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1651
LEVIATHAN
by Thomas Hobbes
INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION
NATURE (the art whereby God hath made and governs the world) is by
the art of man, as in many other things, so in this also imitated,
that it can make an artificial animal. For seeing life is but a motion
of limbs, the beginning whereof is in some principal part within,
why may we not say that all automata (engines that move themselves
by springs and wheels as doth a watch) have an artificial life? For
what is the heart, but a spring; and the nerves, but so many
strings; and the joints, but so many wheels, giving motion to the
whole body, such as was intended by the Artificer? Art goes yet
further, imitating that rational and most excellent work of Nature,
man. For by art is created that great LEVIATHAN called a COMMONWEALTH,
or STATE (in Latin, CIVITAS), which is but an artificial man, though
of greater stature and strength than the natural, for whose protection
and defence it was intended; and in which the sovereignty is an
artificial soul, as giving life and motion to the whole body; the
magistrates and other officers of judicature and execution, artificial
joints; reward and punishment (by which fastened to the seat of the
sovereignty, every joint and member is moved to perform his duty)
are the nerves, that do the same in the body natural; the wealth and
riches of all the particular members are the strength; salus populi
(the people's safety) its business; counsellors, by whom all things
needful for it to know are suggested unto it, are the memory; equity
and laws, an artificial reason and will; concord, health; sedition,
sickness; and civil war, death. Lastly, the pacts and covenants, by
which the parts of this body politic were at first made, set together,
and united, resemble that fiat, or the Let us make man, pronounced
by God in the Creation.
To describe the nature of this artificial man, I will consider
First, the matter thereof, and the artificer; both which is man.
Secondly, how, and by what covenants it is made; what are the rights
and just power or authority of a sovereign; and what it is that
preserveth and dissolveth it.
Thirdly, what is a Christian Commonwealth.
Lastly, what is the Kingdom of Darkness.
Concerning the first, there is a saying much usurped of late, that
wisdom is acquired, not by reading of books, but of men.
Consequently whereunto, those persons, that for the most part can give
no other proof of being wise, take great delight to show what they
think they have read in men, by uncharitable censures of one another
behind their backs. But there is another saying not of late
understood, by which they might learn truly to read one another, if
they would take the pains; and that is, Nosce teipsum, Read thyself:
which was not meant, as it is now used, to countenance either the
barbarous state of men in power towards their inferiors, or to
encourage men of low degree to a saucy behaviour towards their
betters; but to teach us that for the similitude of the thoughts and
passions of one man, to the thoughts and passions of another,
whosoever looketh into himself and considereth what he doth when he
does think, opine, reason, hope, fear, etc., and upon what grounds; he
shall thereby read and know what are the thoughts and passions of
all other men upon the like occasions. I say the similitude of
passions, which are the same in all men,- desire, fear, hope, etc.;
not the similitude of the objects of the passions, which are the
things desired, feared, hoped, etc.: for these the constitution
individual, and particular education, do so vary, and they are so easy
to be kept from our knowledge, that the characters of man's heart,
blotted and confounded as they are with dissembling, lying,
counterfeiting, and erroneous doctrines, are legible only to him
that searcheth hearts. And though by men's actions we do discover
their design sometimes; yet to do it without comparing them with our
own, and distinguishing all circumstances by which the case may come
to be altered, is to decipher without a key, and be for the most
part deceived, by too much trust or by too much diffidence, as he that
reads is himself a good or evil man.
But let one man read another by his actions never so perfectly, it
serves him only with his acquaintance, which are but few. He that is
to govern a whole nation must read in himself, not this, or that
particular man; but mankind: which though it be hard to do, harder
than to learn any language or science; yet, when I shall have set down
my own reading orderly and perspicuously, the pains left another
will be only to consider if he also find not the same in himself.
For this kind of doctrine admitteth no other demonstration.
THE FIRST PART
OF MAN
CHAPTER I
OF SENSE
CONCERNING the thoughts of man, I will consider them first singly,
and afterwards in train or dependence upon one another. Singly, they
are every one a representation or appearance of some quality, or other
accident of a body without us, which is commonly called an object.
Which object worketh on the eyes, ears, and other parts of man's body,
and by diversity of working produceth diversity of appearances.
The original of them all is that which we call sense, (for there
is no conception in a man's mind which hath not at first, totally or
by parts, been begotten upon the organs of sense). The rest are
derived from that original.
To know the natural cause of sense is not very necessary to the
business now in hand; and I have elsewhere written of the same at
large. Nevertheless, to fill each part of my present method, I will
briefly deliver the same in this place.
The cause of sense is the external body, or object, which presseth
the organ proper to each sense, either immediately, as in the taste
and touch; or mediately, as in seeing, hearing, and smelling: which
pressure, by the mediation of nerves and other strings and membranes
of the body, continued inwards to the brain and heart, causeth there a
resistance, or counter-pressure, or endeavour of the heart to
deliver itself: which endeavour, because outward, seemeth to be some
matter without. And this seeming, or fancy, is that which men call
sense; and consisteth, as to the eye, in a light, or colour figured;
to the ear, in a sound; to the nostril, in an odour; to the tongue and
palate, in a savour; and to the rest of the body, in heat, cold,
hardness, softness, and such other qualities as we discern by feeling.
All which qualities called sensible are in the object that causeth
them but so many several motions of the matter, by which it presseth
our organs diversely. Neither in us that are pressed are they anything
else but diverse motions (for motion produceth nothing but motion).
But their appearance to us is fancy, the same waking that dreaming.
And as pressing, rubbing, or striking the eye makes us fancy a
light, and pressing the ear produceth a din; so do the bodies also
we see, or hear, produce the same by their strong, though unobserved
action. For if those colours and sounds were in the bodies or
objects that cause them, they could not be severed from them, as by
glasses and in echoes by reflection we see they are: where we know the
thing we see is in one place; the appearance, in another. And though
at some certain distance the real and very object seem invested with
the fancy it begets in us; yet still the object is one thing, the
image or fancy is another. So that sense in all cases is nothing
else but original fancy caused (as I have said) by the pressure that
is, by the motion of external things upon our eyes, ears, and other
organs, thereunto ordained.
But the philosophy schools, through all the universities of
Christendom, grounded upon certain texts of Aristotle, teach another
doctrine; and say, for the cause of vision, that the thing seen
sendeth forth on every side a visible species, (in English) a
visible show, apparition, or aspect, or a being seen; the receiving
whereof into the eye is seeing. And for the cause of hearing, that the
thing heard sendeth forth an audible species, that is, an audible
aspect, or audible being seen; which, entering at the ear, maketh
hearing. Nay, for the cause of understanding also, they say the
thing understood sendeth forth an intelligible species, that is, an
intelligible being seen; which, coming into the understanding, makes
us understand. I say not this, as disapproving the use of
universities: but because I am to speak hereafter of their office in a
Commonwealth, I must let you see on all occasions by the way what
things would be amended in them; amongst which the frequency of
insignificant speech is one.
CHAPTER II
OF IMAGINATION
THAT when a thing lies still, unless somewhat else stir it, it
will lie still for ever, is a truth that no man doubts of. But that
when a thing is in motion, it will eternally be in motion, unless
somewhat else stay it, though the reason be the same (namely, that
nothing can change itself), is not so easily assented to. For men
measure, not only other men, but all other things, by themselves:
and because they find themselves subject after motion to pain and
lassitude, think everything else grows weary of motion, and seeks
repose of its own accord; little considering whether it be not some
other motion wherein that desire of rest they find in themselves
consisteth. From hence it is that the schools say, heavy bodies fall
downwards out of an appetite to rest, and to conserve their nature
in that place which is most proper for them; ascribing appetite, and
knowledge of what is good for their conservation (which is more than
man has), to things inanimate, absurdly.
When a body is once in motion, it moveth (unless something else
hinder it) eternally; and whatsoever hindreth it, cannot in an
instant, but in time, and by degrees, quite extinguish it: and as we
see in the water, though the wind cease, the waves give not over
rolling for a long time after; so also it happeneth in that motion
which is made in the internal parts of a man, then, when he sees,
dreams, etc. For after the object is removed, or the eye shut, we
still retain an image of the thing seen, though more obscure than when
we see it. And this is it the Latins call imagination, from the
image made in seeing, and apply the same, though improperly, to all
the other senses. But the Greeks call it fancy, which signifies
appearance, and is as proper to one sense as to another.
Imagination, therefore, is nothing but decaying sense; and is found in
men and many other living creatures, as well sleeping as waking.
The decay of sense in men waking is not the decay of the motion made
in sense, but an obscuring of it, in such manner as the light of the
sun obscureth the light of the stars; which stars do no less
exercise their virtue by which they are visible in the day than in the
night. But because amongst many strokes which our eyes, ears, and
other organs receive from external bodies, the predominant only is
sensible; therefore the light of the sun being predominant, we are not
affected with the action of the stars. And any object being removed
from our eyes, though the impression it made in us remain, yet other
objects more present succeeding, and working on us, the imagination of
the past is obscured and made weak, as the voice of a man is in the
noise of the day. From whence it followeth that the longer the time
is, after the sight or sense of any object, the weaker is the
imagination. For the continual change of man's body destroys in time
the parts which in sense were moved: so that distance of time, and
of place, hath one and the same effect in us. For as at a great
distance of place that which we look at appears dim, and without
distinction of the smaller parts, and as voices grow weak and
inarticulate: so also after great distance of time our imagination
of the past is weak; and we lose, for example, of cities we have seen,
many particular streets; and of actions, many particular
circumstances. This decaying sense, when we would express the thing
itself (I mean fancy itself), we call imagination, as I said before.
But when we would express the decay, and signify that the sense is
fading, old, and past, it is called memory. So that imagination and
memory are but one thing, which for diverse considerations hath
diverse names.
Much memory, or memory of many things, is called experience.
Again, imagination being only of those things which have been formerly
perceived by sense, either all at once, or by parts at several
times; the former (which is the imagining the whole object, as it
was presented to the sense) is simple imagination, as when one
imagineth a man, or horse, which he hath seen before. The other is
compounded, when from the sight of a man at one time, and of a horse
at another, we conceive in our mind a centaur. So when a man
compoundeth the image of his own person with the image of the
actions of another man, as when a man imagines himself a Hercules or
an Alexander (which happeneth often to them that are much taken with
reading of romances), it is a compound imagination, and properly but a
fiction of the mind. There be also other imaginations that rise in
men, though waking, from the great impression made in sense: as from
gazing upon the sun, the impression leaves an image of the sun
before our eyes a long time after; and from being long and
vehemently attent upon geometrical figures, a man shall in the dark,
though awake, have the images of lines and angles before his eyes;
which kind of fancy hath no particular name, as being a thing that
doth not commonly fall into men's discourse.
The imaginations of them that sleep are those we call dreams. And
these also (as all other imaginations) have been before, either
totally or by parcels, in the sense. And because in sense, the brain
and nerves, which are the necessary organs of sense, are so benumbed
in sleep as not easily to be moved by the action of external
objects, there can happen in sleep no imagination, and therefore no
dream, but what proceeds from the agitation of the inward parts of
man's body; which inward parts, for the connexion they have with the
brain and other organs, when they be distempered do keep the same in
motion; whereby the imaginations there formerly made, appear as if a
man were waking; saving that the organs of sense being now benumbed,
so as there is no new object which can master and obscure them with
a more vigorous impression, a dream must needs be more clear, in
this silence of sense, than are our waking thoughts. And hence it
cometh to pass that it is a hard matter, and by many thought
impossible, to distinguish exactly between sense and dreaming. For
my part, when I consider that in dreams I do not often nor
constantly think of the same persons, places, objects, and actions
that I do waking, nor remember so long a train of coherent thoughts
dreaming as at other times; and because waking I often observe the
absurdity of dreams, but never dream of the absurdities of my waking
thoughts, I am well satisfied that, being awake, I know I dream not;
though when I dream, I think myself awake.
