THE PHILOSOPHICAL

PROGRESS OF
HUME’S ESSAYS

MARGARET WATKINS
Saint Vincent College, Pennsylvania

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 Contents

Acknowledgments page vii

List of Abbreviations ix

Introduction 
. The Essays as Philosophy 
. Reading the Essays as a Whole 
. Progress, Social, and Individual 
. Summary of Chapters 

 Governing 
. The Antiquarian Principle 
. A Great Change for the Better 
. Progress and Government Intervention 

 Domineering 
. The Qualified Uniformity of Human Nature 
. War 
. Slavery 
. Priests 

 Working 
. The Progress and Purpose of Industry 
. Industry as a Principle of Human Nature: The Essays
on Happiness 
. Total Work? 

 Composing 
. Much Inferior to the Ancients 
. Aggressive and Melancholy Passional Problems 
. Therapeutic Beauty 

 Self-Loving 
. Egoisms, Benign, and Malignant 
. Self-Love, Pride, and Vanity 

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 vi Contents
. Close Allies to Virtue 
. Beyond Egoisms 

 Loving 
. Friendship and the State 
. Delicate Taste versus Love of the Public 
. The Amorous Affection 
. Gallant Men and Rare Women 

 Thinking 
. On the Use and Abuse of “Philosophy” in the Essays 
. Philosophy as Distance 
. Ancients and Moderns: A Pas de Deux 

Conclusion 

Bibliography 
Index 

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 Acknowledgments

Without the encouragement, support, and patience of my husband,

Robert Miner, this book never would have been completed. He not only
refused to believe my insistence that the task was impossible, but provided
me with an aspirational model of the fearless thinking and generosity of
spirit that characterize the true philosopher. I am most grateful for his
generosity in sharing with me the blessing of his children: Anne, Sebastian,
Sophia, Emma, Maria, Louisa, and Lily.
I am happy to acknowledge the support of Saint Vincent College, which
provided course releases and research grants to allow me to dedicate time
to this project. I am especially grateful to my dean, Rene Kollar, OSB,
and Saint Vincent’s Vice President for Academic Affairs, John Smetanka,
who encourage my scholarly efforts and do all they can to promote them.
My departmental colleagues – Michael Krom, George Leiner, Eric Mohr,
Mary Veronica Sabelli, RSM, and Eugene Torisky – have been an enor-
mous help through their intellectual conversation and their collegiality.
I owe a particular debt to Christopher McMahon for directing the Honors
Program in the spring of , and Brian Boosel, OSB, for his friendship
and hospitality. The administrative support of Marsha Kush and Shirley
Skander has also been invaluable.
Thanks to the assistance of the David Hume Fellowship at the Institute
for Advanced Studies in the Humanities at the University of Edinburgh,
I was able to complete this book in the city that Hume called home
for much of his life. The administrative staff at IASH, including Steven
Yearley, Ben Fletcher-Watson, Pauline Clark, and Donald Ferguson,
was extremely helpful during my stay in Edinburgh. Bruce Minto, Walter
Nimmo, and David Purdie provided me with a wonderful forum for
presenting some of my ideas about Hume and progress at the 
Enlightenment Lecture. I would also like to thank Laura Nicolì and
Jeanette Lynes for brightening my time in Edinburgh with their company
and conversation.
vii

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 viii Acknowledgments
I am grateful to the staff at the University of Edinburgh Library and the
National Library of Scotland, for their gracious assistance during my visits.
At its annual conferences and in other venues, the Hume Society has
provided forums for me to discuss many of the ideas in this book with its
many amiable members. I am particularly indebted to Willem Lemmens,
Wade Robison, Elizabeth Radcliffe, Corliss Swain, Jacqueline Taylor, and
Rico Vitz for their kind support of my work over several years. Alison
McIntyre, Jeffry Ramsey, Mikko Tolonen, and Saul Traiger gave helpful
criticisms of portions of the manuscript.
Parts of the section on slavery appeared in the April  issue of
Hume Studies. I am grateful to the journal for permission to reprint this
material here.
Briana Pocratsky, Amanda Slowey, and Taylor Wilkerson provided
research assistance in this project’s early stages. The members of my
seminar on Hume’s Practical Philosophy in the fall of  – Jacob Boros,
Nicole Dunst, Adam Golian, and Jonathan Noble – were wonderful
interlocutors about Hume’s Essays. Although I cannot name them all here,
I owe thanks to many more students at Saint Vincent, who provide a con-
tinual source of inspiration and armor against cynicism. I must acknow-
ledge my profound debt to Sarah Malone, whose research assistance and
excellent work with the Saint Vincent Honors Program facilitates so much
of my own work.
I also wish to thank Hilary Gaskin for her exceptionally helpful editorial
guidance, as well as two anonymous readers for Cambridge University
Press for constructive suggestions.
I am unable to express my gratitude for my dear philosophical friend,
Alicia Finch, who has shown me so many times what it means for a friend
to be another self. I am likewise inarticulate about my parents, Billie and
Stanley Watkins, whose unflagging love has made everything I have ever
accomplished possible.

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 Abbreviations

References to Hume’s Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary indicate volume,

essay, and page numbers. I refer to withdrawn or unpublished essays as EWU.
DP A Dissertation on the Passions (section and paragraph
numbers)
EHU An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (section and
paragraph numbers)
EPM An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (section and
paragraph numbers)
H The History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar
to the Revolution in  (volume and page numbers)
Letters  The Letters of David Hume, Vol. I (recipient, date, and
page numbers)
Letters  The Letters of David Hume, Vol. II (recipient, date, and
page numbers)
Letters  New Letters of David Hume (recipient, date, and page
numbers)
NHR The Natural History of Religion (section and paragraph
numbers)
T A Treatise of Human Nature (book, part, section, and
paragraph numbers)

ix

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 Introduction

In , David Hume published the first volume of Essays, Moral and
Political. He chose not to include his name on the title page, but the
author does not disappear from view. He indicates his nonpartisan stance
with an epigraph from Virgil: “Tros Rutulusve fuat, nullo discrimine
habebo.” He addresses the reader with an advertisement that begins with
self-deprecation (he has dropped a more ambitious project partly from
laziness), moves through solicitude (he anxiously submits himself to the
judgment of the public), and finishes with spirit (he intends to overcome
“party-rage” but displease bigots of any stamp). A corrected edition and
second volume appeared the following year; Hume tells us near his death
in  that these works were “favourably received.” The third edition
() had some subtractions and three notable additions – “Of National
Character,” “Of the Original Contract,” and “Of Passive Obedience” –
which were also printed together as a separate volume. The author is now
in full view: these editions of the Essays were the first of Hume’s works with
his name printed on the title page. As the Essays evolve, Hume demands
more of his readers. Gone from the third edition are several essays in a
lighter style, and the new Political Discourses of  engage difficult
questions of political economy, international politics, and foundational
political theory. Beginning in , both the Essays: Moral and Political
and the Political Discourses form parts of Essays and Treatises on Several
Subjects, a collection that Hume prepares for numerous new editions,


In Dryden’s translation, “Rutulians, Trojans are the same to me.” More literally: “Be you Trojan or
Rutulian, I will make no distinction between you.” The speaker is Jupiter. Joseph Addison uses the
same line as an epigraph to the July , , edition of the Spectator (Addison, ); the April ,
, number of the Craftsman uses it also (D’Anvers, ). Hume’s advertisement mentions both
papers as models. But the Virgil line appears often in early modern writing, perhaps especially among
French authors. Pierre Bayle uses it in the preface to Nouvelles de la République des Lettres (th of the
unnumbered pages) and in the Dictionnaire in the entry on Friedrich Spanheim (:).

“My Own Life,” in Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary, xxxiv.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
including a posthumous edition of . In the  edition, the former
Essays, Moral and Political and Political Discourses become Parts I and II,
respectively, of Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary. Like the inventor of
the essay, Michel de Montaigne, Hume revised his essays until the end
of his life. Unlike Montaigne, Hume made no attempt to limit his revi-
sions to additions and variations. Montaigne says that he does “not correct
[his] first imaginations by [his] second” because he wants to “represent the
course of [his] humors,” seeking to provide a faithful picture of his undu-
lating self. Hume excises, rearranges, and rewords his previous writing. Yet
Hume’s corrections are, in their own way, as revealing of his self – a self
willing to modify his own statements as he aged and deeply concerned to
present the best version of his thoughts to his readers.

