabian, who, no doubt, had heard of the Egyptian ſuperſtitions, declares, that, of all religions, the moſt abſurd and non-ſenſical is that, whoſe votaries eat, after having created, their deity.

I BELIEVE, indeed, that there is no tenet in all paganiſm, which would give ſo fair a ſcope to ridicule as this of the real preſence: For it is ſo abſurd, that it eludes the force of almoſt all argument. There are even ſome pleaſant ſto⯑ries of that kind, which, tho' ſomewhat profane, are commonly told by the Catholics themſelves. One day, a prieſt, it is ſaid, gave inadvertently, inſtead of the ſacrament, a counter, which had by accident fallen among the holy wafers. The communicant waited patiently for ſome time, expecting it would diſſolve on his tongue: But finding, that it ſtill remained entire, he took it off. I wiſh, cries he to the prieſt, you have not committed ſome miſtake: I wiſh you have not given me God the Father: He is ſo hard and tough there is no ſwallowing him.

[74] A FAMOUS general, at that time in the Muſ⯑covite ſervice, having come to Paris for the recovery of his wounds, brought along with him a young Turk, whom he had taken priſoner. Some of the doctors of the Sorbonne (who are altogether as poſitive as the Derviſes of Conſtan⯑tinople) thinking it a pity, that the poor Turk ſhould be damned for want of inſtruction, fol⯑licited Muſtapha very hard to turn Chriſtian, and promiſed him, for his encouragement, plenty of good wine in this world, and paradiſe in the next. Theſe allurements were too powerful to be reſiſted; and therefore, having been well in⯑ſtructed and catechized, he at laſt agreed to re⯑ceive the ſacraments of baptiſm and the Lord's ſupper. The prieſt, however, to make every thing ſure and ſolid, ſtill continued his inſtruc⯑tions; and began his catechiſm next day with the uſual queſtion, How many Gods are there? None at all, replies Benedict; for that was his new name. How! None at all! cries the prieſt. To be ſure, ſaid the honeſt proſelyte. You have told me all along that there is but one God: And yeſterday I eat him.

[75] SUCH are the doctrines of our brethren, the Catholics. But to theſe doctrines we are ſo ac⯑cuſtomed, that we never wonder at them: Tho', in a future age, it will probably become difficult to perſuade ſome nations, that any human, two-legged creature, could ever embrace ſuch principles. And it is a thouſand to one, but theſe nations themſelves ſhall have ſomething full as abſurd in their own creed, to which they will give a moſt implicite and moſt religious aſſent.

I LODGED once at Paris in the ſame hotel with an ambaſſador from Tunis, who, having paſt ſome years at London, was returning home that way. One day, I obſerved his Mooriſh excellency diverting himſelf under the porch, with ſurvey⯑ing the ſplendid equipages that drove along; when there chanced to paſs that way ſome Ca⯑pucin friars, who had never ſeen a Turk; as he, on his part, tho' accuſtomed to the European dreſſes, had never ſeen the groteſque figure of a Capucin: And there is no expreſſing the mutual admiration, with which they inſpired each other. Had the chaplain of the embaſſy entered into a diſpute with theſe Franciſcans, their reciprocal ſurprize had been of the ſame nature. And [76] thus all mankind ſtand ſtaring at one another; and there is no beating it out of their heads, that the turban of the African is not juſt as good or as bad a faſhion as the cowl of the European. He is a very honeſt man, ſaid the prince of Sal⯑lee, ſpeaking of de Ruyter, It is a pity he were a Chriſtian.

HOW can you worſhip leeks and onions, we ſhall ſuppoſe a Sorbonniſt to ſay to a prieſt of Sais? If we worſhip them, replies the latter; at leaſt, we do not, at the ſame time, eat them. But what ſtrange objects of adoration are cats and monkies, ſays the learned doctor? They are at leaſt as good as the relicts or rotten bones of martyrs, anſwers his no leſs learned antagoniſt. Are you not mad, inſiſts the Catholic, to cut one another's throat about the preference of a cabbage or a cucumber. Yes, ſays the pagan; I allow it, if you will confeſs, that all thoſe are ſtill madder, who fight about the preference among volumes of ſo⯑phiſtry, ten thouſand of which are not equal in value to one cabbage or cucumber^a.

[77] EVERY by-ſtander will eaſily judge (but un⯑fortunately the by-ſtanders are very few) that, if nothing were requiſite to eſtabliſh any popular ſyſtem, but the expoſing the abſurdities of other ſyſtems, every votary of every ſuperſtition could give a ſufficient reaſon for his blind and bigot⯑ted attachment to the principles, in which he has been educated. But without ſo extenſive a knowledge, on which to ground this aſſurance, (and perhaps, better without it) there is not wanting a ſufficient ſtock of religious zeal and faith amongſt mankind. Diodorus Siculus ^b gives [78] a remarkable inſtance to this purpoſe, of which he was himſelf an eye-witneſs. While Egypt lay under the greateſt terror of the Roman name, a legionary ſoldier having inadvertently been guilty of the ſacrilegious impiety of killing a cat, the whole people roſe upon him with the ut⯑moſt fury; and all the efforts of their prince were not able to ſave him. The ſenate and people of Rome, I am perſuaded, would not, then, have been ſo delicate with regard to their national deities. They very frankly, a little after that time, voted Auguſtus a place in the celeſtial manſions; and would have dethroned every god in heaven, for his ſake, had he ſeemed to deſire it. Praeſens divus habebitur Auguſtus, ſays Horace. That is a very impor⯑tant point: And in other nations and other ages, the ſame circumſtance has not been eſteemed altogether indifferent^a.

NOT WITHSTANDING the ſanctity of our holy religion, ſays Tully ^b, no crime is more [79] common with us than ſacrilege: But was it ever heard, that an Egyptian violated the temple of a cat, an ibis, or a crocodile? There is no torture, an Egyptian would not undergo, ſays the ſame author in another place^a, rather than in⯑jure an ibis, an aſpie, a cat, a dog, or a cro⯑codile. Thus it is ſtrictly true, what Dryden obſerves

Nay, the baſer the materials are, of which the divinity is compoſed, the greater devotion is he likely to excite in the breaſts of his deluded vo⯑taries. They exult in their ſhame, and make a merit with their deity, in braving, for his ſake, all the ridicule and contumely of his ene⯑mies. Ten thouſand Croiſes inliſt themſelves under the holy banners, and even openly tri⯑umph in th [...]ſe parts of their religion, which their adverſarie [...] regard as the moſt reproachful.

THERE occur▪ I own, a difficulty in the Egyptian ſyſtem of theology; as indeed, few [80] ſyſtems are entirely free from difficulties. It is evident, from their method of propagation, that a couple of cats, in fifty years, would ſtock a whole kingdom; and if that religious venera⯑tion were ſtill paid them, it would, in twenty more, not only be eaſier in Egypt to find a god than a man, which Petronius ſays was the caſe in ſome parts of Italy; but the gods muſt at laſt entirely ſtarve the men, and leave themſelves neither prieſts nor votaries remaining. It is probable, therefore, that that wiſe nation, the moſt celebrated in antiquity for prudence and ſound policy, foreſeeing ſuch dangerous conſe⯑quences, reſerved all their worſhip for the full⯑grown divinities, and uſed the freedom to drown the holy ſpawn or little ſucking gods, without any ſcruple or remorſe. And thus the practice of warping the tenets of religion, in order to ſerve temporal intereſts, is not, by any means, to be regarded as an invention of theſe latter ages.

THE learned, philoſophical Varro, diſcourſ⯑ing of religion, pretends not to deliver any thing beyond probabilities and appearances: Such was his good ſenſe and moderation! But the paſſionate, the zealous Auguſtin, inſults the noble Roman on his ſcepticiſm and reſerve, and profeſſes [81] the moſt thorough belief and aſſurance^a. A heathen poet, however, contemporary with the ſaint, abſurdly eſteems the religious ſyſtem of the latter ſo falſe, that even the credulity of children, he ſays, could not engage them to believe it^b.

Is it ſtrange, when miſtakes are ſo common, to find every one poſitive and dogmatical? And that the zeal often riſes in proportion to the er⯑ror? Moverunt, ſays Spartian, & ea tempeſtate Judaei bellum quod vetabantur mutilare genitalia ^c.

IF ever there was a nation or a time, in which the public religion loſt all authority over mankind, we might expect, that infidelity in Rome, during the Ciceronian age, would openly have erected its throne, and that Cicero himſelf, in every ſpeech and action, would have been its moſt declared abettor. But it appears, that, whatever ſceptical liberties that great man might uſe, in his writings or in philoſophical converſation; he yet avoided, in the common conduct of life, the imputation of deiſm and profaneneſs. Even in his own family, and to his wife, Terentia, whom he highly truſted, he [82] was willing to appear a devout religioniſt; and there remains a letter, addreſt to her, in which he ſeriouſly deſires her to offer ſacrifice to Apollo and Aeſculapius, in gratitude for the reco⯑very of his health^a.

POMPEY'S devotion was much more ſincere: In all his conduct, during the civil wars, he paid a great regard to auguries, dreams, and propheſies^b. Auguſtus was tainted with ſuper⯑ſtition of every kind. As it is reported of Mil⯑ton, that his poetical genius never flowed with eaſe and abundance in the ſpring; ſo Auguſtus obſerved, that his own genius for dreaming never was ſo perfect during that ſeaſon, nor was ſo much to be relied on, as during the reſt of the year. That great and able emperor was alſo extremely uneaſy when he happened to change his ſhoes, and put the right foot ſhoe on the left foot^c. In ſhort, it cannot be doubted, but the votaries of the eſtabliſhed ſuperſtition of antiquity were as numerous in every ſtate, as thoſe of the modern religion are at preſent. Its influence was as univerſal; tho' it was not ſo [83] great. As many people gave their aſſent to it; tho' that aſſent was not ſeemingly ſo ſtrong, pre⯑ciſe, and affirmative.

WE may obſerve, that, notwithſtanding the dogmatical, imperious ſtyle of all ſuperſtition, the conviction of the religioniſts, in all ages, is more affected than real, and ſcarce ever ap⯑proaches, in any degree, to that ſolid belief and perſuaſion, which governs us in the common affairs of life. Men dare not avow, even to their own hearts, the doubts, which they enter⯑tain on ſuch ſubjects: They make a merit of implicite faith; and diſguiſe to themſelves their real infidelity, by the ſtrongeſt aſſeverations and moſt poſitive bigotry. But nature is too hard for all their endeavours, and ſuffers not the ob⯑ſcure, glimmering light, afforded in thoſe ſha⯑dowy regions, to equal the ſtrong impreſſions, made by common ſenſe and by experience. The uſual courſe of men's conduct belies their words and ſhows, that the aſſent in theſe mat⯑ters is ſome unaccountable operation of the mind betwixt diſbelief and conviction, but ap⯑proaching much nearer the former than the latter.

[84] SINCE, therefore, the mind of man appears of ſo looſe and unſteddy a contexture, that, even at preſent, when ſo many perſons find an inter⯑eſt in continually employing on it the chiſſel and the hammer, yet are they not able to en⯑grave theological tenets with any laſting impreſ⯑ſion; how much more muſt this have been the caſe in antient times, when the retainers to the holy function were ſo much fewer in compa⯑riſon? No wonder, that the appearances were then very inconſiſtent, and that men, on ſome occaſions, might ſeem determined infidels, and enemies to the eſtabliſhed religion, without being ſo in reality; or at leaſt, without know⯑ing their own minds in that particular.