And seeing dreams are caused by the distemper of some of the
inward parts of the body, diverse distempers must needs cause
different dreams. And hence it is that lying cold breedeth dreams of
fear, and raiseth the thought and image of some fearful object, the
motion from the brain to the inner parts, and from the inner parts
to the brain being reciprocal; and that as anger causeth heat in
some parts of the body when we are awake, so when we sleep the
overheating of the same parts causeth anger, and raiseth up in the
brain the imagination of an enemy. In the same manner, as natural
kindness when we are awake causeth desire, and desire makes heat in
certain other parts of the body; so also too much heat in those parts,
while we sleep, raiseth in the brain an imagination of some kindness
shown. In sum, our dreams are the reverse of our waking
imaginations; the motion when we are awake beginning at one end, and
when we dream, at another.
The most difficult discerning of a man's dream from his waking
thoughts is, then, when by some accident we observe not that we have
slept: which is easy to happen to a man full of fearful thoughts;
and whose conscience is much troubled; and that sleepeth without the
circumstances of going to bed, or putting off his clothes, as one that
noddeth in a chair. For he that taketh pains, and industriously lays
himself to sleep, in case any uncouth and exorbitant fancy come unto
him, cannot easily think it other than a dream. We read of Marcus
Brutus (one that had his life given him by Julius Caesar, and was also
his favorite, and notwithstanding murdered him), how at Philippi,
the night before he gave battle to Augustus Caesar, he saw a fearful
apparition, which is commonly related by historians as a vision,
but, considering the circumstances, one may easily judge to have
been but a short dream. For sitting in his tent, pensive and
troubled with the horror of his rash act, it was not hard for him,
slumbering in the cold, to dream of that which most affrighted him;
which fear, as by degrees it made him wake, so also it must needs make
the apparition by degrees to vanish: and having no assurance that he
slept, he could have no cause to think it a dream, or anything but a
vision. And this is no very rare accident: for even they that be
perfectly awake, if they be timorous and superstitious, possessed with
fearful tales, and alone in the dark, are subject to the like fancies,
and believe they see spirits and dead men's ghosts walking in
churchyards; whereas it is either their fancy only, or else the
knavery of such persons as make use of such superstitious fear to pass
disguised in the night to places they would not be known to haunt.
From this ignorance of how to distinguish dreams, and other strong
fancies, from vision and sense, did arise the greatest part of the
religion of the Gentiles in time past, that worshipped satyrs,
fauns, nymphs, and the like; and nowadays the opinion that rude people
have of fairies, ghosts, and goblins, and of the power of witches.
For, as for witches, I think not that their witchcraft is any real
power, but yet that they are justly punished for the false belief they
have that they can do such mischief, joined with their purpose to do
it if they can, their trade being nearer to a new religion than to a
craft or science. And for fairies, and walking ghosts, the opinion
of them has, I think, been on purpose either taught, or not
confuted, to keep in credit the use of exorcism, of crosses, of holy
water, and other such inventions of ghostly men. Nevertheless, there
is no doubt but God can make unnatural apparitions: but that He does
it so often as men need to fear such things more than they fear the
stay, or change, of the course of Nature, which he also can stay,
and change, is no point of Christian faith. But evil men, under
pretext that God can do anything, are so bold as to say anything
when it serves their turn, though they think it untrue; it is the part
of a wise man to believe them no further than right reason makes
that which they say appear credible. If this superstitious fear of
spirits were taken away, and with it prognostics from dreams, false
prophecies, and many other things depending thereon, by which crafty
ambitious persons abuse the simple people, men would be would be
much more fitted than they are for civil obedience.
And this ought to be the work of the schools, but they rather
nourish such doctrine. For (not knowing what imagination, or the
senses are) what they receive, they teach: some saying that
imaginations rise of themselves, and have no cause; others that they
rise most commonly from the will; and that good thoughts are blown
(inspired) into a man by God, and evil thoughts, by the Devil; or that
good thoughts are poured (infused) into a man by God, and evil ones by
the Devil. Some say the senses receive the species of things, and
deliver them to the common sense; and the common sense delivers them
over to the fancy, and the fancy to the memory, and the memory to
the judgement, like handing of things from one to another, with many
words making nothing understood.
The imagination that is raised in man (or any other creature
endued with the faculty of imagining) by words, or other voluntary
signs, is that we generally call understanding, and is common to man
and beast. For a dog by custom will understand the call or the
rating of his master; and so will many other beasts. That
understanding which is peculiar to man is the understanding not only
his will, but his conceptions and thoughts, by the sequel and
contexture of the names of things into affirmations, negations, and
other forms of speech: and of this kind of understanding I shall speak
hereafter.
CHAPTER III
OF THE CONSEQUENCE OR TRAIN OF IMAGINATIONS
BY CONSEQUENCE, or train of thoughts, I understand that succession
of one thought to another which is called, to distinguish it from
discourse in words, mental discourse.
When a man thinketh on anything whatsoever, his next thought after
is not altogether so casual as it seems to be. Not every thought to
every thought succeeds indifferently. But as we have no imagination,
whereof we have not formerly had sense, in whole or in parts; so we
have no transition from one imagination to another, whereof we never
had the like before in our senses. The reason whereof is this. All
fancies are motions within us, relics of those made in the sense;
and those motions that immediately succeeded one another in the
sense continue also together after sense: in so much as the former
coming again to take place and be predominant, the latter followeth,
by coherence of the matter moved, in such manner as water upon a plain
table is drawn which way any one part of it is guided by the finger.
But because in sense, to one and the same thing perceived, sometimes
one thing, sometimes another, succeedeth, it comes to pass in time
that in the imagining of anything, there is no certainty what we shall
imagine next; only this is certain, it shall be something that
succeeded the same before, at one time or another.
This train of thoughts, or mental discourse, is of two sorts. The
first is unguided, without design, and inconstant; wherein there is no
passionate thought to govern and direct those that follow to itself as
the end and scope of some desire, or other passion; in which case
the thoughts are said to wander, and seem impertinent one to
another, as in a dream. Such are commonly the thoughts of men that are
not only without company, but also without care of anything; though
even then their thoughts are as busy as at other times, but without
harmony; as the sound which a lute out of tune would yield to any man;
or in tune, to one that could not play. And yet in this wild ranging
of the mind, a man may oft-times perceive the way of it, and the
dependence of one thought upon another. For in a discourse of our
present civil war, what could seem more impertinent than to ask, as
one did, what was the value of a Roman penny? Yet the coherence to
me was manifest enough. For the thought of the war introduced the
thought of the delivering up the King to his enemies; the thought of
that brought in the thought of the delivering up of Christ; and that
again the thought of the 30 pence, which was the price of that
treason: and thence easily followed that malicious question; and all
this in a moment of time, for thought is quick.
The second is more constant, as being regulated by some desire and
design. For the impression made by such things as we desire, or
fear, is strong and permanent, or (if it cease for a time) of quick
return: so strong it is sometimes as to hinder and break our sleep.
From desire ariseth the thought of some means we have seen produce the
like of that which we aim at; and from the thought of that, the
thought of means to that mean; and so continually, till we come to
some beginning within our own power. And because the end, by the
greatness of the impression, comes often to mind, in case our thoughts
begin to wander they are quickly again reduced into the way: which,
observed by one of the seven wise men, made him give men this precept,
which is now worn out: respice finem; that is to say, in all your
actions, look often upon what you would have, as the thing that
directs all your thoughts in the way to attain it.
The train of regulated thoughts is of two kinds: one, when of an
effect imagined we seek the causes or means that produce it; and
this is common to man and beast. The other is, when imagining anything
whatsoever, we seek all the possible effects that can by it be
produced; that is to say, we imagine what we can do with it when we
have it. Of which I have not at any time seen any sign, but in man
only; for this is a curiosity hardly incident to the nature of any
living creature that has no other passion but sensual, such as are
hunger, thirst, lust, and anger. In sum, the discourse of the mind,
when it is governed by design, is nothing but seeking, or the
faculty of invention, which the Latins call sagacitas, and solertia; a
hunting out of the causes of some effect, present or past; or of the
effects of some present or past cause. Sometimes a man seeks what he
hath lost; and from that place, and time, wherein he misses it, his
mind runs back, from place to place, and time to time, to find where
and when he had it; that is to say, to find some certain and limited
time and place in which to begin a method of seeking. Again, from
thence, his thoughts run over the same places and times to find what
action or other occasion might make him lose it. This we call
remembrance, or calling to mind: the Latins call it reminiscentia,
as it were a re-conning of our former actions.
Sometimes a man knows a place determinate, within the compass
whereof he is to seek; and then his thoughts run over all the parts
thereof in the same manner as one would sweep a room to find a
jewel; or as a spaniel ranges the field till he find a scent; or as
a man should run over the alphabet to start a rhyme.
Sometimes a man desires to know the event of an action; and then
he thinketh of some like action past, and the events thereof one after
another, supposing like events will follow like actions. As he that
foresees what will become of a criminal re-cons what he has seen
follow on the like crime before, having this order of thoughts; the
crime, the officer, the prison, the judge, and the gallows. Which kind
of thoughts is called foresight, and prudence, or providence, and
sometimes wisdom; though such conjecture, through the difficulty of
observing all circumstances, be very fallacious. But this is
certain: by how much one man has more experience of things past than
another; by so much also he is more prudent, and his expectations
the seldomer fail him. The present only has a being in nature;
things past have a being in the memory only; but things to come have
no being at all, the future being but a fiction of the mind,
applying the sequels of actions past to the actions that are
present; which with most certainty is done by him that has most
experience, but not with certainty enough. And though it be called
prudence when the event answereth our expectation; yet in its own
nature it is but presumption. For the foresight of things to come,
which is providence, belongs only to him by whose will they are to
come. From him only, and supernaturally, proceeds prophecy. The best
prophet naturally is the best guesser; and the best guesser, he that
is most versed and studied in the matters he guesses at, for he hath
most signs to guess by.
A sign is the event antecedent of the consequent; and contrarily,
the consequent of the antecedent, when the like consequences have been
observed before: and the oftener they have been observed, the less
uncertain is the sign. And therefore he that has most experience in
any kind of business has most signs whereby to guess at the future
time, and consequently is the most prudent: and so much more prudent
than he that is new in that kind of business, as not to be equalled by
any advantage of natural and extemporary wit, though perhaps many
young men think the contrary.
Nevertheless, it is not prudence that distinguisheth man from beast.
There be beasts that at a year old observe more and pursue that
which is for their good more prudently than a child can do at ten.
As prudence is a presumption of the future, contracted from the
experience of time past: so there is a presumption of things past
taken from other things, not future, but past also. For he that hath
seen by what courses and degrees a flourishing state hath first come
into civil war, and then to ruin; upon the sight of the ruins of any
other state will guess the like war and the like courses have been
there also. But this conjecture has the same uncertainty almost with
the conjecture of the future, both being grounded only upon
experience.
There is no other act of man's mind, that I can remember,
naturally planted in him, so as to need no other thing to the exercise
of it but to be born a man, and live with the use of his five
senses. Those other faculties, of which I shall speak by and by, and
which seem proper to man only, are acquired and increased by study and
industry, and of most men learned by instruction and discipline, and
proceed all from the invention of words and speech. For besides sense,
and thoughts, and the train of thoughts, the mind of man has no
other motion; though by the help of speech, and method, the same
faculties may be improved to such a height as to distinguish men
from all other living creatures.