. The Essays as Philosophy

Hume’s relentless concern with improvement shows in the matter of the
Essays as well as in their composition. For those open to the possibility that
philosophical thought can improve life, these Essays have some things to
say. In June of , Hume wrote to Henry Home that the successful
Essays “may prove like dung with marl, and bring forward the rest of my
Philosophy, which is of a more durable, though of a harder and more
stubborn nature” (Letters :). Generations of scholars have, in effect,
accepted the simile and ignored the implication that the Essays constitute
part of Hume’s philosophy. Instead of being taken seriously by philoso-
phers, the Essays are often contemptuously dismissed or politely ignored.
The practice of ignoring the Essays is consonant with the old view,
propounded by T. H. Grose, that Hume abandoned philosophy as a
young man. The Enquiries, Grose asserts, are “for the most part popular
reproductions” of material from the Treatise, and the Natural History of
Religion and Dialogues concerning Natural Religion are the only later
additions to his philosophical oeuvre. Grose’s view that Hume probably
wrote many of the Essays before  complicates this assessment. But for
the most part, Grose sees the Essays as popular works meant to serve
Hume’s thirst for literary fame.
Grose treats the essays on political topics with some respect – both those
published in – as part of Essays, Moral and Political and those
published in  as Political Discourses. This elevation of Hume’s political
essays continues. James A. Harris occupies a careful version of this stance.
 
Montaigne, Essays, . “History of the Editions,” .

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 Introduction 
Though insisting that Hume’s work remained philosophical throughout
his life, Harris claims that Hume gave up on a specific practical mode of
philosophy in favor of philosophy as “a habit of mind, a style of think-
ing, and of writing, such as could in principle be applied to any subject
whatsoever.” Hume allegedly abandoned hope that philosophy can aid
the search for individual happiness or improve moral character and turned
toward politics. Philosophy could not be “medicine for the mind,” but it
could be “medicine for the state.”
Though I agree that Hume’s thought remained philosophical, I do not
agree that he abandons the idea that philosophical thinking can pro-
mote individual happiness or improve character. In Chapter , I examine
Hume’s use of the term “philosophy” in the Essays. But this book as a
whole constitutes my main defense of this claim. Each chapter considers a
different area of human life: governing, domineering, working, composing,
self-loving, loving, and thinking. I discuss what the Essays teach about each
area, including practical implications that follow from their philosophical
thinking. This thinking is not rightly understood as a move from either
philosophy to popular dross or from ethics to politics. It can be understood
as a move beyond metaphysical speculations. But such a move is the
natural sequel to the dismantling of metaphysical speculation in Treatise
I and the Enquiry concerning Human Understanding.
I am not claiming that the Essays are the outworking of a plan that
Hume envisioned prior to or during the composition of the Treatise.
It is too much to construe them, as John Immerwahr does, as “the end,
for which the Treatise was the means.” Harris rightly argues that such a
construal forestalls understanding Hume as a developing thinker, whose
thought and aims evolved throughout his life. It is not true, however, that
positing any “fundamental unity and continuity to his thought” has this
consequence. Continuity need not imply stagnation.
The Essays’ philosophical lessons are rooted in Hume’s time but peren-
nially valuable. Although we need a sense of their contexts to understand
these works, their relevance transcends their contexts. The Essays can still
teach us about politics, our tendency to domineer one another, our indi-
vidual and collective industry, our aesthetic experience, our passions for
ourselves and others, and our passion for philosophy itself. But they also

 
Hume, . Harris, “Hume’s Four Essays on Happiness,” .

“Anatomist and the Painter,” . For criticism of Immerwahr’s position, see Abramson’s
“Philosophical Anatomy and Painting.”

Harris, Hume, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
teach us something about Hume: he did not take his scepticism to imply
fatalism about philosophy, about reflective conversation, or about human
relations. Like certain forms of religion, some forms of scepticism see all
human efforts at progress as in vain. Hume is not that kind of sceptic.

. Reading the Essays as a Whole

I must first address an objection that arises from Hume’s own words. In
the initial advertisement to Essays, Moral and Political, he warns that the
“READER must not look for any Connexion among these Essays, but
must consider each of them as a Work apart.” If it was mistaken to look
for connections between the essays in the first volume, is it not a worse
mistake to look for lessons across all of the essays? They were published in
stages, under various titles. The questions driving Hume in  must
have varied greatly from those of the more mature Hume behind the
Political Discourses.
This concern places certain constraints on this project but does not
compromise its fundamental aim. That aim is to uncover important
aspects of Hume’s thinking that the Essays illuminate. For this project,
the published texts are the primary resources. In writing them, Hume did
not live in what Duncan Forbes calls “a cocoon of his own spinning.”
We should avoid using one work to interpret another without considering
their distance in time or setting. And we must keep in mind the different
genres in which Hume wrote. In the advertisement to the Essays, Moral
and Political, Hume writes that his original aim was to “comprehend the
Designs both of the SPECTATORS and CRAFTSMEN.” Since Mon-
taigne’s introduction of the essay, the genre had proved extraordinarily
flexible. Hume expands that flexibility. Few of Hume’s Essays fit Samuel
Johnson’s definition of “essay” in his  Dictionary as a “loose sally of
the mind; an irregular indigested piece; not a regular and orderly compos-
ition.” It is not even clear that the Essays all belong to a single genre. The
Lilliputian “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion” bears only a family
resemblance to the elephantine “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations.”
Yet the Essays share a broad common aim. Their form served to promote
public benefit by reaching a variety of literate women and men. This

 
Essays, Moral and Political, , v. Hume’s Philosophical Politics, x.

M. A. Box notes that this was a paradoxical goal, as the designs of the avowedly neutral Spectator
and the expressly polemical Craftsman were incompatible (Suasive Art of David Hume, –).

Dictionary of the English Language (), s.v. “essay.” This is the only noun definition of “essay”
that refers specifically to written compositions.

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 Introduction 
practical aim does not vitiate their philosophical significance. They repay
and contribute to philosophical reflection on numerous issues. I do not
claim that these issues are unifying themes of the Essays. The Essays are
not unified. But they can be read as parts of a complex conversation
between numerous parties, including their readers. The living Hume can
no longer be part of that conversation. But we can interpret his published
words charitably.
Because the conversation I have in mind is broadly philosophical, this
conversation can include works of Hume that are familiar to contempo-
rary philosophers. I do not shy away from drawing on the Treatise and
Enquiries. Hume continued to publish the Enquiries as part of Essays
and Treatises on Several Subjects throughout his life and did not reject
the positions that he argued for in them. His views develop between the
Treatise and Enquiries, and I endeavor to acknowledge or explain these
developments when it is germane to do so. Nonetheless, some of the
discussions in the Treatise provide details of Hume’s views that are
nowhere else to be found but we have no reason to believe that he rejected,
especially with respect to his views on the passions. Hume’s own views, as
presented in other works, are part of the context of the Essays’ composition.
But does Hume’s presentation of those works itself vitiate any attempt
to read the Essays philosophically? For the last edition of Essays and Treati-
ses on Several Subjects, he prepared a new advertisement, which concludes
with the request “that the following Pieces may alone be regarded as
containing his philosophical sentiments and principles” (EHU Advertise-
ment). He asked his publisher, William Strahan, to place this statement
at the beginning of the second volume of the Essays and Treatises; “the
following Pieces” would therefore include An Enquiry concerning Human
Understanding, A Dissertation on the Passions, An Enquiry Concerning the
Principles of Morals, and The Natural History of Religion. Since the Essays:
Moral, Political, and Literary constituted the first volume, one might infer
that Hume excludes these essays from his philosophy proper.
Such an inference, however, would be premature. Hume repeatedly
refers in his letters to his “philosophical pieces,” seeming to mean all of
the Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects. (The nonphilosophical writing


But for an interesting attempt to read the first volume of the Essays as a whole, which takes seriously
the essay genre, see Scott Black, “Thinking in Time in Hume’s Essays.”

See Hume’s letters to Strahan on October  and November ,  (Letters :– and
–). Hume’s claim in the advertisement that “most of the principles, and reasonings, contained
in this volume, were published in” the Treatise may suggest that he does not mean to refer to the
Natural History here.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
would be the History.) But this debate cannot be settled by accumulating
citations to Hume’s labels for his own work. Whether or not the Essays
are philosophical depends on whether or not they contain philosophical
ideas and arguments. It is the work of the following chapters to show that
they do.
The degree to which one finds all of this convincing depends in part on
one’s conception of what philosophy is. Among the reasons that philoso-
phers must listen to historians, literary theorists, political theorists, and
economists is that these scholars make it more difficult for us to read
Hume as easily translatable into the idiom of contemporary philosophy.
Happily, this interdisciplinary dialogue has become more common in
recent years. I will not attempt to define “philosophy” here, but the con-
ception of philosophy that emerges in Chapter ’s exploration of Hume’s
own use of “philosophy” and its cognates is a broad one. I take this breadth
to be a virtue.