ANOTHER cauſe, which rendered the antient religions much looſer than the modern, is, that the former were traditional and the latter are ſcriptural; and the tradition in the former was complex, contradictory, and, on many occaſions, doubtful; ſo that it could not poſſibly be re⯑duced to any ſtandard and canon, or afford any determinate articles of faith. The ſtories of the gods were numberleſs like the popiſh legends; and tho' every one, almoſt, believed a part of theſe ſtories, yet no one could believe or know [85] the whole: While, at the ſame time, all muſt have acknowledged, that no one part ſtood on a better foundation than the reſt. The traditions of different cities and nations were alſo, on many occaſions, directly oppoſite; and no reaſon could be found for preferring one to the other. And as there was an infinite number of ſtories, with regard to which tradition was no way poſitive; the gradation was inſenſible, from the moſt fun⯑damental articles of faith, to thoſe looſe and precarious fictions. The pagan religion, there⯑fore, ſeemed to vaniſh like a cloud, whenever one approached to it, and examined it piece⯑meal. It could never be aſcertained by any fixt dogmas and principles. And tho' this did not convert the generality of mankind from ſo ab⯑ſurd a faith; for when will the people be rea⯑ſonable? yet it made them faulter and heſitate more in maintaining their principles, and was even apt to produce, in certain diſpoſitions of mind, ſome practices and opinions, which had the appearance of determined infidelity.

To which we may add, that the fables of the pagan religion were, of themſelves, light, eaſy, and familiar; without devils or ſeas of brim⯑ſtone, or any objects, that could much terrify [86] the imagination. Who could forbear ſmiling, when he thought of the loves of Mars and Venus, or the amorous frolics of Jupiter and Pan? In this reſpect, it was a true poetical reli⯑gion; if it had not rather too much levity for the graver kinds of poetry. We find that it has been adopted by modern bards; nor have theſe talked with greater freedom and irreverence of the gods, whom they regarded as fictions, than the antient did of the real objects of their devotion.

THE inference is by no means juſt, that, be⯑cauſe a ſyſtem of religion has made no deep im⯑preſſion on the minds of a people, it muſt there⯑fore have been poſitively rejected by all men of common ſenſe, and that oppoſite principles, in ſpite of the prejudices of education, were gene⯑rally eſtabliſhed by argument and reaſoning. I know not, but a contrary inference may be more probable. The leſs importunate and aſſum⯑ing any ſpecies of ſuperſtition appears, the leſs will it provoke men's ſpleen and indignation, or engage them into enquiries concerning its foun⯑dation and origin. This in the mean time is obvious, that the empire of all religious faith over the underſtanding is wavering and [87] uncertain, ſubject to all varieties of humour, and dependent on the preſent incidents, which ſtrike the imagination. The difference is only in the degrees. An antient will place a ſtroke of impiety and one of ſuperſtition alternately, thro' a whole diſcourſe^a: A modern often thinks in the ſame way, tho' he may be more guarded in his expreſſions.

LUCIAN tells us expreſsly^b, that whoever believed not the moſt ridiculous fables of pa⯑ganiſm was eſteemed by the people profane and impious. To what purpoſe, indeed, would that agreeable author have employed the whole force of his wit and ſatyr againſt the national religion, had not that religion been generally believed by his countrymen and contemporaries?

[88] LIVY^a acknowledges as frankly, as any di⯑vine would at preſent, the common incredulity of his age; but then he condemns it as ſeverely. And who can imagine, that a national ſuperſti⯑tion, which could delude ſo great a man, would not alſo impoſe on the generality of the people?

THE Stoics beſtowed many magnificent and even impious epithets on their ſage; that he alone was rich, free, a king, and equal to the immortal gods. They forgot to add, that he was not inferior in prudence and underſtanding to an old woman. For ſurely nothing can be more pitiful than the ſentiments, which that ſect entertained with regard to all popular ſu⯑perſtitions; while they very ſeriouſly agree with the common augurs, that, when a raven croaks from the left, it is a good omen; but a bad one, when a rook makes a noiſe from the ſame quarter. Panaetius was the only Stoic, amongſt the Greeks, who ſo much as doubted with re⯑gard to auguries and divinations^b. Marcus Antoninus ^c tells us, that he himſelf had received many admonitions from the gods in his ſleep. It is true; Epictetus ^d forbids us to regard the [89] language of rooks and revens; but it is not, that they do not ſpeak truth: It is only, becauſe they can fortel nothing but the breaking of our neck or the forfeiture of our eſtate; which are cir⯑cumſtances, ſays he, that no way concern us. Thus the Stoics join a philoſophical enthuſiaſm to a religious ſuperſtition. The force of their mind, being all turned to the ſide of morals, unbent itſelf in that of religion^a.

PLATO^b introduces Socrates affirming, that the accuſation of impiety raiſed againſt him was owing entirely to his rejecting ſuch fables, as thoſe of Saturn's caſtrating his father, Uranus, and Jupiter's dethroning Saturn: Yet in a ſub⯑ſequent dialogue^c, Socrates confeſſes, that the doctrine of the mortality of the ſoul was the re⯑ceived opinion of the people. Is there here any contradiction? Yes, ſurely: But the contradiction is not in Plato; it is in the people, whoſe reli⯑gious principles in general are always compoſed of the moſt diſcordant parts; eſpecially in an [90] age, when ſuperſtition ſate ſo eaſy and light upon them^a.

[91] THE ſame Cicero, who affected, in his own family, to appear a devout religioniſt, makes no ſcruple, in a public court of judicature, of treat⯑ing the doctrine of a future ſtate as a moſt ri⯑diculous fable, to which no body could give any attention^a. Salluſt ^b repreſents Caeſar as ſpeak⯑ing the ſame language in the open ſenate^c.

BUT that all theſe freedoms implied not a total and univerſal infidelity and ſcepticiſm [92] amongſt the people, is too apparent to be de⯑nied. Tho' ſome parts of the national religion hung looſe upon the minds of men, other parts adhered more cloſely to them: And it was the great buſineſs of the ſceptical philoſophers to ſhow, that there was no more foundation for one than for the other. This is the artifice of Cotta in the dialogues concerning the nature of the gods. He refutes the whole ſyſtem of my⯑thology by leading the orthodox, gradually, from the more momentous ſtories, which were believed, to the more frivolous, which every one ridiculed: From the gods to the goddeſſes; from the goddeſſes to the nymphs; from the nymphs to the fawns and ſatyrs. His maſter, Carneades, had employed the ſame method of reaſoning^a.

UPON the whole, the greateſt and moſt ob⯑ſervable differences betwixt a traditional, my⯑thological religion, and a ſyſtematical, ſcholaſtic one, are two: The former is often more rea⯑ſonable, as conſiſting only of a multitude of ſto⯑ries, which, however groundleſs, imply no expreſs abſurdity and demonſtrative contradic⯑tion; [93] and ſits alſo ſo eaſy and light on men's minds, that tho' it may be as univerſally re⯑ceived, it makes no ſuch deep impreſſion on the affections and underſtanding.

XIII.

THE primary religion of mankind ariſes chiefly from an anxious fear of future events; and what ideas will naturally be entertained of in⯑viſible, unknown powers, while men lie under diſmal apprehenſions of any kind, may eaſily be conceived. Every image of vengeance, ſeve⯑rity, cruelty, and malice muſt occur and aug⯑ment the ghaſtlineſs and horror, which oppreſſes the amazed religioniſt. A panic having once ſeized the mind, the active fancy ſtill farther multiplies the objects of terror; while that pro⯑found darkneſs, or, what is worſe, that glim⯑mering light, with which we are invironed, re⯑preſents the ſpectres of divinity under the moſt dreadful appearances imaginable. And no idea of perverſe wickedneſs can be framed, which thoſe terrified devotees do not readily, without ſcruple, apply to their deity.

THIS appears the natural ſtate of religion, when ſurveyed in one light. But if we conſider, on the other hand, that ſpirit of praiſe and eu⯑logy, which neceſſarily has place in all religions, and which is the conſequence of theſe very [95] terrors, we muſt expect a quite contrary ſyſtem of theology to prevail. Every virtue, every ex⯑cellence muſt be aſcribed to the divinity, and no exaggeration be eſteemed ſufficient to reach thoſe perfections, with which he is endowed. Whatever ſtrains of panegyric can be invented, are immediately embraced, without conſulting any arguments or phaenomena. And it is eſteemed a ſufficient confirmation of them, that they give us more magnificent ideas of the divine object of our worſhip and adoration.

HERE therefore is a kind of contradiction be⯑twixt the different principles of human nature, which enter into religion. Our natural terrors preſent the notion of a deviliſh and malicious deity: Our propenſity to praiſe leads us to ac⯑knowledge an excellent and divine. And the influence of theſe oppoſite principles are vari⯑ous, according to the different ſituation of the human underſtanding.

IN very barbarous and ignorant nations, ſuch as the Africans and Indians, nay even the Ja⯑poneſe, who can form no extenſive ideas of power and knowledge, worſhip may be paid to a being, whom they confeſs to be wicked and de⯑teſtable; [96] tho' they may be cautious, perhaps, of pronouncing this judgment of him in public, or in his temple, where he may be ſuppoſed to hear their reproaches.

SUCH rude, imperfect ideas of the divinity ad⯑here long to all idolaters; and it may ſafely be affirmed, that the Greeks themſelves never got entirely rid of them. It is remarked by Xeno⯑phon ^a, in praiſe of Socrates, that that philoſo⯑pher aſſented not to the vulgar opinion, which ſuppoſed the gods to know ſome things, and be ignorant of others: He maintained that they knew every thing; what was done, ſaid, or even thought. But as this was a ſtrain of phi⯑loſophy ^b much above the conception of his countrymen, we need not be ſurprized, if very frankly, in their books and converſation, they blamed the deities, whom they worſhiped in their temples. It is obſervable, that Hero⯑dotus in particular ſcruples not, in many paſſages, to aſcribe envy to the gods; a ſentiment, of all [97] others, the moſt ſuitable to a mean and deviliſh nature. The pagan hymns however, ſung in public worſhip, contained nothing but epithets of praiſe; even while the actions aſcribed to the gods were the moſt barbarous and deteſtable. When Timotheus, the poet, recited a hymn to Diana, where he enumerated, with the greateſt eulogies, all the actions and attributes of that cruel, capricious goddeſs: May your daughter, ſaid one preſent, become ſuch as the deity whom you celebrate ^a.

BUT as men farther exalt their idea of their divinity; it is often their notion of his power and knowledge only, not of his goodneſs, which is improved. On the contrary, in pro⯑portion to the ſuppoſed extent of his ſcience and authority, their terrors naturally augment; while they believe, that no ſecrecy can conceal them from his ſcrutiny, and that even the inmoſt receſ⯑ſes of their breaſt lie open before him. They muſt then be careful not to form expreſsly any ſentiment of blame and diſapprobation. All muſt be applauſe, raviſhment, extacy. And while their gloomy apprehenſions make them [98] aſcribe to him meaſures of conduct, which, in human creatures, would be highly blamed, they muſt ſtill affect to praiſe and admire theſe mea⯑ſures in the object of their devotional addreſſes. And thus it may ſafely be affirmed, that many popular religions are really, in the conception of their more vulgar votaries, a ſpecies of dae⯑moniſm; and the higher the deity is exalted in power and knowledge, the lower of courſe is he frequently depreſt in goodneſs and benevo⯑lence; whatever epithets of praiſe may be be⯑ſtowed on him by his amazed adorers. Amongſt idolaters, the words may be falſe, and belie the ſecret opinion: But amongſt more exalted religioniſts, the opinion itſelf often contracts a kind of falſhood, and belies the inward ſenti⯑ment. The heart ſecretly deteſts ſuch mea⯑ſures of cruel and implacable vengeance; but the judgment dares not but pronounce them perfect and adorable. And the additional mi⯑ſery of this inward ſtruggle aggravates all the other terrors, by which theſe unhappy victims to ſuperſtition are for ever haunted.