Whatsoever we imagine is finite. Therefore there is no idea or
conception of anything we call infinite. No man can have in his mind
an image of infinite magnitude; nor conceive infinite swiftness,
infinite time, or infinite force, or infinite power. When we say
anything is infinite, we signify only that we are not able to conceive
the ends and bounds of the thing named, having no conception of the
thing, but of our own inability. And therefore the name of God is
used, not to make us conceive Him (for He is incomprehensible, and His
greatness and power are unconceivable), but that we may honour Him.
Also because whatsoever, as I said before, we conceive has been
perceived first by sense, either all at once, or by parts, a man can
have no thought representing anything not subject to sense. No man
therefore can conceive anything, but he must conceive it in some
place; and endued with some determinate magnitude; and which may be
divided into parts; nor that anything is all in this place, and all in
another place at the same time; nor that two or more things can be
in one and the same place at once: for none of these things ever
have or can be incident to sense, but are absurd speeches, taken
upon credit, without any signification at all, from deceived
philosophers and deceived, or deceiving, Schoolmen.
CHAPTER IV
OF SPEECH
THE INVENTION of printing, though ingenious, compared with the
invention of letters is no great matter. But who was the first that
found the use of letters is not known. He that first brought them into
Greece, men say, was Cadmus, the son of Agenor, King of Phoenicia. A
profitable invention for continuing the memory of time past, and the
conjunction of mankind dispersed into so many and distant regions of
the earth; and withal difficult, as proceeding from a watchful
observation of the diverse motions of the tongue, palate, lips, and
other organs of speech; whereby to make as many differences of
characters to remember them. But the most noble and profitable
invention of all other was that of speech, consisting of names or
appellations, and their connexion; whereby men register their
thoughts, recall them when they are past, and also declare them one to
another for mutual utility and conversation; without which there had
been amongst men neither Commonwealth, nor society, nor contract,
nor peace, no more than amongst lions, bears, and wolves. The first
author of speech was God himself, that instructed Adam how to name
such creatures as He presented to his sight; for the Scripture goeth
no further in this matter. But this was sufficient to direct him to
add more names, as the experience and use of the creatures should give
him occasion; and to join them in such manner by degrees as to make
himself understood; and so by succession of time, so much language
might be gotten as he had found use for, though not so copious as an
orator or philosopher has need of. For I do not find anything in the
Scripture out of which, directly or by consequence, can be gathered
that Adam was taught the names of all figures, numbers, measures,
colours, sounds, fancies, relations; much less the names of words
and speech, as general, special, affirmative, negative, interrogative,
optative, infinitive, all which are useful; and least of all, of
entity, intentionality, quiddity, and other insignificant words of the
school.
But all this language gotten, and augmented by Adam and his
posterity, was again lost at the tower of Babel, when by the hand of
God every man was stricken for his rebellion with an oblivion of his
former language. And being hereby forced to disperse themselves into
several parts of the world, it must needs be that the diversity of
tongues that now is, proceeded by degrees from them in such manner
as need, the mother of all inventions, taught them, and in tract of
time grew everywhere more copious.
The general use of speech is to transfer our mental discourse into
verbal, or the train of our thoughts into a train of words, and that
for two commodities; whereof one is the registering of the
consequences of our thoughts, which being apt to slip out of our
memory and put us to a new labour, may again be recalled by such words
as they were marked by. So that the first use of names is to serve for
marks or notes of remembrance. Another is when many use the same words
to signify, by their connexion and order one to another, what they
conceive or think of each matter; and also what they desire, fear,
or have any other passion for. And for this use they are called signs.
Special uses of speech are these: first, to register what by
cogitation we find to be the cause of anything, present or past; and
what we find things present or past may produce, or effect; which,
in sum, is acquiring of arts. Secondly, to show to others that
knowledge which we have attained; which is to counsel and teach one
another. Thirdly, to make known to others our wills and purposes
that we may have the mutual help of one another. Fourthly, to please
and delight ourselves, and others, by playing with our words, for
pleasure or ornament, innocently.
To these uses, there are also four correspondent abuses. First, when
men register their thoughts wrong by the inconstancy of the
signification of their words; by which they register for their
conceptions that which they never conceived, and so deceive
themselves. Secondly, when they use words metaphorically; that is,
in other sense than that they are ordained for, and thereby deceive
others. Thirdly, when by words they declare that to be their will
which is not. Fourthly, when they use them to grieve one another:
for seeing nature hath armed living creatures, some with teeth, some
with horns, and some with hands, to grieve an enemy, it is but an
abuse of speech to grieve him with the tongue, unless it be one whom
we are obliged to govern; and then it is not to grieve, but to correct
and amend.
The manner how speech serveth to the remembrance of the
consequence of causes and effects consisteth in the imposing of names,
and the connexion of them.
Of names, some are proper, and singular to one only thing; as Peter,
John, this man, this tree: and some are common to many things; as man,
horse, tree; every of which, though but one name, is nevertheless
the name of diverse particular things; in respect of all which
together, it is called a universal, there being nothing in the world
universal but names; for the things named are every one of them
individual and singular.
One universal name is imposed on many things for their similitude in
some quality, or other accident: and whereas a proper name bringeth to
mind one thing only, universals recall any one of those many.
And of names universal, some are of more and some of less extent,
the larger comprehending the less large; and some again of equal
extent, comprehending each other reciprocally. As for example, the
name body is of larger signification than the word man, and
comprehendeth it; and the names man and rational are of equal
extent, comprehending mutually one another. But here we must take
notice that by a name is not always understood, as in grammar, one
only word, but sometimes by circumlocution many words together. For
all these words, He that in his actions observeth the laws of his
country, make but one name, equivalent to this one word, just.
By this imposition of names, some of larger, some of stricter
signification, we turn the reckoning of the consequences of things
imagined in the mind into a reckoning of the consequences of
appellations. For example, a man that hath no use of speech at all,
(such as is born and remains perfectly deaf and dumb), if he set
before his eyes a triangle, and by it two right angles (such as are
the corners of a square figure), he may by meditation compare and find
that the three angles of that triangle are equal to those two right
angles that stand by it. But if another triangle be shown him
different in shape from the former, he cannot know without a new
labour whether the three angles of that also be equal to the same. But
he that hath the use of words, when he observes that such equality was
consequent, not to the length of the sides, nor to any other
particular thing in his triangle; but only to this, that the sides
were straight, and the angles three, and that that was all, for
which he named it a triangle; will boldly conclude universally that
such equality of angles is in all triangles whatsoever, and register
his invention in these general terms: Every triangle hath its three
angles equal to two right angles. And thus the consequence found in
one particular comes to be registered and remembered as a universal
rule; and discharges our mental reckoning of time and place, and
delivers us from all labour of the mind, saving the first; and makes
that which was found true here, and now, to be true in all times and
places.
But the use of words in registering our thoughts is in nothing so
evident as in numbering. A natural fool that could never learn by
heart the order of numeral words, as one, two, and three, may
observe every stroke of the clock, and nod to it, or say one, one,
one, but can never know what hour it strikes. And it seems there was a
time when those names of number were not in use; and men were fain
to apply their fingers of one or both hands to those things they
desired to keep account of; and that thence it proceeded that now
our numeral words are but ten, in any nation, and in some but five,
and then they begin again. And he that can tell ten, if he recite them
out of order, will lose himself, and not know when he has done: much
less will he be able to add, and subtract, and perform all other
operations of arithmetic. So that without words there is no
possibility of reckoning of numbers; much less of magnitudes, of
swiftness, of force, and other things, the reckonings whereof are
necessary to the being or well-being of mankind.
When two names are joined together into a consequence, or
affirmation, as thus, A man is a living creature; or thus, If he be
a man, he is a living creature; if the latter name living creature
signify all that the former name man signifieth, then the affirmation,
or consequence, is true; otherwise false. For true and false are
attributes of speech, not of things. And where speech is not, there is
neither truth nor falsehood. Error there may be, as when we expect
that which shall not be, or suspect what has not been; but in
neither case can a man be charged with untruth.
Seeing then that truth consisteth in the right ordering of names
in our affirmations, a man that seeketh precise truth had need to
remember what every name he uses stands for, and to place it
accordingly; or else he will find himself entangled in words, as a
bird in lime twigs; the more he struggles, the more belimed. And
therefore in geometry (which is the only science that it hath
pleased God hitherto to bestow on mankind), men begin at settling
the significations of their words; which settling of significations,
they call definitions, and place them in the beginning of their
reckoning.
By this it appears how necessary it is for any man that aspires to
true knowledge to examine the definitions of former authors; and
either to correct them, where they are negligently set down, or to
make them himself. For the errors of definitions multiply
themselves, according as the reckoning proceeds, and lead men into
absurdities, which at last they see, but cannot avoid, without
reckoning anew from the beginning; in which lies the foundation of
their errors. From whence it happens that they which trust to books do
as they that cast up many little sums into a greater, without
considering whether those little sums were rightly cast up or not; and
at last finding the error visible, and not mistrusting their first
grounds, know not which way to clear themselves, spend time in
fluttering over their books; as birds that entering by the chimney,
and finding themselves enclosed in a chamber, flutter at the false
light of a glass window, for want of wit to consider which way they
came in. So that in the right definition of names lies the first use
of speech; which is the acquisition of science: and in wrong, or no
definitions, lies the first abuse; from which proceed all false and
senseless tenets; which make those men that take their instruction
from the authority of books, and not from their own meditation, to
be as much below the condition of ignorant men as men endued with true
science are above it. For between true science and erroneous
doctrines, ignorance is in the middle. Natural sense and imagination
are not subject to absurdity. Nature itself cannot err: and as men
abound in copiousness of language; so they become more wise, or more
mad, than ordinary. Nor is it possible without letters for any man
to become either excellently wise or (unless his memory be hurt by
disease, or ill constitution of organs) excellently foolish. For words
are wise men's counters; they do but reckon by them: but they are
the money of fools, that value them by the authority of an
Aristotle, a Cicero, or a Thomas, or any other doctor whatsoever, if
but a man.
Subject to names is whatsoever can enter into or be considered in an
account, and be added one to another to make a sum, or subtracted
one from another and leave a remainder. The Latins called accounts
of money rationes, and accounting, ratiocinatio: and that which we
in bills or books of account call items, they called nomina; that
is, names: and thence it seems to proceed that they extended the
word ratio to the faculty of reckoning in all other things. The Greeks
have but one word, logos, for both speech and reason; not that they
thought there was no speech without reason, but no reasoning without
speech; and the act of reasoning they called syllogism; which
signifieth summing up of the consequences of one saying to another.
And because the same things may enter into account for diverse
accidents, their names are (to show that diversity) diversely
wrested and diversified. This diversity of names may be reduced to
four general heads.
First, a thing may enter into account for matter, or body; as
living, sensible, rational, hot, cold, moved, quiet; with all which
names the word matter, or body, is understood; all such being names of
matter.
Secondly, it may enter into account, or be considered, for some
accident or quality which we conceive to be in it; as for being moved,
for being so long, for being hot, etc.; and then, of the name of the
thing itself, by a little change or wresting, we make a name for
that accident which we consider; and for living put into the account
life; for moved, motion; for hot, heat; for long, length, and the
like: and all such names are the names of the accidents and properties
by which one matter and body is distinguished from another. These
are called names abstract, because severed, not from matter, but
from the account of matter.
Thirdly, we bring into account the properties of our own bodies,
whereby we make such distinction: as when anything is seen by us, we
reckon not the thing itself, but the sight, the colour, the idea of it
in the fancy; and when anything is heard, we reckon it not, but the
hearing or sound only, which is our fancy or conception of it by the
ear: and such are names of fancies.