. Progress, Social, and Individual

Progress is a recurring theme in this book, as it is in many of Hume’s
Essays. I have said that Hume is not the kind of sceptic who believes all
efforts toward progress to be vain and that the Essays share a practical
purpose of benefiting the public. The two claims go together: in compos-
ing the Essays, Hume strove to bring about progress. That is, he wanted his
efforts to benefit the public. (Here I am using “progress” in the contem-
porary sense; as Roger Emerson notes, for eighteenth-century Scots, “pro-
gress did not usually imply a necessarily better state but only a change.”)
In this respect, Hume is a quintessential Enlightenment thinker. Does he
therefore reject “the ancients” in favor of “the moderns”? Some recent
commentators have emphasized Hume’s repudiation of elements of
Shaftesbury’s thought in favor of ideas that share more with Hobbes and
Mandeville. Because of Shaftesbury’s affinity with certain ancient ideas,
this emphasis can suggest that Hume is wholly on the side of his fellow
moderns. But his continuing hope that philosophy can effect personal and
individual progress shares something important with ancient thinkers.
Throughout the Essays, Hume compares modern cultures with their
predecessors. These predecessors are often ancient, but the relevant ques-
tions transcend specific quarrels between specific time periods. One such


“Conjectural History and the Scottish Philosophers,” n.

See, e.g., Tolonen, Mandeville and Hume; and Harris, Hume, especially – and –.

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 Introduction 
question asks for an assessment of present states of affairs relative to past
ones: have human lives improved in significant ways, in comparison with
lives in previous ages? We can call this the “assessment” question. Another
asks what our political approach to progress should be: should we conserve
the goods of the past by modest and restrained policies, or should we
attempt to encourage progress through governmental intervention? I call
this the “political intervention” question. Finally, we can ask whether and
how we ought to hope for future progress. Let us call this the “predictive”
question.
Hume gives complex answers to all three questions. He usually argues
that our lives have improved, but not always. He has little hope that
political intervention will further progress, but does not share the elevating
admiration of the past characteristic of others who resist political innov-
ation. Finally, his scepticism precludes predictions of inevitable decline or
improvement.
In addressing these questions, Hume seeks to benefit the public in two
ways. First, he tries to allay irrational attitudes that produce imprudent
personal and political behavior. Second, he censures a form of factionalism
that can exacerbate these ill effects. Nostalgia about the past is often ill-
informed, and it allows the dead to bury the living, as Nietzsche says.
The shadow of an alleged Golden Age smothers attempts at something
new. Politically, rhetoric about lost greatness has served the aim of many a
tyrant. Yet we are, Hume notes, prone to such nostalgia. At the end of “Of
the Populousness of Ancient Nations,” he writes that the “humour of
blaming the present, and admiring the past, is strongly rooted in human
nature, and has an influence even on persons endued with the profoundest
judgment and most extensive learning” (..).
Likewise, faith in progress brings its own set of dangers. Progressivism
can lead to contempt for the past – a failure to appreciate the resources
handed down from past human experience. (Hume’s composition of the
History demonstrates how much he values that experience.) A complacently
positive answer to the predictive question trusts the Hegelian principle of
inevitable progress without attending to the crucible of human suffering
that Hegel sees as the precondition for such progress. The consequences
again include imprudent personal and political choices. In the Essays,
Hume often defends modern progress against those with “the humour


“Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life,” .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
of blaming the present,” but he also reminds modern readers of how
precarious that progress is and ways in which they have failed to overcome
ancient problems, or even to live up to ancient examples.
These two tendencies – irrational reverence for the past or unreflective
progressivism – can breed factions. Our answers to questions about
progress affect our understanding of our potential, individually and as a
species. But they also shape our identities. Narratives of progress and
decline become bound up with our sense of ourselves, so that challenges
to them can seem to be personal attacks. Feeling attacked in this way can
lead people to band together in factions, more concerned with the good of
like-minded fellows than with that of society as a whole.
Hume laments the “spirit of faction” that he claims “is a natural
attendant on civil liberty” and strives to rise above it, representing what
is most compelling in both sides to any dispute. Factions are inevitable and
can promote civic debate, but they can also promote irrationality and
engender violence. In the Essays’ initial advertisement, he writes, “Public
Spirit, methinks, shou’d engage us to love the Public, and to bear an equal
Affection to all our Country-Men; not to hate one Half of them, under
Pretext of loving the Whole. This Party-Rage I have endeavour’d to
repress, as far as possible.” Hume works against factionalism with both
his tone and his approach to controversial topics, whether they are general
questions about progress and decline or specific disputes between Whigs
and Tories.
Hume’s Essays are not, however, solely concerned with progress on the
social or political level. They offer rich and relatively neglected resources
for thinking about personal or individual progress. These resources come
into focus in Chapters –, and they show why it is a mistake to see Hume
as having abandoned this aspect of the ancient ideal of philosophy. In
calling this an ancient ideal, I mean neither that the ancients were uniquely
committed to it nor that Hume’s version of it is identical to that of “the
ancients.” (Of course, there is no single ancient version of such an ideal.)
I mean that it is a perennial ideal, which has survived despite numerous
attempts to make philosophy purely at the service of utilitarian ends,
scientific aims, or political agendas. Hume’s version is modest: philosophy
comes with no guarantee of eudaimonia and can only improve those with
certain temperaments. Such a philosophy does not found movements that
seek to improve or appeal to the bulk of humankind. Yet it is of crucial
importance for the well-being of unusual people, as well as humankind in
general, that we not dismiss or neglect any practice that fails to market
itself to a general audience.

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 Introduction 
We cannot capture the complexity of the mature Hume’s thought by
calling it philosophy, politics, or history, any more than we can by label-
ing it progressive or conservative. When we try to stuff Hume into a
taxonomy, he refuses to fit. At this point, Hume might joke about his
corpulence, as he does in a letter to David Mallet in . He resolves
“to resist, as a Temptation of the Devil, any Impulse towards writing”:
“I am really so much ashamd of myself when I see my Bulk on a Shelf, as
well as when I see it in a Glass, that I would fain prevent my growing more
corpulent either way. To keep my Mind at rest & my Body in motion
seems to be the best Recipe for both Maladies” (Letters :). But for a
philosopher, keeping the mind at rest is no small achievement. The easier
options – diversion, ignorance, lack of curiosity – never satisfy such a
character for long. To this list we can add the handing over of one’s
thinking to a political party or philosophical system. Instead, Hume chose
to remain a philosopher – one whose acts of public spirit included writing
the Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary. To call this an act of public spirit
is not to confuse it with a sacrificial offering. We know that he enjoyed
the rewards of money and pride. But it is to suggest that the Essays still
have the potential to benefit the philosophically minded reading public, as
I believe they do.

. Summary of Chapters

The following chapters address the Essays’ treatment of seven different
aspects of human life: governing, domineering, working, composing, self-
loving, loving, and thinking. In Chapter , I consider Hume’s judgments
about methods of governing. Although Hume recognizes the wisdom of
appealing to ancient political precedent, he undermines justifications
for doing so that appeal to reverence for the past. And he qualifies his
assessment of modern political progress by noting local errors in modern
government and an overconfidence that threatens progress itself. Turning
then to the political intervention question, I argue that Hume believes that
government has a limited role to play in improving human well-being,
consisting mainly in restraint rather than intervention.
Chapter , “Domineering,” considers ways in which humans exercise
power over one another as individual members of society or when civil
authorities fail to preserve peace. “Of the Populousness of Ancient
Nations,” plays a vital role here. I argue that the logic of this essay relies

See “My Own Life,” especially xxxviii–xl.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
on a conception of human nature that includes both universal, static
principles and significant malleability in response to circumstance. I then
apply this analysis to Hume’s comparisons of war and slavery in the
ancient and modern worlds. Last, I discuss Hume’s view of the priest-
hood. Here, Hume does not think moderns have made progress. He
argues that the priestly office encourages the growth of domineering
tendencies.
Chapter , “Working,” discusses Hume’s commitment to the value of
work and industry. Hume not only links progress in industry with political
freedom, virtue, and happiness; he believes industry to be a valuable end in
itself. An analysis of the four “essays on happiness” shows that valuing
industry is among those traits that he considers constants of human nature.
His view is radical in its thorough rejection of the claim that celebration of
work leads to neglecting humane pursuits in favor of utilitarian ends.
Chapter , “Composing,” turns to aesthetics, addressing the Essays’
treatment of how humans produce, experience, and study beautiful things.
Here, in some respects, Hume finds the ancients superior to the moderns.
But art can serve different needs at different moments in human develop-
ment. I consider his claim that modern eloquence is “much inferior” to
that of the ancients. I then argue that the Essays provide resources for the
idea that aesthetic pursuits can prove therapeutic for various emotional
disorders.
Chapter , “Self-Loving,” distinguishes between benign and malignant
forms of the “selfish system of morals.” The rhetorical force of writers like
La Rochefoucauld and Mandeville generates the power of the malignant
forms. A close reading of “Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature”
enables further understanding of the threat, through distinguishing between
the related concepts of self-love, pride, and vanity. Self-directed passions,
on Hume’s view, actually support our ability to help and love others.
I move to a discussion of love of others in Chapter , beginning by
comparing Hume’s views on possible conflicts between friendship and the
state with those of Aristotle and Cicero. Because Hume portrays such
conflicts as arising from natural principles of humanity, and because of
the difficulty of combining public spirit with private virtue, his views
imply that such conflicts will be perennial. I then turn to questions about


I offer no chapter solely dedicated to Hume’s treatment of religion, because he generally treats
religious practice as reducible to one of the other practices studied here (such as politics, domi-
neering, or thinking) or as a kind of emotional disorder. It is telling, I think, that the natural
one-word gerund to title such a chapter is “worshipping.” Yet worship is something about which
Hume has little to say, except, again, as it might be understood as serving some other need.