LUCIAN^a. obſerves, that a young man, who reads the hiſtory of the gods in Homer or He⯑ſiod, [99] and finds their factions, wars, injuſtice, inceſt, adultery, and other immoralities ſo highly celebrated, is much ſurprized afterwards, when he comes into the world, to obſerve, that puniſhments are by law inflicted on the ſame actions, which he had been taught to aſcribe to ſuperior beings. The contradiction is ſtill per⯑haps ſtronger betwixt the repreſentations given us by ſome latter religions and our natural ideas of generoſity, lenity, impartiality, and juſtice; and in proportion to the multiplied terrors of theſe religions, the barbarous conceptions of the divinity are multiplied upon us^a. Nothing can [100] preſerve untainted the genuine principles of morals in our judgment of human conduct, [101] but the abſolute neceſſity of theſe principles to the exiſtence of ſociety. If common concep⯑tion [102] can indulge princes in a ſyſtem of ethics, ſomewhat different from that which ſhould re⯑gulate private perſons; how much more thoſe ſuperior beings, whoſe attributes, views, and nature are ſo totally unknown to us? Sunt ſu⯑peris ſua jura ^a; The gods have maxims of juſtice peculiar to themſelves.

XIV.

HERE I cannot forbear obſerving a fact, which may be worth the attention of thoſe, who make human nature the object of their enquiry. It is certain, that, in every religion, however ſublime the verbal definition, which it gives of its divinity, many of the votaries, perhaps the greateſt number, will ſtill ſeek the divine fa⯑vour, not by virtue and good morals, which alone can be acceptable to a perfect being, but either by frivolous obſervances, by intemperate zeal, by rapturous extaſies, or by the belief of myſterious and abſurd opinions. The leaſt part of the Sadder, as well as of the Pentateuch, conſiſts in precepts of morality; and we may be aſſured, that that part was always the leaſt ob⯑ſerved and regarded. When the old Romans were attacked with a peſtilence, they never aſcribed their ſufferings to their vices, or dreamed of re⯑pentance and amendment. They never thought that they were the general robbers of the world, whoſe ambition and avarice made deſolate the earth, and reduced opulent nations to want and beggary. They only created a dictator^a, in [104] order to drive a nail into a door; and by that means, they thought that they had ſufficiently appeaſed their incenſed deity.

IN Aegina, one faction entering into a con⯑ſpiracy, barbarouſly and treacherouſly aſſaſſi⯑nated ſeven hundred of their fellow-citizens; and carried their fury ſo far, that, one miſer⯑able fugitive having fled to the temple, they cut off his hands, by which he clung to the gates, and carrying him out of holy ground, imme⯑diately murdered him. By this impiety, ſays Herodotus ^a, (not by the other many cruel aſſaſ⯑ſinations) they offended the gods, and contracted an inexpiable guilt.

NAY, if we ſhould ſuppoſe, what ſeldom hap⯑pens, that a popular religion were found, in which it was expreſsly declared, that nothing but morality could gain the divine favour; if an order of prieſts were inſtituted to inculcate this opinion, in daily ſermons, and with all the arts of perſuaſion; yet ſo inveterate are the people's prejudices, that for want of ſome other ſuperſti⯑tion, they would make the very attendance on theſe ſermons the eſſentials of religion, rather [105] than place them in virtue and good morals. The ſublime prologue of Zaleucus's laws^a in⯑ſpired not the Locrians, ſo far as we can learn, with any ſounder notions of the meaſures of acceptance with the deity, than were familiar to the other Greeks.

THIS obſervation, then, holds univerſally: But ſtill one may be at ſome loſs to account for it. It is not ſufficient to obſerve, that the people, every where, degrade their deities into a ſimilitude with themſelves, and conſider them merely as a ſpecies of human creatures, ſome⯑what more potent and intelligent. This will not remove the difficulty. For there is no man ſo ſtupid, as that, judging by his natural reaſon, he would not eſteem virtue and honeſty the moſt valuable qualities, which any perſon could poſſeſs. Why not aſcribe the ſame ſentiment to his deity? Why not make all religion, or the chief part of it, to conſiſt in theſe attain⯑ments?

NOR is it ſatisfactory to ſay, that the prac⯑tice of morality is more difficult than that of ſuperſtition; and is therefore rejected. For, [104] [...] [105] [...] [106] not to mention the exceſſive pennances of the Brahmans and Talapoins; it is certain, that the Rhamadan of the Turks, during which the poor wretches, for many days, often in the hotteſt months of the year, and in ſome of the hotteſt climates of the world, remain without eating or drinking from the riſing to the ſetting of the ſun; this Rhamadan, I ſay, muſt be more ſe⯑vere, than the practice of any moral duty, even to the moſt vicious and depraved of mankind. The four lents of the Muſcovites, and the auſte⯑rities of ſome Roman Catholics, appear more diſagreable than meekneſs and benevolence. In ſhort, all virtue, when men are reconciled to it by ever ſo little practice, is agreeable: All ſuperſtition is for ever odious and burthenſome.

PERHAPS, the following account may be received as a true ſolution of the difficulty. The duties, which a man performs as a friend or parent, ſeem merely owing to his benefactor or children; nor can he be wanting to theſe duties, without breaking thro' all the ties of nature and morality. A ſtrong inclination may prompt him to the performance: A ſentiment of order and moral beauty joins its force to theſe natural tyes: And the whole man, if truly virtuous, [107] is drawn to his duty, without any effort or endeavour. Even with regard to the virtues, which are more auſtere, and more founded on reflection, ſuch as public ſpirit, filial duty, tem⯑perance, or integrity; the moral obligation, in our apprehenſion, removes all pretence to reli⯑gious merit; and the virtuous conduct is eſteemed no more than what we owe to ſociety and to ourſelves. In all this, a ſuperſtitious man finds nothing, which he has properly per⯑formed for the ſake of his deity, or which can peculiarly recommend him to the divine favour and protection. He conſiders not, that the moſt genuine method of ſerving the divinity is by promoting the happineſs of his creatures. He ſtill looks out for ſome more immediate ſervice of the ſupreme being, in order to allay thoſe terrors, with which he is haunted. And any practice recommended to him, which either ſerves to no purpoſe in life, or offers the ſtrongeſt violence to his natural inclinations; that practice he will the more readily embrace, on account of thoſe very circumſtances, which ſhould make him abſolutely reject it. It ſeems the more purely religious, that it proceeds from no mixture of any other motive or conſidera⯑tion. And if, for its ſake, he ſacrifices much [108] of his eaſe and quiet, his claim of merit ap⯑pears ſtill to riſe upon him, in proportion to the zeal and devotion, which he diſcovers. In reſtoring a loan, or paying a debt, his divinity is no way beholden to him; becauſe theſe acts of juſtice are what he was bound to perform, and what many would have performed, were there no god in the univerſe. But if he faſt a day, or give himſelf a ſound whipping; this has a direct reference, in his opinion, to the ſervice of God. No other motive could engage him to ſuch auſterities. By theſe diſtinguiſhed marks of devotion, he has now acquired the divine favour; and may expect, in recompence, protection and ſafety in this world, and eternal happineſs in the next.

HENCE the greateſt crimes have been found, in many inſtances, compatible with a ſuperſti⯑tious piety and devotion: Hence it is juſtly re⯑garded as unſafe to draw any certain inference in favour of a man's mora's from the fervor or ſtrictneſs of his religious exerciſes, even tho' he himſelf believe them ſincere. Nay, it has been obſerved, that enormities of the blackeſt dye, have been rather apt to produce ſuperſtitious terrors, and encreaſe the religious paſſion. Bo⯑milcar, [109] having formed a conſpiracy for aſſaſſi⯑nating at once the whole ſenate of Carthage, and invading the liberties of his country, loſt the opportunity, from a continual regard to omens and propheſies. Thoſe who undertake the moſt cri⯑minal and moſt dangerous enterprizes are commonly the moſt ſuperſtitious; as an antient hiſtorian^a remarks on this occaſion. Their devotion and ſpiritual faith riſe with their fears. Catiline was not contented with the eſtabliſhed deities, and received rites of his national religion: His anxious terrors made him ſeek new inventions of this kind^b; which he never probably had dreamed of, had he remained a good citizen, and obedient to the laws of his country.

TO which we may add, that, even after the commiſſion of crimes, there ariſe remorſes and ſecret horrors, which give no reſt to the mind, but make it have recourſe to religious rites and ceremonies, as expiations of its offences. What⯑ever weakens or diſorders the internal frame promotes the intereſts of ſuperſtition: And no⯑thing is more deſtructive to them than a manly, [110] ſteddy virtue, which either preſerves us from diſaſtrous, melancholy accidents, or teaches us to bear them. During ſuch calm ſunſhine of the mind, theſe ſpectres of falſe divinity never make their appearance. On the other hand, while we abandon ourſelves to the natural, un⯑diſciplined ſuggeſtions of our timid and anxious hearts, every kind of barbarity is aſcribed to the ſupreme being, from the terrors, with which we are agitated; and every kind of caprice, from the methods which we embrace, in order to ap⯑peaſe him. Barbarity, caprice; theſe qualities, however nominally diſguiſed, we may univer⯑ſally obſerve, to form the ruling character of the deity, in popular religions. Even prieſts, inſtead of correcting theſe depraved ideas of mankind, have often been found ready to foſter and encourage them. The more tremendous the divinity is repreſented, the more tame and ſubmiſſive do men become to his miniſters: And the more unaccountable the meaſures of acceptance required by him, the more neceſ⯑ſary does it become to abandon our natural rea⯑ſon, and yield to their ghoſtly guidance and direction. And thus it may be allowed, that the artifices of men aggravate our natural in⯑firmities [111] and follies of this kind, but never ori⯑ginally beget them. Their root ſtrikes deeper into the mind, and ſprings from the eſſential and univerſal properties of human nature.

XV.

THO' the ſtupidity of men, barbarous and uninſtructed, be ſo great, that they may not ſee a ſovereign author in the more obvious works of nature, to which they are ſo much fami⯑liarized; yet it ſcarce ſeems poſſible, that any one of good underſtanding ſhould reject that idea, when once it is ſuggeſted to him. A pur⯑poſe, an intention, a deſign is evident in every thing; and when our comprehenſion is ſo far enlarged as to contemplate the firſt riſe of this viſible ſyſtem, we muſt adopt, with the ſtrongeſt conviction, the idea of ſome intelligent cauſe or author. The uniform maxims too, which prevail thro' the whole frame of the univerſe, naturally, if not neceſſarily, lead us to conceive this intelligence as ſingle and undivided, where the prejudices of education oppoſe not ſo rea⯑ſonable a theory. Even the contrarieties of na⯑ture, by diſcovering themſelves every where, become proofs of ſome conſiſtent plan, and eſtabliſh one ſingle purpoſe or intention, how⯑ever inexplicable and incomprehenſible.

[113] GOOD and ill are univerſally intermingled and confounded; happineſs and miſery, wiſdom and folly, virtue and vice. Nothing is pure and entirely of a piece. All advantages are attended with diſadvantages. An univerſal compenſation prevails in all conditions of being and exiſtence. And it is ſcarce poſſible for us, by our moſt chi⯑merical wiſhes, to form the idea of a ſtation or ſituation altogether deſirable. The draughts of life, according to the poet's fiction, are always mixed from the veſſels on each hand of Jupiter: Or if any cup be preſented altogether pure, it is drawn only, as the ſame poet tells us, from the left-handed veſſel.

THE more exquiſite any good is, of which a ſmall ſpecimen is afforded us, the ſharper is the evil, allied to it; and few exceptions are [...]ound to this uniform law of nature. The moſt ſprightly wit borders on madneſs; the higheſt effuſions of joy produce the deepeſt me⯑lancholy; the moſt raviſhing pleaſures are at⯑tended with the moſt cruel laſſitude and diſguſt; the moſt flattering hopes make way for the ſe⯑vereſt diſappointments. And in general, no courſe of life has ſuch ſafety (for happineſs is not to be dreamed of) as the temperate and moderate, [114] which maintains, as far as poſſible, a medio⯑crity, and a kind of inſenſibility, in every thing.