Fourthly, we bring into account, consider, and give names, to
names themselves, and to speeches: for, general, universal, special,
equivocal, are names of names. And affirmation, interrogation,
commandment, narration, syllogism, sermon, oration, and many other
such are names of speeches. And this is all the variety of names
positive; which are put to mark somewhat which is in nature, or may be
feigned by the mind of man, as bodies that are, or may be conceived to
be; or of bodies, the properties that are, or may be feigned to be; or
words and speech.
There be also other names, called negative; which are notes to
signify that a word is not the name of the thing in question; as these
words: nothing, no man, infinite, indocible, three want four, and
the like; which are nevertheless of use in reckoning, or in correcting
of reckoning, and call to mind our past cogitations, though they be
not names of anything; because they make us refuse to admit of names
not rightly used.
All other names are but insignificant sounds; and those of two
sorts. One, when they are new, and yet their meaning not explained
by definition; whereof there have been abundance coined by Schoolmen
and puzzled philosophers.
Another, when men make a name of two names, whose significations are
contradictory and inconsistent; as this name, an incorporeal body, or,
which is all one, an incorporeal substance, and a great number more.
For whensoever any affirmation is false, the two names of which it
is composed, put together and made one, signify nothing at all. For
example, if it be a false affirmation to say a quadrangle is round,
the word round quadrangle signifies nothing, but is a mere sound. So
likewise if it be false to say that virtue can be poured, or blown
up and down, the words inpoured virtue, inblown virtue, are as
absurd and insignificant as a round quadrangle. And therefore you
shall hardly meet with a senseless and insignificant word that is
not made up of some Latin or Greek names. Frenchman seldom hears our
Saviour called by the name of Parole, but by the name of Verbe
often; yet Verbe and Parole differ no more but that one is Latin,
the other French.
When a man, upon the hearing of any speech, hath those thoughts
which the words of that speech, and their connexion, were ordained and
constituted to signify, then he is said to understand it:
understanding being nothing else but conception caused by speech.
And therefore if speech be peculiar to man, as for ought I know it is,
then is understanding peculiar to him also. And therefore of absurd
and false affirmations, in case they be universal, there can be no
understanding; though many think they understand then, when they do
but repeat the words softly, or con them in their mind.
What kinds of speeches signify the appetites, aversions, and
passions of man's mind, and of their use and abuse, I shall speak when
I have spoken of the passions.
The names of such things as affect us, that is, which please and
displease us, because all men be not alike affected with the same
thing, nor the same man at all times, are in the common discourses
of men of inconstant signification. For seeing all names are imposed
to signify our conceptions, and all our affections are but
conceptions; when we conceive the same things differently, we can
hardly avoid different naming of them. For though the nature of that
we conceive be the same; yet the diversity of our reception of it,
in respect of different constitutions of body and prejudices of
opinion, gives everything a tincture of our different passions. And
therefore in reasoning, a man must take heed of words; which,
besides the signification of what we imagine of their nature, have a
signification also of the nature, disposition, and interest of the
speaker; such as are the names of virtues and vices: for one man
calleth wisdom what another calleth fear; and one cruelty what another
justice; one prodigality what another magnanimity; and one gravity
what another stupidity, etc. And therefore such names can never be
true grounds of any ratiocination. No more can metaphors and tropes of
speech: but these are less dangerous because they profess their
inconstancy, which the other do not.
CHAPTER V
OF REASON AND SCIENCE
WHEN man reasoneth, he does nothing else but conceive a sum total,
from addition of parcels; or conceive a remainder, from subtraction of
one sum from another: which, if it be done by words, is conceiving
of the consequence of the names of all the parts, to the name of the
whole; or from the names of the whole and one part, to the name of the
other part. And though in some things, as in numbers, besides adding
and subtracting, men name other operations, as multiplying and
dividing; yet they are the same: for multiplication is but adding
together of things equal; and division, but subtracting of one
thing, as often as we can. These operations are not incident to
numbers only, but to all manner of things that can be added
together, and taken one out of another. For as arithmeticians teach to
add and subtract in numbers, so the geometricians teach the same in
lines, figures (solid and superficial), angles, proportions, times,
degrees of swiftness, force, power, and the like; the logicians
teach the same in consequences of words, adding together two names
to make an affirmation, and two affirmations to make a syllogism,
and many syllogisms to make a demonstration; and from the sum, or
conclusion of a syllogism, they subtract one proposition to find the
other. Writers of politics add together pactions to find men's duties;
and lawyers, laws and facts to find what is right and wrong in the
actions of private men. In sum, in what matter soever there is place
for addition and subtraction, there also is place for reason; and
where these have no place, there reason has nothing at all to do.
Out of all which we may define (that is to say determine) what
that is which is meant by this word reason when we reckon it amongst
the faculties of the mind. For reason, in this sense, is nothing but
reckoning (that is, adding and subtracting) of the consequences of
general names agreed upon for the marking and signifying of our
thoughts; I say marking them, when we reckon by ourselves; and
signifying, when we demonstrate or approve our reckonings to other
men.
And as in arithmetic unpractised men must, and professors themselves
may often, err, and cast up false; so also in any other subject of
reasoning, the ablest, most attentive, and most practised men may
deceive themselves, and infer false conclusions; not but that reason
itself is always right reason, as well as arithmetic is a certain
and infallible art: but no one man's reason, nor the reason of any one
number of men, makes the certainty; no more than an account is
therefore well cast up because a great many men have unanimously
approved it. And therefore, as when there is a controversy in an
account, the parties must by their own accord set up for right
reason the reason of some arbitrator, or judge, to whose sentence they
will both stand, or their controversy must either come to blows, or be
undecided, for want of a right reason constituted by Nature; so is
it also in all debates of what kind soever: and when men that think
themselves wiser than all others clamour and demand right reason for
judge, yet seek no more but that things should be determined by no
other men's reason but their own, it is as intolerable in the
society of men, as it is in play after trump is turned to use for
trump on every occasion that suit whereof they have most in their
hand. For they do nothing else, that will have every of their
passions, as it comes to bear sway in them, to be taken for right
reason, and that in their own controversies: bewraying their want of
right reason by the claim they lay to it.
The use and end of reason is not the finding of the sum and truth of
one, or a few consequences, remote from the first definitions and
settled significations of names; but to begin at these, and proceed
from one consequence to another. For there can be no certainty of
the last conclusion without a certainty of all those affirmations
and negations on which it was grounded and inferred. As when a
master of a family, in taking an account, casteth up the sums of all
the bills of expense into one sum; and not regarding how each bill
is summed up, by those that give them in account, nor what it is he
pays for, he advantages himself no more than if he allowed the account
in gross, trusting to every of the accountant's skill and honesty:
so also in reasoning of all other things, he that takes up conclusions
on the trust of authors, and doth not fetch them from the first
items in every reckoning (which are the significations of names
settled by definitions), loses his labour, and does not know anything,
but only believeth.
When a man reckons without the use of words, which may be done in
particular things, as when upon the sight of any one thing, we
conjecture what was likely to have preceded, or is likely to follow
upon it; if that which he thought likely to follow follows not, or
that which he thought likely to have preceded it hath not preceded it,
this is called error; to which even the most prudent men are
subject. But when we reason in words of general signification, and
fall upon a general inference which is false; though it be commonly
called error, it is indeed an absurdity, or senseless speech. For
error is but a deception, in presuming that somewhat is past, or to
come; of which, though it were not past, or not to come, yet there was
no impossibility discoverable. But when we make a general assertion,
unless it be a true one, the possibility of it is inconceivable. And
words whereby we conceive nothing but the sound are those we call
absurd, insignificant, and nonsense. And therefore if a man should
talk to me of a round quadrangle; or accidents of bread in cheese;
or immaterial substances; or of a free subject; a free will; or any
free but free from being hindered by opposition; I should not say he
were in an error, but that his words were without meaning; that is
to say, absurd.
I have said before, in the second chapter, that a man did excel
all other animals in this faculty, that when he conceived anything
whatsoever, he was apt to enquire the consequences of it, and what
effects he could do with it. And now I add this other degree of the
same excellence, that he can by words reduce the consequences he finds
to general rules, called theorems, or aphorisms; that is, he can
reason, or reckon, not only in number, but in all other things whereof
one may be added unto or subtracted from another.
But this privilege is allayed by another; and that is by the
privilege of absurdity, to which no living creature is subject, but
men only. And of men, those are of all most subject to it that profess
philosophy. For it is most true that Cicero saith of them somewhere;
that there can be nothing so absurd but may be found in the books of
philosophers. And the reason is manifest. For there is not one of them
that begins his ratiocination from the definitions or explications
of the names they are to use; which is a method that hath been used
only in geometry, whose conclusions have thereby been made
indisputable.
1. The first cause of absurd conclusions I ascribe to the want of
method; in that they begin not their ratiocination from definitions;
that is, from settled significations of their words: as if they
could cast account without knowing the value of the numeral words,
one, two, and three.
And whereas all bodies enter into account upon diverse
considerations, which I have mentioned in the precedent chapter, these
considerations being diversely named, diverse absurdities proceed from
the confusion and unfit connexion of their names into assertions.
And therefore,
2. The second cause of absurd assertions, I ascribe to the giving of
names of bodies to accidents; or of accidents to bodies; as they do
that say, faith is infused, or inspired; when nothing can be poured,
or breathed into anything, but body; and that extension is body;
that phantasms are spirits, etc.
3. The third I ascribe to the giving of the names of the accidents
of bodies without us to the accidents of our own bodies; as they do
that say, the colour is in the body; the sound is in the air, etc.
4. The fourth, to the giving of the names of bodies to names, or
speeches; as they do that say that there be things universal; that a
living creature is genus, or a general thing, etc.
5. The fifth, to the giving of the names of accidents to names and
speeches; as they do that say, the nature of a thing is its
definition; a man's command is his will; and the like.
6. The sixth, to the use of metaphors, tropes, and other
rhetorical figures, instead of words proper. For though it be lawful
to say, for example, in common speech, the way goeth, or leadeth
hither, or thither; the proverb says this or that (whereas ways cannot
go, nor proverbs speak); yet in reckoning, and seeking of truth,
such speeches are not to be admitted.
7. The seventh, to names that signify nothing, but are taken up
and learned by rote from the Schools, as hypostatical,
transubstantiate, consubstantiate, eternal-now, and the like canting
of Schoolmen.
To him that can avoid these things, it is not easy to fall into
any absurdity, unless it be by the length of an account; wherein he
may perhaps forget what went before. For all men by nature reason
alike, and well, when they have good principles. For who is so
stupid as both to mistake in geometry, and also to persist in it, when
another detects his error to him?
By this it appears that reason is not, as sense and memory, born
with us; nor gotten by experience only, as prudence is; but attained
by industry: first in apt imposing of names; and secondly by getting a
good and orderly method in proceeding from the elements, which are
names, to assertions made by connexion of one of them to another;
and so to syllogisms, which are the connexions of one assertion to
another, till we come to a knowledge of all the consequences of
names appertaining to the subject in hand; and that is it, men call
science. And whereas sense and memory are but knowledge of fact, which
is a thing past and irrevocable, science is the knowledge of
consequences, and dependence of one fact upon another; by which, out
of that we can presently do, we know how to do something else when
we will, or the like, another time: because when we see how anything
comes about, upon what causes, and by what manner; when the like
causes come into our power, we see how to make it produce the like
effects.
Children therefore are not endued with reason at all, till they have
attained the use of speech, but are called reasonable creatures for
the possibility apparent of having the use of reason in time to
come. And the most part of men, though they have the use of
reasoning a little way, as in numbering to some degree; yet it
serves them to little use in common life, in which they govern
themselves, some better, some worse, according to their differences of
experience, quickness of memory, and inclinations to several ends; but
specially according to good or evil fortune, and the errors of one
another. For as for science, or certain rules of their actions, they
are so far from it that they know not what it is. Geometry they have
thought conjuring: but for other sciences, they who have not been
taught the beginnings, and some progress in them, that they may see
how they be acquired and generated, are in this point like children
that, having no thought of generation, are made believe by the women
that their brothers and sisters are not born, but found in the garden.