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 Introduction 
intimate relationships, showing that Hume’s views on sexuality are quite
progressive, with the exception of his treatment of homosexual desires.
The chapter concludes by considering Hume’s ambiguous position in the
history of gender progress.
Chapter , “Thinking,” asks what the Essays have to say about philoso-
phy’s value and function. I argue that it is mistaken to see the Essays as an
abandonment of philosophy and that the positive forms of philosophy
mentioned in the Essays share a family resemblance. They all suggest that
philosophy requires taking a distant perspective on people or the world.
This distance is not a view from nowhere but requires a dance of judg-
ment, where the philosopher must take up varying perspectives in a
nonpartisan spirit. Hume ultimately recommends mitigated hope as well
as mitigated scepticism.

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  

Governing

There is no denying the prevalence of political themes in the Essays. The

entire second volume was originally titled Political Discourses. The essays in
the first volume also address a variety of political issues, from liberty of the
press to the nature of the British constitution. I do not attempt here a
comprehensive study of Hume’s political theory – work that has been done
admirably by others and would require extended attention to the History
and Hume’s other philosophical writings. Instead, I focus on how the
Essays address narratives of political progress and decline. These narratives
are important not only for the philosopher assessing political systems but
also for the politician making policy decisions.

. The Antiquarian Principle

.. Antiquarian Constitutionalism

Progress narratives are relevant to policy decisions in part because of a
feature of human nature that Hume believes to underlie much resistance
to change. This “antiquarian principle,” if you will, is our disposition to
value things simply because they are old. It is the “humour of blaming the
present, and admiring the past” mentioned at the end of “Of the Popu-
lousness of Ancient Nations.”
The Treatise provides an extended explanation of this phenomenon,
which seems to contradict Hume’s claim that proximity in time and space


I will mention only some of the numerous helpful studies of Hume’s politics. For a classic and
influential study that emphasizes the importance of historical context, see Duncan Forbes’s Hume’s
Philosophical Politics. For a study of Hume’s political theory in relation to his moral philosophy, see
Russell Hardin’s David Hume: Moral and Political Theorist. Neil McArthur’s David Hume’s Political
Theory emphasizes the role of the Essays’ contribution to Hume’s view of civilization and concern
with progress. Andrew Sabl’s Hume’s Politics argues for the indispensability of the History to a
thorough understanding of Hume’s political views.



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 Governing 
intensifies our passions toward objects. A great distance, he says, has the
contrary effect of a small one. Contemplating greatness “enlarges the soul,
and gives it a sensible delight and pleasure” (T ...). Any object or
event at a great distance – or that suggests the idea of such distance – can
therefore generate and become associated with these elevating, delightful
impressions. This effect derives additional force from another principle of
human nature: opposition that is not overwhelming “inspires us with a
more than ordinary grandeur and magnanimity. In collecting our force to
overcome the opposition, we invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation
with which otherwise it wou’d never have been acquainted” (T ...).
But the imagination finds it more difficult to traverse time than space,
and more difficult to access the past, which is behind us, than the future,
which we seem always about to meet. Again, the magnified and spirited
impression transfers its quality to the distant object, so “all the relicts of
antiquity are . . . precious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than what
is brought even from the remotest parts of the world” (T ...).
Hume uses the word “veneration” repeatedly in this section of the
Treatise. Our tendency is to revere or even worship that which has
endured, in a way that can become superstitious. A look at one of his
discussions of debates over the British constitution will show how danger-
ous Hume believes the antiquarian principle can be. A peculiar character-
istic of these debates is the appeal to an “ancient constitution” – a myth
with deep roots in early modern law, as J. G. A. Pocock has shown in The
Ancient Constitution and the Feudal Law. Pocock demonstrates the com-
plexity of factors motivating appeals to an ancient constitution, especially
those related to traditions of customary law versus Roman law. He notes a
peculiar irony: that even those committed to law’s customary nature did
not tend to adopt a truly “historical conception” of law, as continually
evolving and adapting over time. Instead, they “came to believe that the
common law, and with it the constitution, had always been exactly what
they were now,” that they were formed at a time before the earliest
historical records. The developments of these views at the end of the
sixteenth and throughout the seventeenth centuries, along with their
resulting ironies, form the background of Hume’s analyses of constitu-
tional debates.


See T ...

See T .... Hume’s explanation is not entirely clear; the thought seems to be that a distance in
space always appears traversable, since any far-off point is accessible through a series of contiguous
close points. We cannot traverse temporal distances in the same way.

Ancient Constitution and the Feudal Law, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
The first edition of Essays, Moral and Political appears just over half a
century after the “Glorious Revolution” of –, which removed
Catholic James II from the throne, replacing him with Protestant Mary
II and William III. The revolution also led to the passage of England’s Bill
of Rights. The bill details James II’s abuses, stipulates that parliaments
should be held “frequently,” and asserts that the monarch cannot suspend
or dispense with laws, levy money for his own use, or keep a standing army
in peacetime without parliament’s consent. Here is explicit grounding for
a mixed system of government. Unsurprisingly, the revolution and Bill of
Rights did not usher in permanent agreement over the nature of Britain’s
constitution. Rather than celebrating and appealing to recent develop-
ments, all parties appeal to the alleged antiquity of the constitution. Hume
finds an amusing illustration in the controversy over Sir Robert Walpole.
Walpole received the title of Britain’s first prime minister, as a slur, at
the height of his power in the mid-eighteenth century. In a  speech
defending himself against removal from office, he blames his enemies for
imparting the title: “But having first conferred upon me a kind of mock
dignity, and stiled me the prime minister, they carry on the fiction which
has once heated their imaginations, and impute to me an unpardonable
abuse of that chimerical authority, which only they have thought it neces-
sary to bestow.” The controversy over Walpole’s power was incendiary.
Many members of parliament, with fears flowing from the legacy of both
Cromwell and James II, distrusted a fellow minister who skillfully mani-
pulated the system of royal patronage, even if this skill seemed sometimes
to benefit the nation by controlling public debt and promoting peace.
In this debate, both sides claimed the ancient and sacred authority of the
constitution.
Hume discusses this issue in “That Politics may be reduced to a
Science,” as an application of the lesson that good government depends
on structure rather than personality. M. A. Box holds that Hume “was
primarily concerned [in this essay] to show that political science is possible,
but as he wrote he must also have had in mind the practical effects of such
a thesis on the conduct of political disputes.” In fact, the essay exhibits an
overriding concern about the practical effects of this thesis and its implica-
tions for legislators and policy. Irrational veneration of the constitution


See Bill of Rights, , Regnal  Will and Mar Sess , c. , www.legislation.gov.uk/aep/Willand
MarSess///introduction.

William Cobbett, Cobbett’s parliamentary history of England, from the Norman Conquest, in  to
the year , .

Suasive Art of David Hume, .