AS the good, the great, the ſublime, the raviſhing are found eminently in the genuine principles of theiſm; it may be expected, from the analogy of nature, that the baſe, the abſurd, the mean, the terrifying will be diſcovered equally in religious fictions and chimeras.

THE univerſal propenſity to believe in invi⯑ſible, intelligent power, if not an original in⯑ſtinct, being at leaſt a general attendant of human nature, it may be conſidered as a kind of mark or ſtamp, which the divine workman has ſet upon his work; and nothing ſurely can more dignify mankind, than to be thus ſelected from all the other parts of the creation, and to bear the image or impreſſion of the univerſal Create. But conſult this image, as it commonly appears in the popular religions of the world. How is the deity disfigured in our repreſentations of him! What caprice, abſurdity, and immorality are attributed to him! How much is he de⯑graded even below the character which we ſhould naturally, in common life, aſcribe to a man of ſenſe virtue!

[115] WHAT a noble privilege is it of human rea⯑ſon to attain the knowledge of the ſupreme being; and, from the viſible works of nature, be enabled to infer ſo ſublime a principle as its ſupreme Creator? But turn the reverſe of the medal. Survey moſt nations and moſt ages. Examine the religious principles, which have, in fact, prevailed in the world. You will ſcarce⯑ly be perſuaded, that they are other than ſick men's dreams: Or perhaps will regard them more as the playſome whimſies of monkeys in human ſhape, than the ſerious, poſitive, dog⯑matical aſſeverations of a being, who dignifies himſelf with the name of rational.

HEAR the verbal proteſtations of all men: Nothing they are ſo certain of as their religious tenets. Examine their lives: You will ſcarce⯑ly think that they repoſe the ſmalleſt confi⯑dence in them.

THE greateſt and trueſt zeal gives us no ſe⯑curity againſt hypocriſy: The moſt open im⯑piety is attended with a ſecret dread and com⯑punction.

[116] NO theological abſurdities ſo glaring as have not, ſometimes, been embraced by men of the greateſt and moſt cultivated underſtanding. No religious precepts ſo rigorous as have not been adopted by the moſt voluptuous and moſt abandoned of men.

IGNORANCE is the mother of Devotion: A maxim, that is proverbial, and confirmed by general experience. Look out for a people, entirely devoid of religion: If you find them at all, be aſſured, that they are but few degrees removed from brutes.

WHAT ſo pure as ſome of the morals, in⯑cluded in ſome theological ſyſtems? What ſo corrupted as ſome of the practices, to which theſe ſyſtems give riſe?

THE comfortable views, exhibited by the belief of futurity, are raviſhing and delightful. But how quickly vaniſh, on the appearance of its terrors, which keep a more firm and durable poſſeſſion of the human mind?

THE whole is a riddle, an aenigma, an inex⯑plicable myſtery. Doubt, uncertainty, ſuſpence [117] of judgment appear the only reſult of our moſt accurate ſcrutiny, concerning this ſubject. But ſuch is the frailty of human reaſon, and ſuch the irreſiſtible contagion of opinion, that even this deliberate doubt could ſcarce be upheld; did we not enlarge our view, and oppoſing one ſpecies of ſuperſtition to another, ſet them a quarreling; while we ourſelves, during their fury and contention, happily make our eſcape, into the calm, tho' obſcure, regions of phi⯑loſophy.

SECT. I.

1. SOME objects produce immediately an agreeable ſenſation, by the original ſtruc⯑ture of our organs, and are thence denominated GOOD; as others, from their immediate diſ⯑agreeable ſenſation, acquire the appellation of EVIL. Thus moderate warmth is agreeable and good; exceſſive heat painful and evil.

SOME objects again, by being naturally con⯑formable or contrary to paſſion, excite an agree⯑able or painful ſenſation; and are thence called Good or Evil. The puniſ [...]ent of an adver⯑ſary, by gratifying revenge, is good; the ſick⯑neſs of a companion, by affecting friendſhip, is evil.

[122] 2. ALL good or evil, whence-ever it ariſes, produces various paſſions and affections, accord⯑ing to the light, in which it is ſurveyed.

WHEN good is certain or very probable, it produces JOY: When evil is in the ſame ſitua⯑tion, there ariſes GRIEF or SORROW.

WHEN either good or evil is uncertain, it gives riſe to FEAR or HOPE, according to the degrees of uncertainty on one ſide or the other.

DESIRE ariſes from good conſidered ſimply; and AVERSION, from evil. The WILL exerts itſelf, when either the preſence of the good or abſence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.

3. NONE of theſe paſſions ſeem to contain any thing curious or remarkable, except Hope and Fear, which, being derived from the pro⯑bability of any good or evil, are mixt paſſions, that merit our attention.

[123] PROBABILITY ariſes from an oppoſition of contrary chances or cauſes, by which the mind is not allowed to fix on either ſide; but is in⯑ceſſantly toſt from one to another, and in one moment is determined to conſider an object as exiſtent, and in another moment as the con⯑trary. The imagination or underſtanding, call it which you pleaſe, fluctuates betwixt the op⯑poſite views; and tho' perhaps it may be oftener turned to one ſide than the other, it is impoſ⯑ſible for it, by reaſon of the oppoſition of cauſes or chances, to reſt on either. The pro and con of the queſtion alternately prevail; and the mind, ſurveying the objects in their oppoſite cauſes, finds ſuch a contrariety as utterly de⯑ſtroys all certainty or eſtabliſhed opinion.

SUPPOSE, then, that the object, concerning which we are doubtful, produces either deſire or averſion; it is evident, that, according as the mind turns itſelf to one ſide or the other, it muſt feel a momentary impreſſion of joy or ſorrow. An object, whoſe exiſtence we deſire, gives ſatisfaction, when we think of thoſe cauſes, which produce it; and for the ſame rea⯑ſon, excites grief or uneaſineſs, from the oppo⯑ſite conſideration. So that, as the underſtanding, [124] in probable queſtions, is divided betwixt the contrary points of view, the heart muſt in the ſame manner be divided betwixt oppoſite emo⯑tions.

NOW, if we conſider the human mind, we ſhall obſerve, that, with regard to the paſſions, it is not like a wind-inſtrument of muſic, which, in running over all the notes, im⯑mediately loſes the ſound when the breath ceaſes; but rather reſembles a ſtring-inſtrument, where, after each ſtroke, the vibrations ſtill retain ſome ſound, which gradually and inſen⯑ſibly decays. The imagination is extremely quick and agile; but the paſſions, in compari⯑ſon, are ſlow and reſtive: For which reaſon, when any object is preſented, which affords a variety of views to the one and emotions to the other; tho' the fancy may change its views with great celerity; each ſtroke will not pro⯑duce a clear and diſtinct note of paſſion, but the one paſſion will always be mixt and confounded with the other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil, the paſſion of grief or joy predominates in the compoſition; and theſe paſſions, being intermingled by means of the [125] contrary views of the imagination, produce by the union the paſſions of hope or fear.

4. AS this theory ſeems to carry its own evi⯑dence along with it, we ſhall be more conciſe in our proofs.

THE paſſions of fear and hope may ariſe, when the chances are equal on both ſides, and no ſuperiority can be diſcovered in one above the other. Nay, in this ſituation the paſſions are rather the ſtrongeſt, as the mind has then the leaſt foundation to reſt upon, and is toſt with the greateſt uncertainty. Throw in a ſu⯑perior degree of probability to the ſide of grief, you immediately ſee that paſſion diffuſe itſelf over the compoſition, and tincture it into fear. Encreaſe the probability, and by that means the grief; the fear prevails ſtill more and more, till at laſt it runs inſenſibly, as the joy continually diminiſhes, into pure grief. After you have brought it to this ſituation, diminiſh the grief, by a contrary operation to that, which encreaſed it, to wit, by diminiſhing the probability on the melancholy ſide; and you will ſee the paſſion clear every moment, till it changes inſenſibly [126] into hope; which again runs, by ſlow degrees, into joy, as you encreaſe that part of the com⯑poſition, by the encreaſe of the probability. Are not theſe as plain proofs, that the paſſions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and joy, as in optics it is a proof, that a coloured ray of the ſun, paſſing thro' a priſm, is a compoſition of two others, when, as you diminiſh or en⯑creaſe the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably, more or leſs, in the compo⯑ſition?

5. PROBABILITY is of two kinds; either when the object is itſelf uncertain, and to be deter⯑mined by chance; or when, tho' the object be already certain, yet is it uncertain to our judg⯑ment, which finds a number of proofs or pre⯑ſumptions on each ſide of the queſtion. Both theſe kinds of probability cauſe fear and hope; which muſt proceed from that property, in which they agree; to wit, the uncertainty and fluctuation which they beſtow on the paſſion, by that contrariety of views, which is common to both.

[127] 6. IT is a probable good or evil, which com⯑monly cauſes hope or fear; becauſe probability, producing an inconſtant and wavering ſurvey of an object, occaſions naturally a like mixture and uncertainty of paſſion. But we may ob⯑ſerve, that, wherever, from other cauſes, this mixture can be produced, the paſſions of fear and hope will ariſe, even tho' there be no pro⯑bability.

AN evil, conceived as barely poſſible, ſome⯑times produces fear; eſpecially if the evil be very great. A man cannot think of exceſſive pain and torture without trembling, if he runs the leaſt riſque of ſuffering them. The ſmall⯑neſs of the probability is compenſated by the greatneſs of the evil.

BUT even impoſſible evils cauſe fear; as when we tremble on the brink of a precipice, tho' we know ourſelves to be in perfect ſecurity, and have it in our choice, whether we will ad⯑vance a ſtep farther. The immediate preſence of the evil influences the imagination and pro⯑duces a ſpecies of belief; but being oppoſed by the reflection on our ſecurity, that belief is im⯑mediately [128] retracted, and cauſes the ſame kind of paſſion, as when, from a contrariety of chances, contrary paſſions are produced.

EVILS, which are certain, have ſometimes the ſame effect as the poſſible or impoſſible. A man, in a ſtrong priſon, without the leaſt means of eſcape, trembles at the thoughts of the rack, to which he is ſentenced. The evil is here fixed in itſelf; but the mind has not cou⯑rage to fix upon it; and this fluctuation gives riſe to a paſſion of a ſimilar appearance with fear.

7. BUT it is not only where good or evil is uncertain as to its exiſtence, but alſo as to its kind, that fear or hope ariſes. If any one were told, that one of his ſons is ſuddenly killed; the paſſion, occaſioned by this event, would not ſettle into grief, till he got certain information, which of his ſons he had loſt. Tho' each ſide of the queſtion produces here the ſame paſſion; that paſſion cannot ſettle, but receives from the imagination, which is unfixt, a tremulous, un⯑ſteddy motion, reſembling the mixture and con⯑tention of grief and joy.

[129] 8. THUS all kinds of uncertainty have a ſtrong connexion with fear, even tho' they do not cauſe any oppoſition of paſſions, by the op⯑poſite views, which they preſent to us. Should I leave a friend in any malady, I ſhould feel more anxiety upon his account, than if he were preſent; tho' perhaps I am not only incapable of giving him aſſiſtance, but likewiſe of judging concerning the event of his ſickneſs. There are a thouſand little circumſtances of his ſitua⯑tion and condition, which I deſire to know; and the knowledge of them would prevent that fluctuation and uncertainty, ſo nearly allied to fear. Horace has remarked this phaenomenon:

A VIRGIN on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and apprehenſions, tho' ſhe expects nothing but pleaſure. The confuſion of wiſhes and joys, the newneſs and greatneſs of the un⯑known event, ſo embarraſs the mind, that it knows not in what image or paſſion to fix itſelf.