But yet they that have no science are in better and nobler condition
with their natural prudence than men that, by misreasoning, or by
trusting them that reason wrong, fall upon false and absurd general
rules. For ignorance of causes, and of rules, does not set men so
far out of their way as relying on false rules, and taking for
causes of what they aspire to, those that are not so, but rather
causes of the contrary.
To conclude, the light of humane minds is perspicuous words, but
by exact definitions first snuffed, and purged from ambiguity;
reason is the pace; increase of science, the way; and the benefit of
mankind, the end. And, on the contrary, metaphors, and senseless and
ambiguous words are like ignes fatui; and reasoning upon them is
wandering amongst innumerable absurdities; and their end, contention
and sedition, or contempt.
As much experience is prudence, so is much science sapience. For
though we usually have one name of wisdom for them both; yet the
Latins did always distinguish between prudentia and sapientia;
ascribing the former to experience, the latter to science. But to make
their difference appear more clearly, let us suppose one man endued
with an excellent natural use and dexterity in handling his arms;
and another to have added to that dexterity an acquired science of
where he can offend, or be offended by his adversary, in every
possible posture or guard: the ability of the former would be to the
ability of the latter, as prudence to sapience; both useful, but the
latter infallible. But they that, trusting only to the authority of
books, follow the blind blindly, are like him that, trusting to the
false rules of a master of fence, ventures presumptuously upon an
adversary that either kills or disgraces him.
The signs of science are some certain and infallible; some,
uncertain. Certain, when he that pretendeth the science of anything
can teach the same; that is to say, demonstrate the truth thereof
perspicuously to another: uncertain, when only some particular
events answer to his pretence, and upon many occasions prove so as
he says they must. Signs of prudence are all uncertain; because to
observe by experience, and remember all circumstances that may alter
the success, is impossible. But in any business, whereof a man has not
infallible science to proceed by, to forsake his own natural judgment,
and be guided by general sentences read in authors, and subject to
many exceptions, is a sign of folly, and generally scorned by the name
of pedantry. And even of those men themselves that in councils of
the Commonwealth love to show their reading of politics and history,
very few do it in their domestic affairs where their particular
interest is concerned, having prudence enough for their private
affairs; but in public they study more the reputation of their own wit
than the success of another's business.
CHAPTER VI
OF THE INTERIOR BEGINNINGS OF VOLUNTARY MOTIONS,
COMMONLY CALLED THE PASSIONS;
AND THE SPEECHES BY WHICH THEY ARE EXPRESSED
THERE be in animals two sorts of motions peculiar to them: One
called vital, begun in generation, and continued without
interruption through their whole life; such as are the course of the
blood, the pulse, the breathing, the concoction, nutrition, excretion,
etc.; to which motions there needs no help of imagination: the other
is animal motion, otherwise called voluntary motion; as to go, to
speak, to move any of our limbs, in such manner as is first fancied in
our minds. That sense is motion in the organs and interior parts of
man's body, caused by the action of the things we see, hear, etc., and
that fancy is but the relics of the same motion, remaining after
sense, has been already said in the first and second chapters. And
because going, speaking, and the like voluntary motions depend
always upon a precedent thought of whither, which way, and what, it is
evident that the imagination is the first internal beginning of all
voluntary motion. And although unstudied men do not conceive any
motion at all to be there, where the thing moved is invisible, or
the space it is moved in is, for the shortness of it, insensible;
yet that doth not hinder but that such motions are. For let a space be
never so little, that which is moved over a greater space, whereof
that little one is part, must first be moved over that. These small
beginnings of motion within the body of man, before they appear in
walking, speaking, striking, and other visible actions, are commonly
called endeavour.
This endeavour, when it is toward something which causes it, is
called appetite, or desire, the latter being the general name, and the
other oftentimes restrained to signify the desire of food, namely
hunger and thirst. And when the endeavour is from ward something, it
is generally called aversion. These words appetite and aversion we
have from the Latins; and they both of them signify the motions, one
of approaching, the other of retiring. So also do the Greek words
for the same, which are orme and aphorme. For Nature itself does often
press upon men those truths which afterwards, when they look for
somewhat beyond Nature, they stumble at. For the Schools find in
mere appetite to go, or move, no actual motion at all; but because
some motion they must acknowledge, they call it metaphorical motion,
which is but an absurd speech; for though words may be called
metaphorical, bodies and motions cannot.
That which men desire they are said to love, and to hate those
things for which they have aversion. So that desire and love are the
same thing; save that by desire, we signify the absence of the object;
by love, most commonly the presence of the same. So also by
aversion, we signify the absence; and by hate, the presence of the
object.
Of appetites and aversions, some are born with men; as appetite of
food, appetite of excretion, and exoneration (which may also and
more properly be called aversions, from somewhat they feel in their
bodies), and some other appetites, not many. The rest, which are
appetites of particular things, proceed from experience and trial of
their effects upon themselves or other men. For of things we know
not at all, or believe not to be, we can have no further desire than
to taste and try. But aversion we have for things, not only which we
know have hurt us, but also that we do not know whether they will hurt
us, or not.
Those things which we neither desire nor hate, we are said to
contemn: contempt being nothing else but an immobility or contumacy of
the heart in resisting the action of certain things; and proceeding
from that the heart is already moved otherwise, by other more potent
objects, or from want of experience of them.
And because the constitution of a man's body is in continual
mutation, it is impossible that all the same things should always
cause in him the same appetites and aversions: much less can all men
consent in the desire of almost any one and the same object.
But whatsoever is the object of any man's appetite or desire, that
is it which he for his part calleth good; and the object of his hate
and aversion, evil; and of his contempt, vile and inconsiderable.
For these words of good, evil, and contemptible are ever used with
relation to the person that useth them: there being nothing simply and
absolutely so; nor any common rule of good and evil to be taken from
the nature of the objects themselves; but from the person of the
man, where there is no Commonwealth; or, in a Commonwealth, from the
person that representeth it; or from an arbitrator or judge, whom
men disagreeing shall by consent set up and make his sentence the rule
thereof.
The Latin tongue has two words whose significations approach to
those of good and evil, but are not precisely the same; and those
are pulchrum and turpe. Whereof the former signifies that which by
some apparent signs promiseth good; and the latter, that which
promiseth evil. But in our tongue we have not so general names to
express them by. But for pulchrum we say in some things, fair; in
others, beautiful, or handsome, or gallant, or honourable, or
comely, or amiable: and for turpe; foul, deformed, ugly, base,
nauseous, and the like, as the subject shall require; all which words,
in their proper places, signify nothing else but the mien, or
countenance, that promiseth good and evil. So that of good there be
three kinds: good in the promise, that is pulchrum; good in effect, as
the end desired, which is called jucundum, delightful; and good as the
means, which is called utile, profitable; and as many of evil: for
evil in promise is that they call turpe; evil in effect and end is
molestum, unpleasant, troublesome; and evil in the means, inutile,
unprofitable, hurtful.
As in sense that which is really within us is, as I have said
before, only motion, caused by the action of external objects but in
appearance; to the sight, light and colour; to the ear, sound; to
the nostril, odour, etc.: so, when the action of the same object is
continued from the eyes, ears, and other organs to the heart, the real
effect there is nothing but motion, or endeavour; which consisteth
in appetite or aversion to or from the object moving. But the
appearance or sense of that motion is that we either call delight or
trouble of mind.
This motion, which is called appetite, and for the appearance of
it delight and pleasure, seemeth to be a corroboration of vital
motion, and a help thereunto; and therefore such things as caused
delight were not improperly called jucunda (a juvando), from helping
or fortifying; and the contrary, molesta, offensive, from hindering
and troubling the motion vital.
Pleasure therefore, or delight, is the appearance or sense of
good; and molestation or displeasure, the appearance or sense of evil.
And consequently all appetite, desire, and love is accompanied with
some delight more or less; and all hatred and aversion with more or
less displeasure and offence.
Of pleasures, or delights, some arise from the sense of an object
present; and those may be called pleasures of sense (the word sensual,
as it is used by those only that condemn them, having no place till
there be laws). Of this kind are all onerations and exonerations of
the body; as also all that is pleasant, in the sight, hearing,
smell, taste, or touch. Others arise from the expectation that
proceeds from foresight of the end or consequence of things, whether
those things in the sense please or displease: and these are pleasures
of the mind of him that draweth in those consequences, and are
generally called joy. In the like manner, displeasures are some in the
sense, and called pain; others, in the expectation of consequences,
and are called grief.
These simple passions called appetite, desire, love, aversion, hate,
joy, and grief have their names for diverse considerations
diversified. At first, when they one succeed another, they are
diversely called from the opinion men have of the likelihood of
attaining what they desire. Secondly, from the object loved or
hated. Thirdly, from the consideration of many of them together.
Fourthly, from the alteration or succession itself.
For appetite with an opinion of attaining is called hope.
The same, without such opinion, despair.
Aversion, with opinion of hurt from the object, fear.
The same, with hope of avoiding that hurt by resistence, courage.
Sudden courage, anger.
Constant hope, confidence of ourselves.
Constant despair, diffidence of ourselves.
Anger for great hurt done to another, when we conceive the same to
be done by injury, indignation.
Desire of good to another, benevolence, good will, charity. If to
man generally, good nature.
Desire of riches, covetousness: a name used always in
signification of blame, because men contending for them are displeased
with one another's attaining them; though the desire in itself be to
be blamed, or allowed, according to the means by which those riches
are sought.
Desire of office, or precedence, ambition: a name used also in the
worse sense, for the reason before mentioned.
Desire of things that conduce but a little to our ends, and fear
of things that are but of little hindrance, pusillanimity.
Contempt of little helps, and hindrances, magnanimity.
Magnanimity in danger of death, or wounds, valour, fortitude.
Magnanimity in the use of riches, liberality.
Pusillanimity in the same, wretchedness, miserableness, or
parsimony, as it is liked, or disliked.
Love of persons for society, kindness.
Love of persons for pleasing the sense only, natural lust.
Love of the same acquired from rumination, that is, imagination of
pleasure past, luxury.
Love of one singularly, with desire to be singularly beloved, the
passion of love. The same, with fear that the love is not mutual,
jealousy.
Desire by doing hurt to another to make him condemn some fact of his
own, revengefulness.
Desire to know why, and how, curiosity; such as is in no living
creature but man: so that man is distinguished, not only by his
reason, but also by this singular passion from other animals; in
whom the appetite of food, and other pleasures of sense, by
predominance, take away the care of knowing causes; which is a lust of
the mind, that by a perseverance of delight in the continual and
indefatigable generation of knowledge, exceedeth the short vehemence
of any carnal pleasure.
Fear of power invisible, feigned by the mind, or imagined from tales
publicly allowed, religion; not allowed, superstition. And when the
power imagined is truly such as we imagine, true religion.
Fear without the apprehension of why, or what, panic terror;
called so from the fables that make Pan the author of them; whereas in
truth there is always in him that so feareth, first, some apprehension
of the cause, though the rest run away by example; every one supposing
his fellow to know why. And therefore this passion happens to none but
in a throng, or multitude of people.
Joy from apprehension of novelty, admiration; proper to man, because
it excites the appetite of knowing the cause.