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 Governing 
and the antiquarian principle are factors that must be considered in any
attempt to shape “wise regulations” in a state, which Hume says are “the
most valuable legacy that can be left to future ages” (..). The anti-
quarian principle, as a common feature of human psychology, cannot be
eliminated. But Hume endeavors to mitigate irrational veneration of the
constitution.
At EHU ., he asks, “How could politics be a science, if laws
and forms of government had not a uniform influence upon society?”
A possible response would agree that there must be regularities in how
people relate to government, yet claim that personality matters more than
structure. The science of politics would then study the virtues of good
leaders. Arguably, this is the project of Machiavelli’s Prince. But Machia-
velli’s own emphasis on fortune’s power suggests Hume’s concern: “the
casual humours and characters of particular men” cannot form the basis
of a stable politics (..). Although one might “cite many particular
instances in history, where the very same government, in different hands,
has varied suddenly into the two opposite extremes of good and bad,”
these only show the dependence of absolute governments on their rulers’
virtue (..). A “republican and free government,” on the other hand,
“would be an obvious absurdity, if the particular checks and controuls,
provided by the constitution, had really no influence, and made it not the
interest, even of bad men, to act for the public good. Such is the intention
of these forms of government, and such is their real effect, where they are
wisely constituted” (..–).
This claim elevates the constitution’s status in any purported republic. It
should therefore be no surprise when both parties to a political dispute in
such a nation claim to be the true upholders of the constitution. Given
Hume’s own concern with political stability, we might expect him to
reinforce this reverence for the constitution. He instead parodies the affec-
tation of such reverence on both sides in the Walpole dispute. Walpole’s
enemies insist on the boundless ill effects of his malfeasance:
To aggravate the charge, his pernicious conduct, it is said, will extend its
baleful influence even to posterity, by undermining the best constitution
in the world, and disordering that wise system of laws, institutions, and


Hume mentions, as an example of such a revolution, the French kings Henry III and Henry IV. In
the  edition, Hume removes another (perhaps more inflammatory) example that had appeared
in earlier editions – the reigns of Elizabeth and James I (with Elizabeth representing the superior
sovereign). He also removes a sentence suggesting that England was an absolute monarchy until the
mid-seventeenth century, “notwithstanding the numerous panegyrics on ancient English liberty”
(..).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
customs, by which our ancestors, during so many centuries, have been so
happily governed. (..)

Walpole’s friends, however, credit him with the single-handed protection

of the constitution:
At the same time, he crowns all his other merits by a religious care of the
best constitution in the world, which he has preserved in all its parts,
and has transmitted entire, to be the happiness and security of the latest
posterity. (Ibid.)

Both characterizations presume that the constitution is excellent, sacred,

and in need of protection. And both sides demand the protection appro-
priate for an ancient artifact: the constitution has governed “our ancestors”
for “so many centuries,” and care must be taken to preserve it as a legacy
for the next generation. But if the partisans apply this set of praises
appropriately, then their concern must be unwarranted.
If our constitution does in any degree deserve these eulogies, it would never
have suffered a wicked and weak minister to govern triumphantly for a
course of twenty years, when opposed by the greatest geniuses in the nation,
who exercised the utmost liberty of tongue and pen, in parliament, and in
their frequent appeals to the people. (..–)
In other words, no Walpole deserving the vituperation of his enemies
could threaten a constitution deserving their praise, because a “constitu-
tion is only so far good, as it provides a remedy against mal-administration”
(..). Before the “court” party supporting Walpole can feel smug,
however, Hume turns his pen against them. If the constitution deserved
their effusive praise, then they could have no reason to fear Walpole’s
political demise. A “change of ministry can be no such dreadful event; since
it is essential to such a constitution, in every ministry, both to preserve
itself from violation, and to prevent all enormities in the administration”
(..).
Hume’s stated aim here is “to draw a lesson of moderation” about this
dispute, without dampening public spirit (..). Some scholars have
construed this anti-factionalist aim as primarily one of calming violent
passions. Immerwahr notes that Hume often attempts to calm one passion
by raising an opposing one: in the Essays, by showing the merit of both


Cf. Edmund Burke’s “Speech on the Reform of the Representation of the Commons in Parliament”:
“Why, what have you to answer in favour of the prior rights of the Crown and Peerage but this – our
Constitution is a prescriptive Constitution; it is a Constitution, whose sole authority is, that it has
existed time out of mind” (Select Works, ).

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 Governing 
sides of a dispute. Immerwahr characterizes the result as “a cancelling
out” of violent political passions. Yet in these passages, Hume instead
discredits both sides to the dispute, and, as we will see, he uses language
that would inflame rather than dampen certain passions. He could have
left untouched the common ground between the sides: their veneration
of the constitution. Instead, his parodies of both sides imply either that
the dispute is a waste of time or that the constitution’s veneration is
unfounded.
Hume has some sympathy with the latter possibility. This is not to say
that he denigrates the British constitution; he consistently praises its mixed
form of government and recommends against foundational political innov-
ation. In the later “Of the Protestant Succession,” he writes that never
before have “so many millions of people . . ., during such a space of time,
been held together, in a manner so free, so rational, and so suitable to the
dignity of human nature” as the British since the revolution (..).
But such respect does not require venerating the constitution as ancient: it
is, he argues, an evolving and somewhat accidental establishment. Mark
G. Spencer has detailed the History’s sustained criticism of the notion of an
unchanging British constitution, noting that this was among “the overrid-
ing themes uniting Hume’s political essays with his History of England.”
Spencer observes that belief in the ancient constitution was a quintessen-
tially Whig position, but that Hume attacks Tory assertions about the
ancient power of monarchs as well.
Hume even introduces the possibility that the British constitution
might be not be worth defending at all. His language here is not at
all likely to tranquilize passions: if “our constitution is so very bad,” then
“so extraordinary a jealousy and apprehension, on account of changes, is ill
placed; and a man should no more be anxious in this case, than a husband,
who had married a woman from the stews, should be watchful to prevent
her infidelity” (..).

 
“Hume on Tranquillizing the Passions,” . “Anatomist and the Painter,” .

Hume acknowledges in “Of the Parties of Great Britain” that Britain’s mixed constitution requires
an “extremely delicate and uncertain balance” and is a necessary “source of division and party”
(..).

David Hume and Eighteenth-Century America, .

See ibid.,  and . For Hume’s discussion of the complex relation between the court/country
and Whig/Tory divisions, see “Of the Parties of Great Britain,” especially ..–.

Hume suggests that the constitution might be bad when directing his comments to the “court” but
not the “country” party. For a helpful discussion of the complex interplay of interests behind the
court/country division, see Knud Haakonssen’s introduction to Hume: Political Essays, xiii–xiv. For
Hume’s discussion of the complex relation between the court/country and Whig/Tory divisions, see
“Of the Parties of Great Britain,” especially ..–.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Why would Hume use this lewd analogy, when his aim is moderation of
a violent dispute? The irony deepens with the next sentence, in which he
claims that cases of bad government require “the patience and submission
of philosophers” rather than “the zeal of patriots.” Comparing the British
constitution to a prostitute, even hypothetically, is neither patient nor
submissive – a point of which Hume, who left the simile in every edition
of the Essays, must have been aware. The language is in stark contrast to his
usual style, which Adam Potkay memorably characterizes as “sparkling
blandness.”
This example shows that, in attempting to moderate factionalism,
Hume’s method is not always to tranquilize the passions. At times, he
seeks to inflame them. He writes earlier in the essay that “perhaps the
surest way of producing moderation in every party is to increase our zeal
for the public” (..). The “stews” passage could inflame zeal for the
constitution: the British constitution is an honest consort, and how dare
anyone suggest otherwise! Yet it also shows how extreme the options
become when people treat the constitution as a sacred relic rather than
the flawed construction of numerous generations. His irreverent language
thus satirizes partisan passions while encouraging public spirit.
At the same time, Hume’s violent language suggests how serious he con-
siders the threat of irrational attitudes about the constitution. A reasonable
attitude sees it as “excellent” but admitting “of mal-administration to a
certain degree” (..). It does not warrant “fighting pro aris & focis” – as if
it were a sacred relic. But the antiquarian principle makes such reasonable-
ness difficult. Although Hume recognizes the constitution as an evolving
structure, its evolution is convoluted and difficult to trace. It is so old
we cannot see its beginning, and this mysterious origin contributes to a
peculiar form of idolatry. The constitution becomes infused with mystical
power, transferable to whichever party can address it with the most fidelity.
This is a kind of superstition. We have seen him ask us to laugh at an
analogy between the constitution and a prostitute. In the next section,
I discuss his attempts to draw back the veil covering the ugly history of
the constitution’s development. These are forceful techniques, but Hume
believes dangerous superstition to be in need of unmasking.

.. Critical History

I now turn to a remarkable group of essays from the end of volume II,
“Of the Original Contract,” “Of Passive Obedience,” “Of the Coalition of
 
Fate of Eloquence, . See Section . below.