[130] 9. CONCERNING the mixture of affections, we may remark, in general, that when contrary paſſions ariſe from objects no way connected to⯑gether, they take place alternately. Thus when a man is afflicted for the loſs of a law-ſuit, and joyful for the birth of a ſon, the mind, running from the agreeable to the calamitous object; with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can ſcarcely temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a ſtate of indifference.

IT more eaſily attains that calm ſituation, when the ſame event is of a mixt nature, and contains ſomething adverſe and ſomething pro⯑ſperous in its different circumſtances. For in that caſe, both the paſſions, mingling with each other by means of the relation, often become mutually deſtructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquillity.

BUT ſuppoſe, that the object is not a com⯑pound of good and evil, but is conſidered as probable or improbable in any degree; in that caſe, the contrary paſſions will both of them be preſent at once in the ſoul, and inſtead of bal⯑lancing [131] and tempering each other, will ſubſiſt together, and by their union, produce a third impreſſion or affection, ſuch as hope or fear.

THE influence of the relations of ideas (which we ſhall afterwards explain more fully) is plainly ſeen in this affair. In contrary paſſions, if the objects be totally different, the paſſions are like two oppoſite liquors in different bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the objects be intimately connected, the paſſions are like an alcali or an acid, which, being mingled, de⯑ſtroy each other. If the relation be more im⯑perfect, and conſiſts in the contradictory views of the ſame object, the paſſions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, never per⯑fectly unite and incorporate.

THE effect of a mixture of paſſions, when one of them is predominant and ſwallows up the other, ſhall be explained afterwards.

SECT. II.

1. BESIDES thoſe paſſions abovemen⯑tioned, which ariſe from a direct purſuit of good and averſion to evil, there are others of a more complicated nature, and imply more than one view or conſideration. Thus Pride is a certain ſatisfaction in ourſelves, on account of ſome ac⯑compliſhment or poſſeſſion, which we enjoy: Humility, on the other hand, is a diſſatisfaction with ourſelves, on account of ſome defect or infirmity.

LOVE or Friendſhip is a complacency in an⯑other, on account of his accompliſhments or ſer⯑vices: Hatred, the contrary.

2. IN theſe two ſets of paſſions, there is an obvious diſtinction to be made betwixt the ob⯑ject of the paſſion and its cauſe. The object of pride and humility is ſelf: The cauſe of the paſſion is ſome excellence in the former caſe; ſome fault, in the latter. The object of love and hatred is ſome other perſon: The cauſes, [133] in like manner, are either excellencies or faults.

WITH regard to all theſe paſſions, the cauſes are what excite the emotion; the object is what the mind directs its view to when the emotion is excited. Our merit, for inſtance, raiſes pride; and it is eſſential to pride to turn our view on ourſelf with complacency and ſatisfaction.

Now as the cauſes of theſe paſſions are very numerous and various, tho' their object be uni⯑form and ſimple; it may be a ſubject of curio⯑ſity to conſider, what that circumſtance is, in which all theſe various cauſes agree; or, in other words, what is the real, efficient cauſe of the paſſion. We ſhall begin with pride and hu⯑mility.

3. IN order to explain the cauſes of theſe paſ⯑ſions, we muſt reflect on certain properties, which, tho' they have a mighty influence on every operation, both of the underſtanding and paſſions, are not commonly much inſiſted on by philoſophers. The firſt of theſe is the aſſ⯑ciation of ideas, or that principle, by which we [134] make an eaſy tranſition from one idea to another. However uncertain and changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and method in their changes. They uſually paſs with regularity, from one object, to what re⯑ſembles it, is contiguous to it, or produced by it^a. When one idea is preſent to the imagina⯑tion; any other, united by theſe relations, na⯑turally follows it, and enters with more facility, by means of that introduction.

THE ſecond property, which I ſhall obſerve in the human mind, is a like aſſociation of im⯑preſſions or emotions. All reſembling impreſ⯑ſions are connected together; and no ſooner one ariſes, than the reſt naturally follow. Grief and diſappointment give riſe to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and malice to grief again. In like manner, our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itſelf into love, ge⯑neroſity, courage, pride, and other reſembling affections.

IN the third place, it is obſervable of theſe two kinds of aſſociation, that they very much [135] aſſiſt and forward each other, and that the tranſition is more eaſily made, where they both concur in the ſame object. Thus, a man, who, by any injury from another, is very much diſ⯑compoſed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred ſubjects of hatred, diſcontent, impatience, fear, and other uneaſy paſſions; eſpecially, if he can diſcover theſe ſubjects in or near the perſon, who was the object of his firſt emotion. Thoſe principles, which forward the tranſition of ideas, here concur with thoſe, which operate on the paſſions; and both, unit⯑ing in one action, beſtow on the mind a double impulſe.

UPON this occaſion, I may cite a paſſage from an elegant writer, who expreſſes himſelf in the following manner^a. ‘"As the fancy delights in every thing, that is great, ſtrange, or beautiful, and is ſtill the more pleaſed the more it finds of theſe perfections in the ſame object, ſo it is capable of receiving new ſatis⯑faction by the aſſiſtance of another ſenſe. Thus, any continued ſound, as the muſic of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens every [136] moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the ſeveral beauties of the place, that lie before him. Thus, if there ariſes a fragrancy of ſmells or perfumes, they heighten the pleaſure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landſcape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both ſenſes recommend each other, and are pleaſanter together than where they enter the mind ſeparately: As the different colours of a picture, when they are well diſ⯑poſed, ſet off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the ſituation."’ In theſe phaenomena, we may remark the aſſociation both of impreſſions and ideas; as well as the mutual aſſiſtance theſe aſ⯑ſociations lend to each other.

4. IT ſeems to me, that both theſe ſpecies of relation have place in producing Pride or Humility, and are the real, efficient cauſes of the paſſion.

WITH regard to the firſt relation, that of ideas, there can be no queſtion. Whatever we are proud of, muſt, in ſome manner, be⯑long [137] to us. It is always our knowledge, our ſenſe, beauty, poſſeſſions, family, on which we value ourſelves. Self, which is the object of the paſſion, muſt ſtill be related to that quality or circumſtance, which cauſes the paſſion. There muſt be a connexion betwixt them; an eaſy tranſition of the imagination; or a facility of the conception in paſſing from one to the other. Where this connexion is wanting, no object can either excite pride or humility; and the more you weaken the connexion, the more you weaken the paſſion.

5. THE only ſubject of enquiry is, whether there be a like relation of impreſſions or ſenti⯑ments, wherever pride or humility is felt; whether the circumſtance, which cauſes the paſ⯑ſion, produces antecedently a ſentiment ſimilar to the paſſion; and whether there be an eaſy transfuſion of the one into the other.

THE feeling or ſentiment of pride is agree⯑able; of humility, painful. An agreeable ſen⯑ſation is, therefore, related to the former; a painful, to the latter. And if we find, after examination, that every object, which produces [138] pride, produces alſo a ſeparate pleaſure; and every object, that cauſes humility, excites in like manner a ſeparate uneaſineſs; we muſt al⯑low, in that caſe, that the preſent theory is fully proved and aſcertained. The double relation of ideas and ſentiments will be acknowledged inconteſtible.

6. To begin with perſonal merit and demerit, the moſt obvious cauſes of theſe paſſions; it would be entirely foreign to our preſent purpoſe to examine the foundation of moral diſtinc⯑tions. It is ſufficient to obſerve, that the fore⯑going theory concerning the origin of the paſ⯑ſions may be defended on any hypotheſis. The moſt probable ſyſtem, which has been advanced to explain the difference betwixt vice and vir⯑tue, is, that either from a primary conſtitution of nature, or from a ſenſe of public or private intereſt, certain characters, upon the very view and contemplation, produce uneaſineſs; and others, in like manner, excite pleaſure. The uneaſineſs and ſatisfaction, produced in the ſpec⯑tator, are eſſential to vice and virtue. To ap⯑prove of a character, is to feel a delight upon its appearance. To diſapprove of it, is to be ſen⯑ſible [139] of an uneaſineſs. The pain and pleaſure, therefore, being, in a manner, the primary ſource of blame or praiſe, muſt alſo be the cauſes of all their effects; and conſequently, the cauſes of pride and humility, which are the un⯑avoidable attendants of that diſtinction.

BUT ſuppoſing this theory of morals ſhould not be received; it is ſtill evident, that pain and pleaſure, if not the ſources of moral diſtinctions, are at leaſt inſeparable from them. A gene⯑rous and noble character affords a ſatisfaction even in the ſurvey; and when preſented to us, tho' only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery diſpleaſe from their very nature; nor is it poſſible ever to reconcile us to theſe qualities, either in ourſelves or others. Virtue, therefore, produces always a pleaſure diſtinct from the pride or ſelf ſatisfaction, which attends it: Vice, an uneaſineſs ſeparate from the humility or remorſe.

BUT a high or low conceit of ourſelves ariſes not from thoſe qualities alone of the mind, which, according to common ſyſtems of ethics, have been defined parts of moral duty; but from any [140] other, which have a connexion with pleaſure or uneaſineſs. Nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent of pleaſing by our wit, good humour, or any other accompliſhment; and nothing gives us a more ſenſible mortification, than a diſappointment in any attempt of that kind. No one has ever been able to tell pre⯑ciſely, what wit is, and to ſhew why ſuch a ſyſtem of thought muſt be received under that denomination, and ſuch another rejected. It is by taſte alone we can decide concerning it; nor are we poſſeſt of any other ſtandard, by which we can form a judgment of this nature. Now what is this taſte, from which true and falſe wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of theſe denominations? It is plainly nothing but a ſenſation of pleaſure from true wit, and of diſ⯑guſt from falſe, without our being able to tell the reaſons of that ſatisfaction or uneaſineſs. The power of exciting theſe oppoſite ſenſations is, therefore, the very eſſence of true of falſe wit; and conſequently, the cauſe of that vanity or mortification, which ariſes from one or the other.

[141] 7. BEAUTY of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and ſatisfaction; as deformity produces pain, upon whatever ſubject it may be placed, and whether ſurveyed in an animate or inanimate object. If the beauty or deformity belong to our own face, ſhape, or perſon, this pleaſure or uneaſineſs is converted into pride or humility; as having in this caſe all the circumſtances re⯑quiſite to produce a perfect tranſition, accord⯑ing to the preſent theory.

IT would ſeem, that the very eſſence of beauty conſiſts in its power of producing plea⯑ſure. All its effects, therefore, muſt proceed from this circumſtance: And if beauty is ſo uni⯑verſally the ſubject of vanity, it is only from its being the cauſe of pleaſure.

CONCERNING all other bodily accompliſh⯑ments, we may obſerve in general, that what⯑ever in ourſelves is either uſeful, beautiful, or ſurprizing, is an object of pride; and the con⯑trary, of humility. Theſe qualities agree in producing a ſeparate pleaſure; and agree in no⯑thing elſe.

[142] WE are vain of the ſurprizing adventures which we have met with, the eſcapes which we have made, the dangers to which we have been expoſed; as well as of our ſurpriſing feats of vigour and activity. Hence the origin of vul⯑gar lying; where men, without any intereſt, and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, which are either the fic⯑tions of their brain; or, if true, have no con⯑nexion with themſelves. Their fruitful inven⯑tion ſupplies them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting, they appro⯑priate ſuch as belong to others, in order to gra⯑tify their vanity: For betwixt that paſſion, and the ſentiment of pleaſure, there is always a cloſe connexion.