Joy arising from imagination of a man's own power and ability is
that exultation of the mind which is called glorying: which, if
grounded upon the experience of his own former actions, is the same
with confidence: but if grounded on the flattery of others, or only
supposed by himself, for delight in the consequences of it, is
called vainglory: which name is properly given; because a
well-grounded confidence begetteth attempt; whereas the supposing of
power does not, and is therefore rightly called vain.
Grief, from opinion of want of power, is called dejection of mind.
The vainglory which consisteth in the feigning or supposing of
abilities in ourselves, which we know are not, is most incident to
young men, and nourished by the histories or fictions of gallant
persons; and is corrected oftentimes by age and employment.
Sudden glory is the passion which maketh those grimaces called
laughter; and is caused either by some sudden act of their own that
pleaseth them; or by the apprehension of some deformed thing in
another, by comparison whereof they suddenly applaud themselves. And
it is incident most to them that are conscious of the fewest abilities
in themselves; who are forced to keep themselves in their own favour
by observing the imperfections of other men. And therefore much
laughter at the defects of others is a sign of pusillanimity. For of
great minds one of the proper works is to help and free others from
scorn, and compare themselves only with the most able.
On the contrary, sudden dejection is the passion that causeth
weeping; and is caused by such accidents as suddenly take away some
vehement hope, or some prop of their power: and they are most
subject to it that rely principally on helps external, such as are
women and children. Therefore, some weep for the loss of friends;
others for their unkindness; others for the sudden stop made to
their thoughts of revenge, by reconciliation. But in all cases, both
laughter and weeping are sudden motions, custom taking them both away.
For no man laughs at old jests, or weeps for an old calamity.
Grief for the discovery of some defect of ability is shame, or the
passion that discovereth itself in blushing, and consisteth in the
apprehension of something dishonourable; and in young men is a sign of
the love of good reputation, and commendable: in old men it is a
sign of the same; but because it comes too late, not commendable.
The contempt of good reputation is called impudence.
Grief for the calamity of another is pity; and ariseth from the
imagination that the like calamity may befall himself; and therefore
is called also compassion, and in the phrase of this present time a
fellow-feeling: and therefore for calamity arriving from great
wickedness, the best men have the least pity; and for the same
calamity, those have least pity that think themselves least
obnoxious to the same.
Contempt, or little sense of the calamity of others, is that which
men call cruelty; proceeding from security of their own fortune.
For, that any man should take pleasure in other men's great harms,
without other end of his own, I do not conceive it possible.
Grief for the success of a competitor in wealth, honour, or other
good, if it be joined with endeavour to enforce our own abilities to
equal or exceed him, is called emulation: but joined with endeavour to
supplant or hinder a competitor, envy.
When in the mind of man appetites and aversions, hopes and fears,
concerning one and the same thing, arise alternately; and diverse good
and evil consequences of the doing or omitting the thing propounded
come successively into our thoughts; so that sometimes we have an
appetite to it, sometimes an aversion from it; sometimes hope to be
able to do it, sometimes despair, or fear to attempt it; the whole sum
of desires, aversions, hopes and fears, continued till the thing be
either done, or thought impossible, is that we call deliberation.
Therefore of things past there is no deliberation, because
manifestly impossible to be changed; nor of things known to be
impossible, or thought so; because men know or think such deliberation
vain. But of things impossible, which we think possible, we may
deliberate, not knowing it is in vain. And it is called
deliberation; because it is a putting an end to the liberty we had
of doing, or omitting, according to our own appetite, or aversion.
This alternate succession of appetites, aversions, hopes and fears
is no less in other living creatures than in man; and therefore beasts
also deliberate.
Every deliberation is then said to end when that whereof they
deliberate is either done or thought impossible; because till then
we retain the liberty of doing, or omitting, according to our
appetite, or aversion.
In deliberation, the last appetite, or aversion, immediately
adhering to the action, or to the omission thereof, is that we call
the will; the act, not the faculty, of willing. And beasts that have
deliberation must necessarily also have will. The definition of the
will, given commonly by the Schools, that it is a rational appetite,
is not good. For if it were, then could there be no voluntary act
against reason. For a voluntary act is that which proceedeth from
the will, and no other. But if instead of a rational appetite, we
shall say an appetite resulting from a precedent deliberation, then
the definition is the same that I have given here. Will, therefore, is
the last appetite in deliberating. And though we say in common
discourse, a man had a will once to do a thing, that nevertheless he
forbore to do; yet that is properly but an inclination, which makes no
action voluntary; because the action depends not of it, but of the
last inclination, or appetite. For if the intervenient appetites
make any action voluntary, then by the same reason all intervenient
aversions should make the same action involuntary; and so one and
the same action should be both voluntary and involuntary.
By this it is manifest that, not only actions that have their
beginning from covetousness, ambition, lust, or other appetites to the
thing propounded, but also those that have their beginning from
aversion, or fear of those consequences that follow the omission,
are voluntary actions.
The forms of speech by which the passions are expressed are partly
the same and partly different from those by which we express our
thoughts. And first generally all passions may be expressed
indicatively; as, I love, I fear, I joy, I deliberate, I will, I
command: but some of them have particular expressions by themselves,
which nevertheless are not affirmations, unless it be when they
serve to make other inferences besides that of the passion they
proceed from. Deliberation is expressed subjunctively; which is a
speech proper to signify suppositions, with their consequences; as, If
this be done, then this will follow; and differs not from the language
of reasoning, save that reasoning is in general words, but
deliberation for the most part is of particulars. The language of
desire, and aversion, is imperative; as, Do this, forbear that;
which when the party is obliged to do, or forbear, is command;
otherwise prayer; or else counsel. The language of vainglory, of
indignation, pity and revengefulness, optative: but of the desire to
know, there is a peculiar expression called interrogative; as, What is
it, when shall it, how is it done, and why so? Other language of the
passions I find none: for cursing, swearing, reviling, and the like do
not signify as speech, but as the actions of a tongue accustomed.
These forms of speech, I say, are expressions or voluntary
significations of our passions: but certain signs they be not; because
they may be used arbitrarily, whether they that use them have such
passions or not. The best signs of passions present are either in
the countenance, motions of the body, actions, and ends, or aims,
which we otherwise know the man to have.
And because in deliberation the appetites and aversions are raised
by foresight of the good and evil consequences, and sequels of the
action whereof we deliberate, the good or evil effect thereof
dependeth on the foresight of a long chain of consequences, of which
very seldom any man is able to see to the end. But for so far as a man
seeth, if the good in those consequences be greater than the evil, the
whole chain is that which writers call apparent or seeming good. And
contrarily, when the evil exceedeth the good, the whole is apparent or
seeming evil: so that he who hath by experience, or reason, the
greatest and surest prospect of consequences, deliberates best
himself; and is able, when he will, to give the best counsel unto
others.
Continual success in obtaining those things which a man from time to
time desireth, that is to say, continual prospering, is that men
call felicity; I mean the felicity of this life. For there is no
such thing as perpetual tranquillity of mind, while we live here;
because life itself is but motion, and can never be without desire,
nor without fear, no more than without sense. What kind of felicity
God hath ordained to them that devoutly honour him, a man shall no
sooner know than enjoy; being joys that now are as incomprehensible as
the word of Schoolmen, beatifical vision, is unintelligible.
The form of speech whereby men signify their opinion of the goodness
of anything is praise. That whereby they signify the power and
greatness of anything is magnifying. And that whereby they signify the
opinion they have of a man's felicity is by the Greeks called
makarismos, for which we have no name in our tongue. And thus much
is sufficient for the present purpose to have been said of the
passions.
CHAPTER VII
OF THE ENDS OR RESOLUTIONS OF DISCOURSE
OF ALL discourse governed by desire of knowledge, there is at last
an end, either by attaining or by giving over. And in the chain of
discourse, wheresoever it be interrupted, there is an end for that
time.
If the discourse be merely mental, it consisteth of thoughts that
the thing will be, and will not be; or that it has been, and has not
been, alternately. So that wheresoever you break off the chain of a
man's discourse, you leave him in a presumption of it will be, or,
it will not be; or it has been, or, has not been. All which is
opinion. And that which is alternate appetite, in deliberating
concerning good and evil, the same is alternate opinion in the enquiry
of the truth of past and future. And as the last appetite in
deliberation is called the will, so the last opinion in search of
the truth of past and future is called the judgement, or resolute
and final sentence of him that discourseth. And as the whole chain
of appetites alternate in the question of good or bad is called
deliberation; so the whole chain of opinions alternate in the question
of true or false is called doubt.
No discourse whatsoever can end in absolute knowledge of fact,
past or to come. For, as for the knowledge of fact, it is originally
sense, and ever after memory. And for the knowledge of consequence,
which I have said before is called science, it is not absolute, but
conditional. No man can know by discourse that this, or that, is,
has been, or will be; which is to know absolutely: but only that if
this be, that is; if this has been, that has been; if this shall be,
that shall be; which is to know conditionally: and that not the
consequence of one thing to another, but of one name of a thing to
another name of the same thing.
And therefore, when the discourse is put into speech, and begins
with the definitions of words, and proceeds by connexion of the same
into general affirmations, and of these again into syllogisms, the end
or last sum is called the conclusion; and the thought of the mind by
it signified is that conditional knowledge, or knowledge of the
consequence of words, which is commonly called science. But if the
first ground of such discourse be not definitions, or if the
definitions be not rightly joined together into syllogisms, then the
end or conclusion is again opinion, namely of the truth of somewhat
said, though sometimes in absurd and senseless words, without
possibility of being understood. When two or more men know of one
and the same fact, they are said to be conscious of it one to another;
which is as much as to know it together. And because such are
fittest witnesses of the facts of one another, or of a third, it was
and ever will be reputed a very evil act for any man to speak
against his conscience; or to corrupt or force another so to do:
insomuch that the plea of conscience has been always hearkened unto
very diligently in all times. Afterwards, men made use of the same
word metaphorically for the knowledge of their own secret facts and
secret thoughts; and therefore it is rhetorically said that the
conscience is a thousand witnesses. And last of all, men, vehemently
in love with their own new opinions, though never so absurd, and
obstinately bent to maintain them, gave those their opinions also that
reverenced name of conscience, as if they would have it seem
unlawful to change or speak against them; and so pretend to know
they are true, when they know at most but that they think so.
When a man's discourse beginneth not at definitions, it beginneth
either at some other contemplation of his own, and then it is still
called opinion, or it beginneth at some saying of another, of whose
ability to know the truth, and of whose honesty in not deceiving, he
doubteth not; and then the discourse is not so much concerning the
thing, as the person; and the resolution is called belief, and
faith: faith, in the man; belief, both of the man, and of the truth of
what he says. So that in belief are two opinions; one of the saying of
the man, the other of his virtue. To have faith in, or trust to, or
believe a man, signify the same thing; namely, an opinion of the
veracity of the man: but to believe what is said signifieth only an
opinion of the truth of the saying. But we are to observe that this
phrase, I believe in; as also the Latin, credo in; and the Greek,
piseno eis, are never used but in the writings of divines. Instead
of them, in other writings are put: I believe him; I trust him; I have
faith in him; I rely on him; and in Latin, credo illi; fido illi;
and in Greek, piseno anto; and that this singularity of the
ecclesiastic use of the word hath raised many disputes about the right
object of the Christian faith.
But by believing in, as it is in the Creed, is meant, not trust in
the person, but confession and acknowledgement of the doctrine. For
not only Christians, but all manner of men do so believe in God as
to hold all for truth they hear Him say, whether they understand it or
not, which is all the faith and trust can possibly be had in any
person whatsoever; but they do not all believe the doctrine of the
Creed.