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 Governing 
Parties,” and “Of the Protestant Succession.” Hume did not compose
them as a set. “Of the Original Contract” and “Of Passive Obedience”
appeared with “Of National Characters” in , as Three Essays, Moral
and Political. “Of National Characters” was a late replacement for “Of the
Protestant Succession” in this early collection. “Of the Coalition of
Parties” does not appear until the  edition of Essays and Treatises on
Several Subjects, added to the end of some late printings. It assumes its final
place in the  edition of Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects.
Nonetheless, Hume’s eventual grouping of these essays reflects their unity
of theme and purpose. This purpose is, as he writes at the beginning of
“Of the Coalition of Parties,” to promote cooperation between Britain’s
factions, whose history reflects dangerous party divisions – those marked
by “opposite views with regard to the essentials of government, the succes-
sion of the crown, or the more considerable privileges belonging to the
several members of the constitution; where there is no room for any
compromise or accommodation, and where the controversy may appear
so momentous as to justify even an opposition by arms to the pretensions
of antagonists” (..). Again, Hume endeavors to moderate these
disputes by respecting each side’s point of view and cajoling both parties
to see what is reasonable or even laudable in the other. He does so from
multiple perspectives, which he characterizes as philosophical, practical,
and historical (..). Here too, however, Hume’s moderating aims do
not preclude an undermining, suspicious analysis of justificatory appeals
to the past. In fact, his analysis of contract theory, while making verbal
concessions to its proponents, eviscerates its moral force.
“Of the Original Contract” and “Of Passive Obedience” take up the
philosophical and practical perspectives, respectively. They address compet-
ing views about the relationship between a nation’s people and its sover-
eign, where one side maintains the view that the people have specifiable
rights of rebellion, while the other prohibits rebellion under any circum-
stances. Contract theory supports the former, and divine right the latter.
The essays’ titles, however, may mislead: it appears that “Of the Original
Contract” concerns only the contract view, and “Of Passive Obedience”
deals with divine right. Instead, each essay considers both views: “Of the
Original Contract” addresses “the speculative systems of politics,” while
“Of Passive Obedience” addresses “the practical consequences, deduced by
each party, with regard to the measures of submission due to sovereigns”


Although the latter essay was ready to go to press, Hume decided to follow advice not to publish it
in the tense climate resulting from the Jacobite uprising of . He includes it in the Political
Discourses in .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
(..). He titles the essays by the name of the view that requires more
serious consideration in each case. “Of the Original Contract” spends
much more time analyzing contract theory than divine right, which he
dismisses in one paragraph.
Does Hume then consider the Whigs – whom he associates with belief
in an original contract – the philosophers’ party, appropriate for those with
an open, speculative temperament? Hardly. The beginning of “Of the
Original Contract” satirizes all attempts to justify political parties on
philosophical principles. Modern party men invent theories “to protect
and cover” their actions, “as no party, in the present age, can well support
itself, without a philosophical or speculative system of principles, annexed
to its political or practical one” (..). Given their zeal and lack of
skill, “it is natural to imagine, that their workmanship must be a little
unshapely, and discover evident marks of that violence and hurry, in which
it was raised” (..–). Later, Hume intimates that no real philoso-
pher would subscribe to any political party, referring to “philosophers, who
have embraced a party (if that be not a contradiction in terms)” (..).
He ascribes no superior Socratic bent to the Whigs. Nonetheless, they
had taken the work of formidable philosophers as their blueprint and
thus created a structure of more interest to philosophical critics of this
architecture.
Having dismissed divine right by arguing that the theory would also
establish divine right of pirates, usurpers, and constables, Hume begins
his treatment of the original contract. A state of nature vignette with a
Hobbesian bent follows, emphasizing the roughly equal chance that people
in such a state have of subduing one another. In these circumstances, no
one person could physically overcome the others: “A man’s natural force
consists only in the vigour of his limbs, and the firmness of his courage;
which could never subject multitudes to the command of one” (..).
Therefore, people must have consented to submit to the first leaders. But
this consent required no discrete, explicit decision; it developed gradually
through the influence of habit. The idea of a “compact or agreement,”
Hume writes, was “far beyond the comprehension of savages” (..).


Divine right theory had already suffered devastating philosophical criticism, particularly in Locke’s
first Treatise of Government, although it continued to have a place in public rhetoric in the
eighteenth century. See, however, Nicholas Phillipson, “Propriety, Property, and Prudence,” for
an account of how divine right rhetoric was resurrected in the periodical press of the early
eighteenth century, particularly by Charles Leslie’s Rehearsals (–).

For Hume’s association of Whigs with the original contract, see ... Harris notes that
Walpolean era Whigs may have had little attraction to contract theory (Hume, n).

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 Governing 
They first simply followed the chief’s lead when inspired to do so. “The
sensible utility, resulting from his interposition, made these exertions
become daily more frequent; and their frequency gradually produced an
habitual, and, if you please to call it so, a voluntary, and therefore precari-
ous, acquiescence in the people” (..).
Forbes finds Hume’s conceding original consent to be a violation of the
principle of economy, marring the realism of Hume’s account of govern-
ment’s evolution. Forbes writes that in both the Treatise and “Of the
Original Contract,” “Hume is at pains to demonstrate that all men being
nearly equal in bodily force and mental powers, there must, on the first
establishment of government, have been a contract: men must have given
promises and been obliged by them.” It is therefore an improvement
when the contract “disappears altogether” in “Of the Origin of Govern-
ment” – the last essay, added only in the  edition. But this analysis
overlooks the deflationary quality of Hume’s characterization of the ori-
ginal contract in the essay by that name. In the Treatise, he does assert
that “government, upon its first establishment, wou’d naturally be suppos’d
to derive its obligation” from the moral obligation attending promises
(T ...). To say that something would naturally be supposed is not
the same as supposing it oneself. But in the essay, he drops all reference to
promises and moral obligation in his description of the original contract
that he countenances. He now only uses the language of promises when
referring to the contract theorists’ own view. He instead describes the
natural fact of Hobbesian equality and infers that emerging peoples had
to follow someone’s lead willingly. The conditions of submission need not
have been expressed, and the agreement “preceded the use of writing and
all the other civilized arts of life” (..). Some elements that Hume
believes eventually produce a duty to allegiance, including benefit to the
people, are present here. But there is no reason to construe these people as
having a concept of moral obligation to allegiance, let alone the notion that


Cf. “Of the Origin of Government”: “It is probable, that the first ascendant of one man over
multitudes began during a state of war; where the superiority of courage and of genius discovers
itself most visibly, where unanimity and concert are most requisite, and where the pernicious effects
of disorder are most sensibly felt. The long continuance of that state, an incident common among
savage tribes, enured the people to submission; and if the chieftain possessed as much equity as
prudence and valour, he became, even during peace, the arbiter of all differences, and could
gradually, by a mixture of force and consent, establish his authority” (..–).

Hume’s Philosophical Politics, .

Forbes overstates his case in saying that the idea of an original contract “disappears altogether” in
“Of the Origin of Government.” Hume refers to “the consent, tacit or express,” that generates the
power of the first leaders (..).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
their consent could produce it. They would only need the mutual recog-
nition that the chief could not make the people do anything without their
going along to some degree.
Forbes notes that the paragraph referring to the imperfection of
the contract and the claim that the idea of a compact or agreement is
“far beyond the comprehension of savages” was added in the  edition
as well. It does seem that Hume wanted to clarify his position and its
consistency with “Of the Origin of Government.” His views on this point
may well have evolved, but the evolution could have happened between
the composition of the Treatise and the essay. The  edition of “Of the
Original Contract” does not portray the original contract as having the
moral force that Forbes attributes to it. It makes a merely verbal concession
to the contract theorists – one whose insignificance becomes clearer both
in the late revision to and in the progression of the original essay. Its final
version presents a story of political evolution that subverts any attempt to
ground the obligation of allegiance in historical narratives.
Consider again Hume’s portrayal of original consent. In refusing to
imagine prehistorical peoples, with no experience of political structures
and only the beginnings of theoretical reflection, conferring on a hillside to
form a constitutional agreement, Hume concurs with Rousseau’s insist-
ence that state of nature accounts must not transfer “to the state of nature
ideas they had taken from society.” The principles of human nature
that gave rise to the first governments were not our abilities to formulate
abstract rules to overcome practical problems, but our capacity to develop
cooperative enterprises through subtle means of communication and our
tendency to form second natures through habituation.
Humanity’s first moves toward governing structures need not have even
used verbal language, although the development of those structures cer-
tainly would have. One person, talented at locating and tracking prey,
might have waved her fellows over a hill with prosperous results, thus
encouraging others to follow her lead in future expeditions. In “Of the
Origin of Government,” however, Hume says that the probable context
for the first elevation of a leader was tribal war. Regardless, his claim that


Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on Inequality, . “Of the Original Contract” predates the
composition of Rousseau’s second discourse by six years.

Simon Evnine argues that “Of the Original Contract” provides evidence for Hume’s commitment
to the view that even reason (in a broad sense) might develop historically (“Hume, Conjectural
History, and the Uniformity of Human Nature,” –).

For a discussion of the relation between language development and the development of artificial
justice conventions in the Treatise, see Annette Baier, Progress of Sentiments, –.