8. BUT tho' pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, that is, of ſelf, for their natural and more immediate cauſes; we find by experience, that many other objects produce theſe affections. We found vanity upon houſes, gardens, equipage, and other ex⯑ternal objects; as well as upon perſonal merit and accompliſhments. This happens when ex⯑ternal objects [...] any particular relation to [143] ourſelves, and are aſſociated or connected with us. A beautiful fiſh in the ocean, a well pro⯑portioned animal in a foreſt, and indeed any thing, which neither belongs nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity; whatever extraordinary qualities it may be en⯑dowed with, and whatever degree of ſurprize and admiration it may naturally occaſion. It muſt be ſomeway aſſociated with us, in order to touch our pride. It's idea muſt hang, in a man⯑ner, upon that of ourſelves; and the tranſition from one to the other muſt be eaſy and natural.

MEN are vain of the beauty either of their country, or their county, or even of their pariſh. Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a plea⯑ſure. This pleaſure is related to pride. The object or cauſe of this pleaſure is, by the ſuppo⯑ſition, related to ſelf, the object of pride. By this double relation of ſentiments and ideas, a tranſition is made from one to the other.

MEN are alſo vain of the temperature of the climate, in which they are born; of the ferti⯑lity of their native ſoil; of the goodneſs of the wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the ſoftneſs or force of their language, with [144] other particulars of that kind. Theſe objects have plainly a reference to the pleaſures of the ſenſes, and are originally conſidered as agree⯑able to the feeling, taſte, or hearing. How could they become cauſes of pride, except by means of that tranſition above explained?

THERE are ſome, who diſcover a vanity of an oppoſite kind, and affect to depreciate their own country, in compariſon of thoſe, to which they have travelled. Theſe perſons find, when they are at home, and ſurrounded with their countrymen, that the ſtrong relation betwixt them and their own nation is ſhar'd with ſo many, that it is in a manner loſt to them; whereas, that diſtant relation to a foreign coun⯑try, which is formed by their having ſeen it, and lived in it, is augmented by their conſider⯑ing how few have done the ſame. For this rea⯑ſon, they always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what they have met with abroad, above what they find at home.

SINCE we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object, which bears a relation to us; it is no wonder we ſhould be vain of the qualities of thoſe, who are connected with us [145] by blood or friendſhip. Accordingly we find, that any qualities, which, when belonging to our⯑ſelf, produce pride, produce alſo, in a leſs degree, the ſame affection, when diſcovered in perſons, related to us. The beauty, addreſs, merit, credit, and honours of their kindred are care⯑fully diſplayed by the proud, and are conſider⯑able ſources of their vanity.

As we are proud of riches in ourſelves, we deſire, in order to gratify our vanity, that every one, who has any connexion with us, ſhould likewiſe be poſſeſt of them, and are aſhamed of ſuch as are mean or poor among our friends and relations. Our forefathers being conceived as our neareſt relations; every one naturally affects to be of a good family, and to be deſcended from a long ſucceſſion of rich and honourable anceſtors.

THOSE, who boaſt of the antiquity of their fa⯑milies, are glad when they can join this circum⯑ſtance, that their anceſtors, for many generations, have been uinnterrupted proprietors of the ſame portion of land, and that their family has never changed its poſſeſſions, or been tranſplanted into any other county or province. It is an additional [146] ſubject of vanity, when they can boaſt, that theſe poſſeſſions have been tranſmitted thro' a deſcent, compoſed entirely of males, and that the ho⯑nours and fortune have never paſt thro' any fe⯑male. Let us endeavour to explain theſe phae⯑nomena from the foregoing theory.

WHEN any one values himſelf on the antiquity of his family, the ſubjects of his va⯑nity are not merely the extent of time and number of anceſtors (for in that reſpect all mankind are alike) but theſe circumſtances, joined to the riches and credit of his anceſ⯑tors, which are ſuppoſed to reflect a luſtre on himſelf, upon account of his connextion with them. Since therefore the paſſion depends on the connexion, whatever ſtrengthens the con⯑nexion muſt alſo encreaſe the paſſion, and what⯑ever weakens the connexion muſt diminiſh the paſſion. But it is evident, that the ſameneſs of the poſſeſſions muſt ſtrengthen the relation of ideas, ariſing from blood and kindred, and con⯑vey the fancy with greater facility from one ge⯑neration to another; from the remoteſt ance⯑ſtors to their poſterity, who are both their heirs and their deſcendants. By this facility, the ſenti⯑ment is tranſmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity.

[147] THE caſe is the ſame with the tranſmiſſion of the honours and fortune, thro' a ſucceſſion of males, without their paſſing thro' any female. It is an obvious quality of human nature, that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and conſiderable; and where two objects are preſented, a ſmall and a great, it uſually leaves the former, and dwells entirely on the latter. This is the reaſon, why children commonly bear their fathers name, and are eſteemed to be of a nobler or meaner birth, ac⯑cording to his family. And tho' the mother ſhould be poſſeſt of ſuperior qualities to the father, as often happens, the general rule pre⯑vails, notwithſtanding the exception, according to the doctrine, which ſhall be explained after⯑wards. Nay, even when a ſuperiority of any kind is ſo great, or when any other reaſons have ſuch an effect, as to make the children rather repreſent the mother's family than the fa⯑ther's, the general rule ſtill retains an efficacy, ſufficient to weaken the relation, and make a kind of breach in the line of anceſtors. The imagination runs not along them with the ſame facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the anceſtors to their poſterity of the ſame name and family ſo readily, as when the [148] tranſition is conformable to the general rules, and paſſes thro' the male line, from father to ſon, or from brother to brother.

9. BUT property, as it gives us the fulleſt power and authority over any object, is the re⯑lation, which has the greateſt influence on theſe paſſions.

EVERY thing, belonging to a vain man, is the beſt that is any where to be found. His houſes, equipage, furniture, cloaths, horſes, hounds, ex⯑cel all others in his conceit; and it is eaſy to obſerve, that, from the leaſt advantage in any of theſe, he draws a new ſubject of pride and vanity. His wine, if you will believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquiſite; his table more orderly; his ſervants more expert; the air, in which he lives, more healthful; the ſoil, which he culti⯑vates, more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and in greater perfection: Such a thing is remark⯑able for it's novelty; ſuch another for it's anti⯑quity: This is the workmanſhip of a famous artiſt; that belonged once to ſuch a prince or great man. All objects, in a word, which are [149] uſeful, beautiful, or ſurprizing, or are related to ſuch, may, by means of property, give riſe to this paſſion. Theſe all agree in giving plea⯑ſure. This alone is common to them; and therefore muſt be the quality, that produces the paſſion, which is their common effect. As every new inſtance is a new argument, and as the inſtances are here without number; it would ſeem, that this theory is ſufficiently confirmed by experience.

RICHES imply the power of acquiring what⯑ever is agreeable; and as they comprehend many particular objects of vanity, neceſſarily become one of the chief cauſes of that paſſion.

10. OUR opinions of all kinds are ſtrongly affected by ſociety and ſympathy, and it is al⯑moſt impoſſible for us to ſupport any principle or ſentiment, againſt the univerſal conſent of every one, with whom we have any friendſhip or correſpondence. But of all our opinions, thoſe, which we form in our own favour; how⯑ever lofty or preſuming; are, at bottom, the fraileſt, and the moſt eaſily ſhaken by the con⯑tradiction [150] and oppoſition of others. Our great concern, in this caſe, makes us ſoon alarmed, and keeps our paſſions upon the watch: Our conſciouſneſs of partiality ſtill makes us dread a miſtake: And the very difficulty of judging con⯑cerning an object, which is never ſet at a due diſtance from us, nor is ſeen in a proper point of view, makes us hearken anxiouſly to the opinions of others, who are better qualified to form juſt opinions concerning us. Hence that ſtrong love of fame, with which all mankind are poſſeſt. It is in order to fix and confirm their favourable opinion of themſelves, not from any original paſſion, that they ſeek the applauſes of others. And when a man deſires to be praiſed, it is for the ſame reaſon, that a beauty is pleaſed with ſurveying herſelf in a favorable looking-glaſs, and ſeeing the reflexion of her own charms.

THO' it be difficult in all points of ſpecula⯑tion to diſtinguiſh a cauſe, which encreaſes an effect, from one, which ſolely produces it; yet in the preſent caſe the phaenomena ſeem pretty ſtrong and ſatisfactory in confirmation of the foregoing principle.

[151] WE receive a much greater ſatisfaction from the approbation of thoſe, whom we ourſelves eſteem and approve of, than of thoſe, whom we contemn and deſpiſe.

WHEN eſteem is obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance, it gratifies our vanity in a peculiar manner.

THE ſuffrage of thoſe, who are ſhy and backward in giving praiſe, is attended with an additional reliſh and enjoyment, if we can ob⯑tain it in our favour.

WHERE a great man is nice in his choice of favourites, every one courts with greater earneſt⯑neſs his countenance and protection.

PRAISE never gives us much pleaſure, unleſs it concur with our own opinion, and extol us for thoſe qualities, in which we chiefly excel.

THESE phaenomena ſeem to prove, that the favourable opinions of others are regarded only as authorities, or as confirmations of our own opinion. And if they have more influ⯑ence in this ſubject than in any other, it is [152] eaſily accounted for from the nature of the ſubject.

11. THUS few objects, however related to us, and whatever pleaſure they produce, are able to excite a great degree of pride or ſelf-ſa⯑tisfaction; unleſs they be alſo obvious to others, and engage the approbation of the ſpectators. What diſpoſition of mind ſo deſirable as the peaceful, reſigned, contented; which readily ſubmits to all the diſpenſations of providence, and preſerves a conſtant ſerenity amidſt the greateſt misfortunes and diſappointments? Yet this diſpoſition, tho' acknowledged to be a vir⯑tue or excellence, is ſeldom the foundation of great vanity or ſelf-applauſe; having no brilliant or exterior luſtre, and rather cheering the heart, than animating the behaviour and converſation. The caſe is the ſame with many other qualities of the mind, body, or fortune; and this cir⯑cumſtance, as well as the double relations above mentioned, muſt be admitted to be of conſe⯑quence in the production of theſe paſſions.

A SECOND circumſtance, which is of conſe⯑quence in this affair, is the conſtancy and dura⯑tion [153] of the object. What is very caſual and in⯑conſtant, beyond the common courſe of human affairs, gives little joy, and leſs pride. We are not much ſatisfied with the thing itſelf; and are ſtill leſs apt to feel any new degree of ſelf⯑ſatisfaction upon its account. We foreſee and anticipate its change; which makes us little ſatisfied with the thing itſelf: We compare it to ourſelves, whoſe exiſtence is more durable; by which means its inconſtancy appears ſtill greater. It ſeems ridiculous to make ourſelves the object of a paſſion, on account of a quality or poſſeſſion, which is of ſo much ſhorter dura⯑tion, and attends us during ſo ſmall a part of our exiſtence.

A THIRD circumſtance, not to be neglected, is, that the objects, in order to produce pride or ſelf-value, muſt be peculiar to us, or at leaſt, common to us with a few others. The advan⯑tages of ſun-ſhine, weather, climate, &c. di⯑ſtinguiſh us not from any of our companions, and give us no preference or ſuperiority. The compariſon, which we are every moment apt to make, preſents no inference to our advantage; and we ſtill remain, notwithſtanding theſe en⯑joyments, [154] on a level with all our friends and acquaintance.

AS health and ſickneſs vary inceſſantly to all men, and there is no one, who is ſolely or cer⯑tainly fixed in either; theſe accidental bleſſings and calamities are in a manner ſeparated from us, and are not conſidered as a foundation for vanity or humiliation. But wherever a malady of any kind is ſo rooted in our conſtitution, that we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it damps our ſelf-conceit; as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the conſideration of their age and in⯑firmities. They endeavour, as long as poſſible, to conceal their blindneſs and deafneſs, their rheums and gouts; nor do they ever avow them without reluctance and uneaſineſs. And tho' young men are not aſhamed of every head-ach or cold which they fall into; yet no topic is more proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our lives ſub⯑ject to ſuch infirmities. This proves, that bo⯑dily pain and ſickneſs are in themſelves proper cauſes of humility; tho' the cuſtom of eſtimat⯑ing every thing, by compariſon, more than by [155] its intrinſic worth and value, makes us over⯑look thoſe calamities, which we find incident to every one, and cauſes us to form an idea of our merit and character, independent of them.