From whence we may infer that when we believe any saying, whatsoever
it be, to be true, from arguments taken, not from the thing itself, or
from the principles of natural reason, but from the authority and good
opinion we have of him that hath said it; then is the speaker, or
person we believe in, or trust in, and whose word we take, the
object of our faith; and the honour done in believing is done to him
only. And consequently, when we believe that the Scriptures are the
word of God, having no immediate revelation from God Himself, our
belief, faith, and trust is in the Church; whose word we take, and
acquiesce therein. And they that believe that which a prophet
relates unto them in the name of God take the word of the prophet,
do honour to him, and in him trust and believe, touching the truth
of what he relateth, whether he be a true or a false prophet. And so
it is also with all other history. For if I should not believe all
that is written by historians of the glorious acts of Alexander or
Caesar, I do not think the ghost of Alexander or Caesar had any just
cause to be offended, or anybody else but the historian. If Livy say
the gods made once a cow speak, and we believe it not, we distrust not
God therein, but Livy. So that it is evident that whatsoever we
believe, upon no other reason than what is drawn from authority of men
only, and their writings, whether they be sent from God or not, is
faith in men only.
CHAPTER VIII
OF THE VIRTUES COMMONLY CALLED INTELLECTUAL;
AND THEIR CONTRARY DEFECTS
VIRTUE generally, in all sorts of subjects, is somewhat that is
valued for eminence; and consisteth in comparison. For if all things
were equally in all men, nothing would be prized. And by virtues
intellectual are always understood such abilities of the mind as men
praise, value, and desire should be in themselves; and go commonly
under the name of a good wit; though the same word, wit, be used
also to distinguish one certain ability from the rest.
These virtues are of two sorts; natural and acquired. By natural,
I mean not that which a man hath from his birth: for that is nothing
else but sense; wherein men differ so little one from another, and
from brute beasts, as it is not to be reckoned amongst virtues. But
I mean that wit which is gotten by use only, and experience, without
method, culture, or instruction. This natural wit consisteth
principally in two things: celerity of imagining (that is, swift
succession of one thought to another); and steady direction to some
approved end. On the contrary, a slow imagination maketh that defect
or fault of the mind which is commonly called dullness, stupidity, and
sometimes by other names that signify slowness of motion, or
difficulty to be moved.
And this difference of quickness is caused by the difference of
men's passions; that love and dislike, some one thing, some another:
and therefore some men's thoughts run one way, some another, and are
held to, observe differently the things that pass through their
imagination. And whereas in this succession of men's thoughts there is
nothing to observe in the things they think on, but either in what
they be like one another, or in what they be unlike, or what they
serve for, or how they serve to such a purpose; those that observe
their similitudes, in case they be such as are but rarely observed
by others, are said to have a good wit; by which, in this occasion, is
meant a good fancy. But they that observe their differences, and
dissimilitudes, which is called distinguishing, and discerning, and
judging between thing and thing, in case such discerning be not
easy, are said to have a good judgement: and particularly in matter of
conversation and business, wherein times, places, and persons are to
be discerned, this virtue is called discretion. The former, that is,
fancy, without the help of judgement, is not commended as a virtue;
but the latter which is judgement, and discretion, is commended for
itself, without the help of fancy. Besides the discretion of times,
places, and persons, necessary to a good fancy, there is required also
an often application of his thoughts to their end; that is to say,
to some use to be made of them. This done, he that hath this virtue
will be easily fitted with similitudes that will please, not only by
illustration of his discourse, and adorning it with new and apt
metaphors, but also, by the rarity of their invention. But without
steadiness, and direction to some end, great fancy is one kind of
madness; such as they have that, entering into any discourse, are
snatched from their purpose by everything that comes in their thought,
into so many and so long digressions and parentheses, that they
utterly lose themselves: which kind of folly I know no particular name
for: but the cause of it is sometimes want of experience; whereby that
seemeth to a man new and rare which doth not so to others: sometimes
pusillanimity; by which that seems great to him which other men
think a trifle: and whatsoever is new, or great, and therefore thought
fit to be told, withdraws a man by degrees from the intended way of
his discourse.
In a good poem, whether it be epic or dramatic, as also in sonnets,
epigrams, and other pieces, both judgement and fancy are required: but
the fancy must be more eminent; because they please for the
extravagancy, but ought not to displease by indiscretion.
In a good history, the judgement must be eminent; because the
goodness consisteth in the choice of the method, in the truth, and
in the choice of the actions that are most profitable to be known.
Fancy has no place, but only in adorning the style.
In orations of praise, and in invectives, the fancy is
predominant; because the design is not truth, but to honour or
dishonour; which is done by noble or by vile comparisons. The
judgement does but suggest what circumstances make an action
laudable or culpable.
In hortatives and pleadings, as truth or disguise serveth best to
the design in hand, so is the judgement or the fancy most required.
In demonstration, in council, and all rigorous search of truth,
sometimes does all; except sometimes the understanding have need to be
opened by some apt similitude, and then there is so much use of fancy.
But for metaphors, they are in this case utterly excluded. For
seeing they openly profess deceit, to admit them into council, or
reasoning, were manifest folly.
And in any discourse whatsoever, if the defect of discretion be
apparent, how extravagant soever the fancy be, the whole discourse
will be taken for a sign of want of wit; and so will it never when the
discretion is manifest, though the fancy be never so ordinary.
The secret thoughts of a man run over all things holy, prophane,
clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame, or blame; which
verbal discourse cannot do, farther than the judgement shall approve
of the time, place, and persons. An anatomist or physician may speak
or write his judgement of unclean things; because it is not to please,
but profit: but for another man to write his extravagant and
pleasant fancies of the same is as if a man, from being tumbled into
the dirt, should come and present himself before good company. And
it is the want of discretion that makes the difference. Again, in
professed remissness of mind, and familiar company, a man may play
with the sounds and equivocal significations of words, and that many
times with encounters of extraordinary fancy; but in a sermon, or in
public, or before persons unknown, or whom we ought to reverence,
there is no jingling of words that will not be accounted folly: and
the difference is only in the want of discretion. So that where wit is
wanting, it is not fancy that is wanting, but discretion. Judgement,
therefore, without fancy is wit, but fancy without judgement, not.
When the thoughts of a man that has a design in hand, running over a
multitude of things, observes how they conduce to that design, or what
design they may conduce unto; if his observations be such as are not
easy, or usual, this wit of his is called prudence, and dependeth on
much experience, and memory of the like things and their
consequences heretofore. In which there is not so much difference of
men as there is in their fancies and judgements; because the
experience of men equal in age is not much unequal as to the quantity,
but lies in different occasions, every one having his private designs.
To govern well a family and a kingdom are not different degrees of
prudence, but different sorts of business; no more than to draw a
picture in little, or as great or greater than the life, are different
degrees of art. A plain husbandman is more prudent in affairs of his
own house than a Privy Counsellor in the affairs of another man.
To prudence, if you add the use of unjust or dishonest means, such
as usually are prompted to men by fear or want, you have that
crooked wisdom which is called craft; which is a sign of
pusillanimity. For magnanimity is contempt of unjust or dishonest
helps. And that which the Latins call versutia (translated into
English, shifting), and is a putting off of a present danger or
incommodity by engaging into a greater, as when a man robs one to
pay another, is but a shorter-sighted craft; called versutia, from
versura, which signifies taking money at usury for the present payment
of interest.
As for acquired wit (I mean acquired by method and instruction),
there is none but reason; which is grounded on the right use of
speech, and produceth the sciences. But of reason and science, I
have already spoken in the fifth and sixth chapters.
The causes of this difference of wits are in the passions, and the
difference of passions proceedeth partly from the different
constitution of the body, and partly from different education. For
if the difference proceeded from the temper of the brain, and the
organs of sense, either exterior or interior, there would be no less
difference of men in their sight, hearing, or other senses than in
their fancies and discretions. It proceeds, therefore, from the
passions; which are different, not only from the difference of men's
complexions, but also from their difference of customs and education.
The passions that most of all cause the differences of wit are
principally the more or less desire of power, of riches, of knowledge,
and of honour. All which may be reduced to the first, that is,
desire of power. For riches, knowledge and honour are but several
sorts of power.
And therefore, a man who has no great passion for any of these
things, but is as men term it indifferent; though he may be so far a
good man as to be free from giving offence, yet he cannot possibly
have either a great fancy or much judgement. For the thoughts are to
the desires as scouts and spies to range abroad and find the way to
the things desired, all steadiness of the mind's motion, and all
quickness of the same, proceeding from thence. For as to have no
desire is to be dead; so to have weak passions is dullness; and to
have passions indifferently for everything, giddiness and distraction;
and to have stronger and more vehement passions for anything than is
ordinarily seen in others is that which men call madness.
Whereof there be almost as may kinds as of the passions
themselves. Sometimes the extraordinary and extravagant passion
proceedeth from the evil constitution of the organs of the body, or
harm done them; and sometimes the hurt, and indisposition of the
organs, is caused by the vehemence or long continuance of the passion.
But in both cases the madness is of one and the same nature.
The passion whose violence or continuance maketh madness is either
great vainglory, which is commonly called pride and self-conceit, or
great dejection of mind.
Pride subjecteth a man to anger, the excess whereof is the madness
called rage, and fury. And thus it comes to pass that excessive desire
of revenge, when it becomes habitual, hurteth the organs, and
becomes rage: that excessive love, with jealousy, becomes also rage:
excessive opinion of a man's own self, for divine inspiration, for
wisdom, learning, form, and the like, becomes distraction and
giddiness: the same, joined with envy, rage: vehement opinion of the
truth of anything, contradicted by others, rage.
Dejection subjects a man to causeless fears, which is a madness
commonly called melancholy apparent also in diverse manners: as in
haunting of solitudes and graves; in superstitious behaviour; and in
fearing some one, some another, particular thing. In sum, all passions
that produce strange and unusual behaviour are called by the general
name of madness. But of the several kinds of madness, he that would
take the pains might enrol a legion. And if the excesses be madness,
there is no doubt but the passions themselves, when they tend to evil,
are degrees of the same.
For example, though the effect of folly, in them that are
possessed of an opinion of being inspired, be not visible always in
one man by any very extravagant action that proceedeth from such
passion, yet when many of them conspire together, the rage of the
whole multitude is visible enough. For what argument of madness can
there be greater than to clamour, strike, and throw stones at our best
friends? Yet this is somewhat less than such a multitude will do.
For they will clamour, fight against, and destroy those by whom all
their lifetime before they have been protected and secured from
injury. And if this be madness in the multitude, it is the same in
every particular man. For as in the midst of the sea, though a man
perceive no sound of that part of the water next him, yet he is well
assured that part contributes as much to the roaring of the sea as any
other part of the same quantity: so also, though we perceive no
great unquietness in one or two men, yet we may be well assured that
their singular passions are parts of the seditious roaring of a
troubled nation. And if there were nothing else that bewrayed their
madness, yet that very arrogating such inspiration to themselves is
argument enough. If some man in Bedlam should entertain you with sober
discourse, and you desire in taking leave to know what he were that
you might another time requite his civility, and he should tell you he
were God the Father; I think you need expect no extravagant action for
argument of his madness.
This opinion of inspiration, called commonly, private spirit, begins
very often from some lucky finding of an error generally held by
others; and not knowing, or not remembering, by what conduct of reason
they came to so singular a truth, as they think it, though it be
many times an untruth they light on, they presently admire
themselves as being in the special grace of God Almighty, who hath
revealed the same to them supernaturally by his Spirit.
Again, that madness is nothing else but too much appearing passion
may be gathered out of the effects of wine, which are the same with
those of the evil disposition of the organs. For the variety of
behaviour in men that have drunk too much is the same with that of
madmen: some of them raging, others loving, others laughing, all
extravagantly, but according to their several domineering passions:
for the effect of the wine does but remove dissimulation, and take
from them the sight of the deformity of their passions. For, I
believe, the most sober men, when they walk alone without care and
employment of the mind, would be unwilling the vanity and extravagance
of their thoughts at that time should be publicly seen, which is a
confession that passions unguided are for the most part mere madness.