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 Governing 
the notion of a contract was “far beyond the comprehension of savages”
implies that the founders of the first civil societies could not engage
in exercises as advanced as Lockean contracting, as Simon Evnine has
argued. The reasonableness of their submission could only appear retro-
spectively, as a happy result of the interaction between nature and circum-
stances. It could not be seen in advance by early reasoners, and therefore
could not legitimate that submission. Indeed, the notion of legitimacy
seems out of place here altogether.
Hume’s description of early agreements to submit to authority tran-
scend animal hierarchies: early humans recognize submission’s utility,
resulting in voluntary acquiescence. But such voluntariness cannot bear
much moral weight. Recall his precise words: “their frequency gradually
produced an habitual, and, if you please to call it so, a voluntary, and
therefore precarious, acquiescence” (emphasis added). Habit exerts the real
power here.
Hume makes little distinction between custom and habit, sometimes
using the words interchangeably. He shares with Montaigne a recognition
of custom’s power. It is, Montaigne says, “Circe’s drink, which carries our
nature as it sees fit.” Hume’s commitment to habit’s importance is
consistent across his authorship. In the Treatise, it is “one of the principles
of nature” that can reconcile “us to any phaenomenon” (T ...). Its
role in his account of causation is well known; in the first Enquiry, he
writes that the principle that impels inferences between cause and effect
is “custom or habit” (EHU .). And varying manners across ages and
countries show “the great force of custom and education, which mould the
human mind from its infancy, and form it into a fixed and established
character” (EHU .). We learn to follow leaders because it first seems
like a good idea, and because we have natural tendencies to go along with
our fellows and to form habitual practices through repeating behaviors.
“Voluntary” acquiescence to the first forms of government, then, was
not mature reason’s autonomous consent. It was gradual submission
resulting from our natural tendencies. Hume has already moved far from
a substantial contract theory, whose power depends on the idea that
agreement legitimates authority. As a lender can hold us responsible for


Evnine, “Hume, Conjectural History, and the Uniformity of Human Nature,” –. Evnine
draws out the contrast with Locke, arguing that Locke “in general is prepared to extend to ‘savages’
the same intellectual powers that he attributes to civilized people” ().

“Of Experience,” Essays, .

Hume is more likely to use “habit” than “custom” in the Treatise to refer to the principle that gives
rise to such reasoning as causal inferences.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
repaying a loan that we freely contracted for, a sovereign can legitimately
demand our allegiance in return for benefits that we freely sought.
The arrangement’s legitimacy depends on the contracting act. But for
Hume, the agreement is a gradual development, freely chosen in only a
loose sense.
Of course, we should not saddle contract theorists like Locke and
Hobbes with absurd historical accounts of the original submission to
government. Neither believes that government’s legitimacy requires a
signing ceremony. Locke in fact aims to undermine the notion that we
are bound by the moral force of events that happened in some mythical
golden age, such as God’s originally conferring authority on Adam. As
Evnine notes, Locke’s emphasis on the power of everyone’s present con-
sent is an “ahistorical theory of the social contract.”
Hume, on the other hand, seems to locate the time of consent in a
historical past. He does not believe there to have been a single moment
at which government was formed, or even that all polities have formed
in the same way. But for Hume, “civil society has a history,” as John
B. Stewart puts it. In discussing the Treatise’s more complex story,
Stewart distinguishes stages of civil society’s development but notes that
Hume is not committed to the view that each society must progress
through each stage in a specific order. Nonetheless, although humans have
always lived in family relationships, governmental institutions evolved in
actual time. Hume’s detailed descriptions of government’s slow progres-
sion include reasonable suggestions for how leadership may have arisen
and evolved. His historical writings are full of references to societies
progressing from barbarous to more civilized states. He does insist on the
fictional status of the state of nature in both the Treatise and second
Enquiry (T ...– and EPM .–). But what he calls fictional
and impossible for real human beings is sustaining an asocial or radically
individualistic state for any length of time. The distinction between the


This conception of right holds even if we conceive of the agreement as necessarily repeated each
time a member of society reaches adulthood and chooses to remain in a polity. The notion that each
member of society needs to individually make the assent reinforces the general idea.

Evnine, “Hume, Conjectural History, and the Uniformity of Human Nature,” . For a
discussion of the eighteenth-century rejection of contract theories because of an increased
emphasis on historical evidence, see Christopher J. Berry, “From Hume to Hegel,” –.

Mark Goldie claims that, in his “critique of social contract theory,” Hume had in mind not simply
Locke but a composite Whig doctrine, which treated the idea of contract as a historical as well as an
ahistorical phenomenon” (“English System of Liberty,” ).

Opinion and Reform in Hume’s Political Philosophy, . Hume’s history of civil society is
conjectural history, as Stewart recognizes. I discuss conjectural history in Section ..

On this point, see Forbes, Hume’s Philosophical Politics, .

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 Governing 
original tendency to form social relationships, as opposed to the evolution-
ary nature of government, is clear at the beginning of “Of the Origin of
Government”: “Man, born in a family, is compelled to maintain society,
from necessity, from natural inclination, and from habit. The same crea-
ture, in his farther progress, in engaged to establish political society” (..,
emphasis added).
Does Hume’s interest in civil society’s historical progress imply that
his respect for the past’s ability to justify governmental authority outstrips
that of contract theorists like Locke? Humean consent, even if it took
place once upon a real time, lacks the ethical force required to sustain
this interpretation. According to contract theory, legitimate governments
do not require a discrete moment of consent, but they do require the
moral apparatus, if you will, that accompanies contractual agreement.
Free rational agents authorize the sovereign’s right to rule over them. This
consent carries much of the moral weight that justifies the ruler’s power
and the subjects’ submission. Hume’s portrayal of consent as a long,
gradual process depending on the subtle force of habit – a process of
which people may be largely unaware – cripples consent’s ability to carry
that weight.
The moral impotence of the process coheres with Hume’s view about
the obligation to allegiance after civil society’s original establishment.
People do not ordinarily decide to join a polity or acquiesce to a sovereign.
Instead, they find themselves under the power of a sovereign whose
authority they did not choose. “Can we seriously say,” Hume asks, “that
a poor peasant or artisan has a free choice to leave his country, when he
knows no foreign language or manners, and lives from day to day, by
the small wages which he acquires? We may as well assert, that a man,
by remaining in a vessel, freely consents to the dominion of the master;
though he was carried on board while asleep, and must leap into the ocean,
and perish, the moment he leaves her” (..).
The violent analogy reflects the type of forces that, according to Hume,
usually establish government authority. He describes a bloody field of
history, advancing a narrative that rivals Hegel’s description of “an altar
on which the happiness of nations, the wisdom of states, and the virtues of
individuals are slaughtered.” The most common mode of establishment


It need not carry all of the moral weight. Locke’s theory depends heavily on obligations generated
by a theistic conception of the natural law. On Hume’s emphasis on consent in contract theories,
see Stephen Buckle and Dario Castiglione, “Hume’s Critique of the Contract Theory,” –.

Hegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of World History: Introduction, . Of course, for Hegel, this is a
perspective that ultimately should be overcome.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
has been “usurpation or conquest, or both, without any pretence of a fair
consent, or voluntary subjection of the people” (..). There has been
much transfer of power: “The face of the earth is continually changing” by
the formation and dissolution of empires, colonization, and migration. But
the transfers are not contractual exchanges: “Is there any thing discoverable
in all these events, but force and violence?” (ibid.). More peaceable transi-
tions, “by marriage or a will” treat the general populace like property “to be
disposed of, like a dowry or a legacy, according to the pleasure or interest
of their rulers” (..–). And nothing could be dimmer than Hume’s
assessment of the “highly vaunted” practice of instituting government by
election:
It is either the combination of a few great men, who decide for the whole,
and will allow of no opposition: Or it is the fury of a multitude, that follow
a seditious ringleader, who is not known, perhaps to a dozen among them,
and who owes his advancement merely to his own impudence, or to the
momentary caprice of his fellows. (..)
This judgment precedes a litany of examples ranging from ancient Athens
to the so-called Glorious Revolution itself. Thus, he concludes, it is
time to admit that force has been the origin of “almost all” new govern-
ments and that “in the few cases, where consent may seem to have taken
place, it was commonly so irregular, so confined, or so much intermixed
either with fraud or violence, that it cannot have any great authority”
(..–).
Force, violence, fury, impudence, caprice, and fraud: this narrative has
nothing to do with moral veneration of the past.