WE are aſhamed of ſuch maladies as affect others, and are either dangerous or diſagreeable to them. Of the epilepſy; becauſe it gives a horror to every one preſent: Of the itch; be⯑cauſe it is infectious: Of the king's evil; be⯑cauſe it often goes to poſterity. Men al⯑ways conſider the ſentiments of others in their judgment of themſelves.

A FOURTH circumſtance, which has an in⯑fluence on theſe paſſions, is general rules; by which we form a notion of different ranks of men, ſuitable to the power or riches of which they are poſſeſt; and this notion is not changed by any peculiarities of the health or temper of the perſons, which may deprive them of all enjoyment in their poſſeſſions. Cuſtom rea⯑dily carries us beyond the juſt bounds in our paſſions, as well as in our reaſonings.

IT may not be amiſs to obſerve on this occa⯑ſion, that the influence of general rules and [156] maxims on the paſſions very much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles or internal mechaniſm, which we here explain. For it ſeems evident, that, if a perſon full-grown, and of the ſame nature with ourſelves, were on a ſudden tranſported into our world, he would be very much embarraſſed with every object, and would not readily determine what degree of love or hatred, of pride or humility, or of any other paſſion ſhould be excited by it. The paſſions are often varied by very incon⯑ſiderable principles; and theſe do not always play with perfect regularity, eſpecially on the the firſt tryal. But as cuſtom or practice has brought to light all theſe principles, and has ſettled the juſt value of every thing; this muſt certainly contribute to the eaſy production of the paſſions, and guide us, by means of general eſtabliſhed rules, in the proportions, which we ought to obſerve in prefering one object to another. This remark may, perhaps, ſerve to obviate difficulties, that may ariſe concerning ſome cauſes, which we here aſcribe to particular paſſions, and which may be eſteemed too re⯑fined to operate ſo univerſally and certainly, as they are found to do.

SECT. III.

1. IN running over all the cauſes, which produce the paſſion of pride or that of humility; it would readily occur, that the ſame circum⯑ſtance, if transferred from ourſelf to another perſon, would render him the object of love or hatred, eſteem or contempt. The virtue, ge⯑nius, beauty, family, riches, and authority of others beget favourable ſentiments in their be⯑half; and their vice, folly, deformity, poverty, and meanneſs excite the contrary ſentiments. The double relation of impreſſions and ideas ſtill operates on theſe paſſions of love and hatred; as on the former of pride and humility. What⯑ever gives a ſeparate pleaſure or pain, and is re⯑lated to another perſon or connected with him, makes him the object of our affection or diſguſt.

HENCE too injury or contempt is one of the greateſt ſources of hatred; ſervices or eſteem of friendſhip.

[158] 2. SOMETIMES a relation to ourſelf excites affection towards any perſon. But there is al⯑ways here implied a relation of ſentiments, without which the other relation would have no influence^a.

A PERSON, who is related to us, or con⯑nected with us, by blood, by ſimilitude of for⯑tune, of adventures, profeſſion, or country, ſoon becomes an agreeable companion to us; becauſe we enter eaſily and familiarly into his ſentiments and conceptions: Nothing is ſtrange or new to us: Our imagination, paſſing from ſelf, which is ever intimately preſent to us, runs ſmoothly along the relation or connexion, and conceives with a full ſympathy the perſon, who is nearly related to ſelf. He renders him⯑ſelf immediately acceptable, and is at once on an eaſy footing with us: No diſtance, no reſerve has place, where the perſon introduced is ſup⯑poſed ſo cloſely connected with us.

RELATION has here the ſame influence as cuſtom or acquaintance, in exciting affection; [159] and from like cauſes. The eaſe and ſatisfaction, which, in both caſes, attend our intercourſe or commerce, is the ſource of the friendſhip.

3. THE paſſions of love and hatred are al⯑ways followed by, or rather conjoined with, be⯑nevolence and anger. It is this conjunction, which chiefly diſtinguiſhes theſe affections from pride and humility. For pride and humility are pure emotions in the ſoul, unattended with any deſire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred are not compleat within themſelves, nor reſt in that emotion, which they produce; but carry the mind to ſomething farther. Love is always followed by a deſire of happineſs to the perſon beloved, and an averſion to his miſery: As hatred produces a deſire of the miſery, and an averſion to the happineſs of the perſon hated. Theſe oppoſite deſires ſeem to be originally and primarily con⯑joined with the paſſions of love and hatred. It is a conſtitution of nature, of which we can give no farther explication.

[160] 4. COMPASSION frequently ariſes, where there is no preceding eſteem or friendſhip; and compaſſion is an uneaſineſs in the ſufferings of another. It ſeems to ſpring from the intimate and ſtrong conception of his ſufferings; and our imagination proceeds by degrees, from the lively idea, to the real feeling of another's miſery.

MALICE and envy alſo ariſe in the mind without any preceding hatred or injury; tho' their tendency is exactly the ſame with that of anger and ill-will. The compariſon of ourſelves with others ſeems the ſource of envy and malice. The more unhappy another is, the more happy do we ourſelves appear in our own conception.

5. THE ſimilar tendency of compaſſion to that of benevolence, and of envy to anger, forms a very cloſe relation betwixt theſe two ſets of paſſions; tho' of a different kind from that in⯑ſiſted on above. It is not a reſemblance of feel⯑ing or ſentiment, but a reſemblance of tendency or direction. Its effect, however, is the ſame, in producing an aſſociation of paſſions. Com⯑paſſion [161] is ſeldom or never felt without ſome mixture of tenderneſs or friendſhip; and envy is naturally accompanied with anger or ill-will. To deſire the happineſs of another, from what⯑ever motive, is a good preparative to affection: And to delight in another's miſery almoſt un⯑avoidably begets averſion towards him.

EVEN where intereſt is the ſource of our con⯑cern, it is commonly attended with the ſame conſequences. A partner is a natural object of friendſhip; a rival of enmity.

6. POVERTY, meanneſs, diſappointment, pro⯑duce contempt and diſlike: But when theſe miſ⯑fortunes are very great, or are repreſented to us in very ſtrong colours, they excite compaſſion, and tenderneſs, and friendſhip. How is this con⯑tradiction to be accounted for? The poverty and meanneſs of another, in their common ap⯑pearance, gives us uneaſineſs, by a ſpecies of imperfect ſympathy; and this uneaſineſs pro⯑duces averſion or diſlike, from the reſemblance of ſentiment. But when we enter more in⯑timately into another's concerns, and wiſh for his happineſs, as well as feel his miſery, friend⯑ſhip [162] or good-will ariſes, from the ſimilar ten⯑dency of the inclinations.

7. IN reſpect, there is a mixture of humility, along with the eſteem or affection: In con⯑tempt, a mixture of pride.

THE amorous paſſion is uſually compounded of complacency in beauty, a bodily appetite, and friendſhip or affection. The cloſe relation of theſe ſentiments is very obvious, as well as their origin from each other, by means of that rela⯑tion. Were there no other phaenomenon to reconcile as to the preſent theory, this alone, methinks, were ſufficient.

SECT. IV.

1. THE preſent theory of the paſſions de⯑pends entirely on the double relations of ſenti⯑ments and ideas, and the mutual aſſiſtance, which theſe relations lend to each other. It may not, therefore, be improper to illuſtrate theſe prin⯑ciples by ſome farther inſtances.

2. THE virtues, talents, accompliſhments, and poſſeſſions of others make us love and eſteem them: Becauſe theſe objects excite a pleaſant ſenſation, which is related to love; and having alſo a relation or connexion with the perſon, this union of ideas forwards the union of ſenti⯑ments, according to the foregoing reaſoning.

BUT ſuppoſe, that the perſon, whom we love, is alſo related to us, by blood, country, or friendſhip; it is evident, that a ſpecies of pride muſt alſo be excited by his accompliſh⯑ments and poſſeſſions; there being the ſame double relation, which we have all along in⯑ſiſted on. The perſon is related to us, or there [164] is an eaſy tranſition of thought from him to us; and the ſentiments, excited by his advantages and virtues, are agreeable, and conſequently related to pride. Accordingly we find, that people are naturally vain of the good qualities or high fortune of their friends and countrymen.

3. BUT it is obſervable, that, if we reverſe the order of the paſſions, the ſame effect does not follow. We paſs eaſily from love and af⯑fection to pride and vanity; but not from the latter paſſions to the former, tho' all the rela⯑tions be the ſame. We love not thoſe related to us on account of our own merit; tho' they are naturally vain on account of our merit. What is the reaſon of this difference? The tranſition of the imagination to ourſelves, from objects related to us, is always very eaſy; both on account of the relation, which facilitates the tranſition, and becauſe we there paſs from re⯑moter objects to thoſe which are contiguous. But in paſſing from ourſelves to objects, related to us; tho' the former principle forwards the tranſition of thought, yet the latter oppoſes it; and conſequently there is not the ſame eaſy [165] transfuſion of paſſions from pride to love as from love to pride.

4. THE virtues, ſervices, and fortune of one man inſpire us readily with eſteem and affection for another related to him. The ſon of our friend is naturally entitled to our friendſhip: The kindred of a very great man value them⯑ſelves, and are valued by others, on account of that relation. The force of the double relation is here fully diſplayed.

5. THE following are inſtances of another kind, where the operation of theſe principles may ſtill be diſcovered. Envy ariſes from a ſu⯑periority in others; but it is obſervable, that it is not the great diſproportion betwixt us, which excites that paſſion, but on the contrary, our proximity. A great diſproportion cuts off the relation of the ideas, and either keeps us from comparing ourſelves with what is remote from us, or diminiſhes the effects of the compariſon.

A POET is not apt to envy a philoſopher or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, [166] or of a different age. All theſe differences, if they do not prevent, at leaſt weaken the com⯑pariſon, and conſequently the paſſion.

THIS too is the reaſon, why all objects appear great or little, merely by a compariſon with thoſe of the ſame ſpecies. A mountain neither magnifies nor diminiſhes a horſe in our eyes: But when a Flemiſh and a Welch horſe are ſeen together, the one appears greater and the other leſs, than when viewed apart.

FROM the ſame principle we may account for that remark of hiſtorians, that any party, in a civil war, or even factious diviſion, always chooſe to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard rather than ſubmit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin applies this remark to the wars in Italy; where the relations betwixt the different ſtates are, properly ſpeaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. Yet even theſe relations, when joined with ſuperiority, by making the compariſon more natural, make it likewiſe more grievous, and cauſe men to ſearch for ſome other ſuperiority, which may be attended with no relation, and by that means, may have a leſs ſenſible influence on the [167] imagination. When we cannot break the aſſo⯑ciation, we feel a ſtronger deſire to remove the ſuperiority. This ſeems to be the reaſon, why travellers, tho' commonly laviſh of their praiſes to the Chineſe and Perſians, take care to depre⯑ciate thoſe neighbouring nations, which may ſtand upon a footing of rivalſhip with their na⯑tive country.

6. THE fine arts afford us parallel inſtances. Should an author compoſe a treati&;se, of which one part was ſerious and profound, another light and humourous; every one would condemn ſo ſtrange a mixture, and would blame him for the neglect of all rules of art and criticiſm. Yet we accuſe not Prior for joining his Alma and Solomon in the ſame volume; tho' that amiable poet has ſucceeded perfectly in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even ſuppoſe the reader ſhould peruſe theſe two compoſitions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of the paſſions. Why? but becauſe he conſiders theſe performances as entirely different; and by that break in the ideas, breaks the progreſs [168] of the affections, and hinders the one from in⯑fluencing or contradicting the other.