The opinions of the world, both in ancient and later ages,
concerning the cause of madness have been two. Some, deriving them
from the passions; some, from demons or spirits, either good or bad,
which they thought might enter into a man, possess him, and move his
organs in such strange and uncouth manner as madmen use to do. The
former sort, therefore, called such men, madmen: but the latter called
them sometimes demoniacs (that is, possessed with spirits);
sometimes energumeni (that is, agitated or moved with spirits); and
now in Italy they are called not only pazzi, madmen; but also
spiritati, men possessed.
There was once a great conflux of people in Abdera, a city of the
Greeks, at the acting of the tragedy of Andromeda, upon an extreme hot
day: whereupon a great many of the spectators, falling into fevers,
had this accident from the heat and from the tragedy together, that
they did nothing but pronounce iambics, with the names of Perseus
and Andromeda; which, together with the fever, was cured by the coming
on of winter: and this madness was thought to proceed from the passion
imprinted by the tragedy. Likewise there reigned a fit of madness in
another Grecian city which seized only the young maidens, and caused
many of them to hang themselves. This was by most then thought an
act of the devil. But one that suspected that contempt of life in them
might proceed from some passion of the mind, and supposing they did
not contemn also their honour, gave counsel to the magistrates to
strip such as so hanged themselves, and let them hang out naked. This,
the story says, cured that madness. But on the other side, the same
Grecians did often ascribe madness to the operation of the
Eumenides, or Furies; and sometimes of Ceres, Phoebus, and other gods:
so much did men attribute to phantasms as to think them aerial
living bodies, and generally to call them spirits. And as the Romans
in this held the same opinion with the Greeks, so also did the Jews;
for they called madmen prophets, or, according as they thought the
spirits good or bad, demoniacs; and some of them called both
prophets and demoniacs madmen; and some called the same man both
demoniac and madman. But for the Gentiles, it is no wonder; because
diseases and health, vices and virtues, and many natural accidents
were with them termed and worshipped as demons. So that a man was to
understand by demon as well sometimes an ague as a devil. But for
the Jews to have such opinion is somewhat strange. For neither Moses
nor Abraham pretended to prophesy by possession of a spirit, but
from the voice of God, or by a vision or dream: nor is there
anything in his law, moral or ceremonial, by which they were taught
there was any such enthusiasm, or any possession. When God is said
to take from the spirit that was in Moses, and give to the seventy
elders, the spirit of God, taking it for the substance of God, is
not divided.* The Scriptures by the Spirit of God in man mean a
man's spirit, inclined to godliness. And where it is said, "Whom I
have filled with the spirit of wisdom to make garments for Aaron,"*(2)
is not meant a spirit put into them, that can make garments, but the
wisdom of their own spirits in that kind of work. In the like sense,
the spirit of man, when it produceth unclean actions, is ordinarily
called an unclean spirit; and so other spirits, though not always, yet
as often as the virtue or vice, so styled, is extraordinary and
eminent. Neither did the other prophets of the Old Testament pretend
enthusiasm, or that God spoke in them, but to them, by voice,
vision, or dream; and the "burden of the Lord" was not possession, but
command. How then could the Jews fall into this opinion of possession?
I can imagine no reason but that which is common to all men; namely,
the want of curiosity to search natural causes; and their placing
felicity in the acquisition of the gross pleasures of the senses,
and the things that most immediately conduce thereto. For they that
see any strange and unusual ability or defect in a man's mind,
unless they see withal from what cause it may probably proceed, can
hardly think it natural; and if not natural, they must needs think
it supernatural; and then what can it be, but that either God or the
Devil is in him? And hence it came to pass, when our Saviour was
compassed about with the multitude, those of the house doubted he
was mad, and went out to hold him: but the Scribes said he had
Beelzebub, and that was it, by which he cast out devils; as if the
greater madman had awed the lesser.*(3) And that some said, "He hath a
devil, and is mad"; whereas others, holding him for a prophet, said,
"These are not the words of one that hath a devil."*(4) So in the
Old Testament he that came to anoint Jehu was a Prophet; but some of
the company asked Jehu, "What came that madman for?"*(5) So that, in
sum, it is manifest that whosoever behaved himself in extraordinary
manner was thought by the Jews to be possessed either with a good or
evil spirit; except by the Sadducees, who erred so far on the other
hand as not to believe there were at all any spirits, which is very
near to direct atheism; and thereby perhaps the more provoked others
to term such men demoniacs rather than madmen.
*(2) Exodus, 28. 3
*(3) Mark, 3. 21
*(4) John, 10. 20
*(5) II Kings, 9. 11
But why then does our Saviour proceed in the curing of them, as if
they were possessed, and not as it they were mad? To which I can
give no other kind of answer but that which is given to those that
urge the Scripture in like manner against the opinion of the motion of
the earth. The Scripture was written to show unto men the kingdom of
God, and to prepare their minds to become His obedient subjects,
leaving the world, and the philosophy thereof, to the disputation of
men for the exercising of their natural reason. Whether the earth's or
sun's motion make the day and night, or whether the exorbitant actions
of men proceed from passion or from the Devil, so we worship him
not, it is all one, as to our obedience and subjection to God
Almighty; which is the thing for which the Scripture was written. As
for that our Saviour speaketh to the disease as to a person, it is the
usual phrase of all that cure by words only, as Christ did, and
enchanters pretend to do, whether they speak to a devil or not. For is
not Christ also said to have rebuked the winds?* Is not he said also
to rebuke a fever?*(2) Yet this does not argue that a fever is a
devil. And whereas many of those devils are said to confess Christ, it
is not necessary to interpret those places otherwise than that those
madmen confessed Him. And whereas our Saviour speaketh of an unclean
spirit that, having gone out of a man, wandereth through dry places,
seeking rest, and finding none, and returning into the same man with
seven other spirits worse than himself;*(3) it is manifestly a
parable, alluding to a man that, after a little endeavour to quit
his lusts, is vanquished by the strength of them, and becomes seven
times worse than he was. So that I see nothing at all in the Scripture
that requireth a belief that demoniacs were any other thing but
madmen.
*(2) Luke, 4. 39
*(3) Matthew, 12. 43
There is yet another fault in the discourses of some men, which
may also be numbered amongst the sorts of madness; namely, that
abuse of words, whereof I have spoken before in the fifth chapter by
the name of absurdity. And that is when men speak such words as, put
together, have in them no signification at all, but are fallen upon,
by some, through misunderstanding of the words they have received
and repeat by rote; by others, from intention to deceive by obscurity.
And this is incident to none but those that converse in questions of
matters incomprehensible, as the Schoolmen; or in questions of
abstruse philosophy. The common sort of men seldom speak
insignificantly, and are therefore, by those other egregious
persons, counted idiots. But to be assured their words are without
anything correspondent to them in the mind, there would need some
examples; which if any man require, let him take a Schoolman into
his hands and see if he can translate any one chapter concerning any
difficult point; as the Trinity, the Deity, the nature of Christ,
transubstantiation, free will, etc., into any of the modern tongues,
so as to make the same intelligible; or into any tolerable Latin, such
as they were acquainted withal that lived when the Latin tongue was
vulgar. What is the meaning of these words: "The first cause does
not necessarily inflow anything into the second, by force of the
essential subordination of the second causes, by which it may help
it to work?" They are the translation of the title of the sixth
chapter of Suarez's first book, Of the Concourse, Motion, and Help
of God. When men write whole volumes of such stuff, are they not
mad, or intend to make others so? And particularly, in the question of
transubstantiation; where after certain words spoken they that say,
the whiteness, roundness, magnitude, quality, corruptibility, all
which are incorporeal, etc., go out of the wafer into the body of
our blessed Saviour, do they not make those nesses, tudes, and ties to
be so many spirits possessing his body? For by spirits they mean
always things that, being incorporeal, are nevertheless movable from
one place to another. So that this kind of absurdity may rightly be
numbered amongst the many sorts of madness; and all the time that,
guided by clear thoughts of their worldly lust, they forbear disputing
or writing thus, but lucid intervals. And thus much of the virtues and
defects intellectual.
CHAPTER IX
OF THE SEVERAL SUBJECT OF KNOWLEDGE
THERE are of are of knowledge two kinds, whereof one is knowledge of
fact; the other, knowledge of the consequence of one affirmation to
another. The former is nothing else but sense and memory, and is
absolute knowledge; as when we see a fact doing, or remember it
done; and this is the knowledge required in a witness. The latter is
called science, and is conditional; as when we know that: if the
figure shown be a circle, then any straight line through the center
shall divide it into two equal parts. And this is the knowledge
required in a philosopher; that is to say, of him that pretends to
reasoning.
The register of knowledge of fact is called history, whereof there
be two sorts: one called natural history; which is the history of such
facts, or effects of Nature, as have no dependence on man's will; such
as are the histories of metals, plants, animals, regions, and the
like. The other is civil history, which is the history of the
voluntary actions of men in Commonwealths.
The registers of science are such books as contain the
demonstrations of consequences of one affirmation to another; and
are commonly called books of philosophy; whereof the sorts are many,
according to the diversity of the matter; and may be divided in such
manner as I have divided them in the following table.
I. SCIENCE, that is, knowledge of consequences; which is called
also PHILOSOPHY
A. Consequences from accidents of bodies natural; which is
called NATURAL PHILOSOPHY
1. Consequences from accidents common to all bodies natural;
which are quantity, and motion.
a. Consequences from quantity, and motion indeterminate;
which, being the principles or first foundation of
philosophy, is called philosophia prima
PHILOSOPHIA PRIMA
b. Consequences from motion, and quantity determined
1) Consequences from quantity, and motion determined
a) By figure, By number
1] Mathematics,
GEOMETRY
ARITHMETIC
2) Consequences from motion, and quantity of bodies in
special
a) Consequences from motion, and quantity of the
great parts of the world, as the earth and stars,
1] Cosmography
ASTRONOMY
GEOGRAPHY
b) Consequences from motion of special kinds, and
figures of body,
1] Mechanics, doctrine of weight
Science of ENGINEERS
ARCHITECTURE
NAVIGATION
2. PHYSICS, or consequences from qualities
a. Consequences from qualities of bodies transient, such
as sometimes appear, sometimes vanish
METEOROLOGY
b. Consequences from qualities of bodies permanent
1) Consequences from qualities of stars
a) Consequences from the light of the stars. Out of
this, and the motion of the sun, is made the
science of
SCIOGRAPHY
b) Consequences from the influence of the stars,
ASTROLOGY
2) Consequences of qualities from liquid bodies that
fill the space between the stars; such as are the
air, or substance etherial
3) Consequences from qualities of bodies terrestrial
a) Consequences from parts of the earth that are
without sense,
1] Consequences from qualities of minerals, as
stones, metals, etc.
2] Consequences from the qualities of vegetables
b) Consequences from qualities of animals
1] Consequences from qualities of animals in
general
a] Consequences from vision,
OPTICS
b] Consequences from sounds,
MUSIC
c] Consequences from the rest of the senses
2] Consequences from qualities of men in special
a] Consequences from passions of men,
ETHICS
b] Consequences from speech,
i) In magnifying, vilifying, etc.
POETRY
ii) In persuading,
RHETORIC
iii) In reasoning,
LOGIC
iv) In contracting,
The Science of JUST and UNJUST
B. Consequences from accidents of politic bodies; which is
called POLITICS, AND CIVIL PHILOSOPHY
1. Of consequences from the institution of COMMONWEALTHS, to
the rights, and duties of the body politic, or sovereign
2. Of consequ