AN heroic and burleſque deſign, united in one picture, would be monſtrous; tho' we place two pictures of ſo oppoſite a character in the ſame chamber, and even cloſe together, with⯑out any ſcruple.

7. IT needs be no matter of wonder, that the eaſy tranſition of the imagination ſhould have ſuch an influence on all the paſſions. It is this very circumſtance, which forms all the rela⯑tions and connexions amongſt objects. We know no real connexion betwixt one thing and another. We know only, that the idea of one thing is aſſociated with that of another, and that the imagination makes an eaſy tranſition betwixt them. And as the eaſy tranſition of ideas, and that of ſentiments mutually aſſiſt each other; we might beforehand expect, that this principle muſt have a mighty influence on all our internal movements and affections. And experience ſufficiently confirms the theory.

[169] FOR, not to repeat all the foregoing inſtances: Suppoſe, that I were travelling with a companion thro' a country, to which we are both utter ſtran⯑gers; it is evident, that, if the proſpects be beau⯑tiful, the roads agreeable, and the fields finely cultivated; this may ſerve to put me in good humour, both with myſelf and fellow-traveller. But as the country has no connexion with my⯑ſelf or friend, it can never be the immediate cauſe either of ſelf-value or of regard to him: And therefore, if I found not the paſſion on ſome other object, which bears to one of us a cloſer relation, my emotions are rather to be conſidered as the overflowings of an elevated or humane diſpoſition, than as an eſtabliſhed paſ⯑ſion. But ſuppoſing the agreeable proſpect be⯑fore us to be ſurveyed either from his country⯑ſeat or from mine; this new connexion of ideas gives a new direction to the ſentiment of plea⯑ſure, proceeding from the proſpect, and raiſes the emotion of regard or vanity, according to the nature of the connexion. There is not here, methinks, much room for doubt or dif⯑ficulty.

SECT. V.

1. IT ſeems evident, that reaſon, in a ſtrict ſenſe, as meaning the judgment of truth and falſhood, can never, of itſelf, be any motive to the will, and can have no influence but ſo far as it touches ſome paſſion or affection. Abſtract relations of ideas are the object of curioſity, not of volition. And matters of fact, where they are neither good nor evil, where they neither excite deſire nor averſion, are totally indiffer⯑ent; and whether known or unknown, whe⯑ther miſtaken or rightly apprehended, cannot be regarded as any motive to action.

2. WHAT is commonly, in a popular ſenſe, called reaſon, and is ſo much recommended in moral diſcourſes, is nothing but a general and a calm paſſion, which takes a comprehenſive and diſtant view of its object, and actuates the will, without exciting any ſenſible emotion. A man, we ſay, is diligent in his profeſſion from rea⯑ſon; that is, from a calm deſire of riches and a fortune. A man adheres to juſtice from reaſon; [171] that is, from a calm regard to a character with himſelf and others.

3. THE ſame objects, which recommend themſelves to reaſon in this ſenſe of the word, are alſo the objects of what we call paſſion, when they are brought near to us, and acquire ſome other advantages, either of external ſitua⯑tion, or congruity to our internal temper; and by that means, excite a turbulent and ſenſible emotion. Evil, at a great diſtance, is avoided, we ſay, from reaſon: Evil, near at hand, pro⯑duces averſion, horror, fear, and is the object of paſſion.

4. THE common error of metaphyſicians has lain in aſcribing the direction of the will entirely to one of theſe principles, and ſuppoſing the other to have no influence. Men often act knowingly againſt their intereſt: It is not there⯑fore the view of the greateſt poſſible good which always influences them. Men often counteract a violent paſſion, in proſecution of their diſtant intereſts and deſigns: It is not therefore the pre⯑ſent uneaſineſs alone, which determines them. [172] In general, we may obſerve, that both theſe principles operate on the will; and where they are contrary, that either of them prevails, ac⯑cording to the general character or preſent diſpo⯑ſition of the perſon. What we call ſtrength of mind implies the prevalence of the calm paſſions above the violent; tho' we may eaſily obſerve, that there is no perſon ſo conſtantly poſſeſt of this virtue, as never, on any occaſion, to yield to the ſollicitation of violent affections and de⯑ſires. From theſe variations of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the fu⯑ture actions and reſolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of motives and paſſions.

SECT. VI.

1. WE ſhall here enumerate ſome of thoſe circumſtances, which render a paſſion calm or violent, which heighten or diminiſh any emo⯑tion.

IT is a property in human nature, that any emotion, which attends a paſſion, is eaſily con⯑verted into it; tho' in their natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to each other. It is true, in order to cauſe a per⯑fect union amongſt paſſions, and make one produce the other, there is always required a double relation, according to the theory above delivered. But when two paſſions are already produced by their ſeparate cauſes, and are both preſent in the mind, they readily mingle and unite; tho' they have but one relation, and ſometimes without any. The predominant paſ⯑ſion ſwallows up the inferior, and converts it into itſelf. The ſpirits, when once excited, eaſily receive a change in their direction; and it is natural to imagine, that this change will come from the prevailing affection. The con⯑nexion [174] is in many caſes cloſer betwixt any two paſſions, than betwixt any paſſion and indif⯑ference.

WHEN a perſon is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprices of his miſtreſs, the jealouſies and quarrels, to which that commerce is ſo ſubject; however unpleaſant they be, and rather connected with anger and hatred; are yet found, in many inſtances, to give additional force to the prevailing paſſion. It is a common artifice of politicians, when they would affect any perſon very much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, firſt to excite his curioſity; delay as long as poſſible the ſatiſ⯑fying it; and by that means raiſe his anxiety and impatience to the utmoſt, before they give him a full inſight into the buſineſs. They know, that his curioſity will precipitate him into the paſſion, which they purpoſe to raiſe, and will aſſiſt the object in its influence on the mind. A ſoldier, advancing to battle, is naturally in⯑ſpired with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his friends and fellow-ſoldiers; and is ſtruck with fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion, therefore, proceeds from the former naturally encreaſes [175] the courage; as the ſame emotion proceeding from the latter, augments the fear. Hence in martial diſcipline, the uniformity and luſtre of habit, the regularity of figures and motions, with all the pomp and majeſty of war, encou⯑rage ourſelves and our allies; while the ſame objects in the enemy ſtrike terror into us, tho' agreeable and beautiful in themſelves.

HOPE is, in itſelf, an agreeable paſſion, and allied to friendſhip and benevolence; yet is it able ſometimes to blow up anger, when that is the predominant paſſion. Spes addita ſuſcitat iras. Virg.

2. SINCE paſſions, however independent, are naturally transfuſed into each other, if they are both preſent at the ſame time; it follows, that when good or evil is placed in ſuch a ſitua⯑tion as to cauſe any particular emotion, beſides its direct paſſion of deſire or averſion, that latter paſſion muſt acquire new force and violence.

3. THIS often happens, when any object excites contrary paſſions. For it is obſervable, [176] that an oppoſition of paſſions commonly cauſes a new emotion in the ſpirits and produces more diſorder than the concurrence of any two affec⯑tions of equal force. This new emotion is eaſily converted into the predominant paſſion, and in many inſtances, is obſerved to encreaſe its violence, beyond the pitch, at which it would have arrived, had it met with no oppoſition. Hence we naturally deſire what is forbid, and often take a pleaſure in performing actions, merely becauſe they are unlawful. The notion of duty, when oppoſite to the paſſions, is not always able to overcome them; and when it fails of that influence, is apt rather to encreaſe and irritate them, by producing an oppoſition in our motives and principles.

4. THE ſame effect follows, whether the oppoſition ariſes from internal motives or ex⯑ternal obſtacles. The paſſion commonly ac⯑quires new force in both caſes. The efforts, which the mind makes to ſurmount the obſtacle, excite the ſpirits, and enliven the paſſion.

[177] 5. UNCERTAINTY has the ſame effect as oppoſition. The agitation of the thought, the quick turns which it makes from one view to another, the variety of paſſions, which ſucceed each other, according to the different views: All theſe produce an agitation in the mind; and this agitation transfuſes itſelf into the predomi⯑nant paſſion.

SECURITY, on the contrary, diminiſhes the paſſions. The mind, when left to itſelf, im⯑mediately languiſhes; and in order to preſerve its ardour, muſt be every moment ſupported by a new flow of paſſion. For the ſame reaſon, deſpair, tho' contrary to ſecurity, has a like influence.

6. NOTHING more powerfully excites any affection than to conceal ſome part of its object, by throwing it into a kind of ſhade, which, at the ſame time, that it ſhows enough to prepoſ⯑ſeſs us in favour of the object, leaves ſtill ſome work for the imagination. Beſides, that ob⯑ſcurity is always attended with a kind of uncer⯑tainty; the effort, which the fancy makes to [178] compleat the idea, rouzes the ſpirits, and gives an additional force to the paſſion.

7. As deſpair and ſecurity, tho' contrary, produce the ſame effects; ſo abſence is obſerved to have contrary effects, and in different cir⯑cumſtances either encreaſes or diminiſhes our affection. Rocheſoucault has very well remarked, that abſence deſtroys weak paſſions, but en⯑creaſes ſtrong; as the wind extinguiſhes a candle, but blows up a fire. Long abſence naturally weakens our idea, and diminiſhes the paſſion: But where the paſſion is ſo ſtrong and lively as to ſupport itſelf, the uneaſineſs, ariſing from abſence, encreaſes the paſſion, and gives it new force and influence.

8. WHEN the ſoul applies itſelf to the per⯑formance of any action, or the conception of any object, to which it is not accuſtomed, there is a certain unpliableneſs in the faculties, and a difficulty of the ſpirits moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the ſpirits, it is the ſource of wonder, ſurprize, and of all the emotions, which ariſe from novelty; [179] and is in itſelf very agreeable, like every thing, which inlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But tho' ſurpriſe be agreeable in itſelf, yet as it puts the ſpirits in agitation, it not only aug⯑ments our agreeable affections, but alſo our painful, according to the foregoing principle. Hence every thing, that is new, is moſt affect⯑ing, and gives us either more pleaſure or pain, than what, ſtrictly ſpeaking, ſhould naturally fol⯑low from it. When it often returns upon us, the novelty wears off; the paſſions ſubſide; the hurry of the ſpirits is over; and we ſurvey the object with greater tranquillity.

9. THE imagination and affections have a cloſe union together. The vivacity of the former, gives force to the latter. Hence the proſpect of any pleaſure, with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any other plea⯑ſure, which we may own ſuperior, but of whoſe nature we are wholly ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: The other, we conceive under the general no⯑tion of pleaſure.

[180] ANY ſatisfaction, which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is freſh and recent, operates on the will with more violence, than another of which the traces are decayed and al⯑moſt obliterated.

A PLEASURE, which is ſuitable to the way of life, in which we are engaged, excites more our deſires and appetites than another, which is foreign to it.

NOTHING is more capable of infuſing any paſſion into the mind, than eloquence, by which objects are repreſented in the ſtrongeſt and moſt lively colours. The bare opinion of another, eſpecially when inforced with paſſion, will cauſe an idea to have an influence upon us, tho' that idea might otherwiſe have been en⯑tirely neglected.

IT is remarkable, that lively paſſions com⯑monly attend a lively imagination. In this reſpect, as well as others, the force of the paſ⯑ſion depends as much on the temper of the perſon, as on the nature or ſituation of the object.

[181] WHAT is diſtant, either in place or time, has not equal influence with what is near and contiguous.

I PRETEND not here to have exhauſted this ſubject. It is ſufficient for my purpoſe, if I have made it appear, that, in the production and con⯑duct of the paſſions, there is a certain regular mechaniſm, which is ſuſceptible of as accurate a diſquiſition, as the laws of motion, optics, hydroſtatics, or any part of natural philoſophy.