.. The Priority of the Present

There has been much debate over whether or not Hume is one of the
fathers of modern political conservatism. Criticism of Hume as a closet
Tory, especially because of the History’s treatment of the English Civil
War, goes back to the eighteenth century. Donald Livingston calls


In the – edition, Hume adds that he does not intend “to exclude the consent of the people
from being one just foundation of government where it has place. It is surely the best and most
sacred of any. I only pretend, that it has very seldom had place in any degree, and never almost in its
full extent” (..). This concession does little to change the bent of the rest of the essay.

Spencer has shown that this view of the History has not been nearly as ubiquitous as many scholars
have claimed, particularly by Americans during the Revolutionary period. See David Hume and
Eighteenth-Century America, especially chapter .

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 Governing 
Hume “the first conservative philosopher,” in response to Stewart’s
influential argument in Opinion and Reform in Hume’s Political Philosophy
that Hume is a political liberal. Any attempt to capture Hume’s political
views in this contemporary terminology will necessarily be misleading,
but I will not try to adjudicate this debate. Instead, let us consider how
Hume’s understanding of humanity’s relation to the past affects many of
those statements that suggest political conservatism.
The Essays are rife with appeals to the authority of precedent. At the
beginning of “Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,” where we might expect
to find Hume in an innovating mood, he instead warns against tinkering
with the settled order. “An established government has an infinite advan-
tage, by that very circumstance of its being established” (..). The
“wise magistrate” will thus “bear a reverence to what carries the marks of
age.” A dramatic expression of Hume’s suspicion of innovation comes in
an approving reference to the ancients at the end of “Of the Original
Contract”: “The crime of rebellion among the ancients was commonly
expressed by the terms νεωτερίζειν, novas res moliri” (..). Both terms
mean to bring about something new, to innovate. How can Hume
approve of such sentiments, yet ridicule those who invoke the age of
political institutions to bolster their authority? The answer is that such
statements are not about the past, but the present.
Hume gives two reasons why “wise magistrates,” all else being equal,
should respect established precedents over improving schemes. One reflects
his respect for sound instrumental reason, the other his respect for the truth
that most people do not act from reason most of the time.
The improving spirit that Hume argues against sees politics as not only
a science, but as a techne. From this perspective, we can improve a people’s
condition much as we improve a manufacturing process: locating flaws in
the process, drawing on general knowledge of how manufacturing works,
and applying that knowledge to correct the flaws. But things are not so
simple even in manufacturing and are even less so in human affairs.
General rules of politics, though valuable, fail in particular cases, and it
is impossible to predict with certainty when and how they will fail. The


“On Hume’s Conservatism,” . Livingston has a nuanced understanding of the meaning of
“conservatism”; much of this article discusses its historical and philosophical ambiguity. See also his
Hume’s Philosophy of Common Life, chapter .

McArthur provides a helpful summary of the history of this debate in the introduction to David
Hume’s Political Theory.

For a comparison between Hume’s recognition of the importance of chance (unknown causes) for
politics and Machiavelli’s emphasis on fortune and accidenti, see Frederick G. Whelan, Hume and
Machiavelli, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
technological perspective cannot accommodate such variables. Customs,
however, often evolve in response to particularities of a polity’s situa-
tion, and the populace adapts to prevailing customs. Such customs may
address human needs better than general rules. Instrumental reason there-
fore demands that we respect peculiar precedent as a means to general
political ends.
Hume hints at this point in a number of places and illustrates it with
striking examples in “Of Some Remarkable Customs.” The three customs
he considers show that “all general maxims in politics ought to be estab-
lished with great caution” (..). Each, in the abstract, appears
absurd. But on closer examination, each makes sense within its context.
First, the Athenian “indictment of illegality,” according to which one
could be prosecuted for proposing a law even after it had been passed,
was a necessary check on the instability of the “tumultuous” system of
direct democracy (..–). In this system, the lack of mediation
between the people’s whims and the actions of the polis threatened chaos.
Second, the Roman republic’s dual legislatures – one aristocratic, one
plebeian – could “preserve the greatest harmony and concord” despite
their opposing interests and lack of any subordinating principle to decide
between them (..). The unusual power of a people “having
numbers and force on their side, and being elated with frequent conquests
and victories in their foreign wars” limited the aristocracy’s ability to
impose on the lower classes (..). Finally, the English custom of
pressing men into the navy, with neither their consent nor express legal
authority, preserved liberty. The practice fulfilled the need to support the
English navy without granting wide-ranging monarchical power that could
lead to tyrannical abuse. In each case, what appears irrational from a
distance works in a unique situation. That all these customs were eventu-
ally abandoned does not prove that they were unreasonable when prac-
ticed. As situations change, the policies responding to them must also
change. In some cases, however, respecting precedent can be more reason-
able than innovation.
In another sense, respecting precedent can be based on an unreasonable
principle of human nature – the antiquarian principle – but still be sound
policy. Although the attraction to age often misleads our judgment and
confounds those who see weaknesses in precedents, it is so widespread and
powerful that politicians and political philosophers ignore it at their peril.
Returning to “Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,” we must now consider
the end of a sentence I quoted only partially before. “An established
government has an infinite advantage, by that very circumstance of its

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 Governing 
being established,” Hume says, “the bulk of mankind being governed
by authority, not reason, and never attributing authority to any thing that
has not the recommendation of antiquity” (..). The advantage of
established government is that people accept it as their rightful govern-
ment, and this is no small matter. It is required for the beneficial effects
that, Hume argues, generate a legitimate relation between sovereign and
subject.
To see why, recall Hume’s arguments against contract theory. The
obligating force of contracts requires free and acknowledged consent,
and few people believe that they have given such consent. But Hume does
not think that the duty to allegiance requires consent. It arises, rather, from
“experience and observation” of the benefit of a system of authority –
“society cannot possibly be maintained without the authority of magis-
trates, and . . . this authority must soon fall into contempt, where exact
obedience is not payed to it.” Recognition of this benefit “is the source of
all allegiance, and of that moral obligation, which we attribute to it”
(..).
These benefits require a critical mass of people accepting a particular
sovereign’s authority. Without this acceptance, the society will be vulner-
able to rampant crime at best and civil war at worst. In the most extreme
circumstances, the duty to allegiance dissolves, as Hume claims at the
beginning of “Of Passive Obedience”: “as government binds us to obedi-
ence only on account of its tendency to public utility, that duty must
always, in extraordinary cases, when public ruin would evidently attend
obedience, yield to the primary and original obligation” (..). (The
“original obligation” is the motive of promoting the people’s interest.)
Because most people, however, accept authority when it bears the patina
of antiquity, antiquity becomes indispensable to the duty of allegiance.
The general benefit of government only generates a reason to submit to
some government. In “Of the First Principles of Government,” Hume
writes that public opinion, including the opinion that the present sover-
eign has a right to power, is essential to the support of any particular
government. Moreover, a sure way to garner that support is to appeal


Hume explains this process in more detail in the Treatise. The approval of the virtue of allegiance
requires sympathizing with its usual effects, which produces the approbation and disapprobation
required for moral distinctions. See T ... See also “Of the Origin of Government,” especially
–.

Ryu Susato notes the similarity between this paragraph at .. and a passage from William
Temple’s “Essay upon the Original and Nature of Government” () (Hume’s Sceptical
Enlightenment, ).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
to the “attachment which all nations have to their ancient government,
and even to those names, which have had the sanction of antiquity,” as
antiquity “always begets the opinion of right” (..). Although several
factors are relevant, all else being equal, people will defend the claims to
power of those whom they believe to have long possessed it.
Neil McArthur provides distinctions that help clarify Hume’s position.
McArthur distinguishes views about which standards can justify political
changes from views about when it is appropriate to implement justified
changes. He then identifies two views of the first kind: “particularism” and
“universalism,” where particularists subscribe to a standard of custom and
tradition. They hold that “the best society is one that conforms to the
established customs and traditions of that particular society.” Universal-
ists believe in “truths about, for instance, human nature or the relation of
individual and society” that can ground “prescriptive principles that apply
to all, or a wide variety of, societies.” Their standards therefore can
transcend the particularities of a society, although they need not believe
those standards to be rooted in universal reason. McArthur then identifies
two views about when to implement changes: “traditionalism” and “pre-
cautionary conservatism.” Traditionalists are particularists, but they add
to the justificatory view an insistence that action be taken if change to
the current political situation would enable a return to “long-established
custom and tradition.” Precautionary conservatives, by contrast, can be
either universalists or particularists, but they advise change based on an
assessment of risks. This assessment tends to recommend against change
because of the high likelihood of disorder. Hume, McArthur holds, is a
both a universalist and a precautionary conservative.
Thus far, McArthur’s analysis is helpful and persuasive. One aspect of
that analysis requires qualification, however. He claims that it “is a central
feature of precautionary conservatism that it makes it possible to distin-
guish between the validity of political ideals and the wisdom of actually
implementing them.” He also provides textual evidence that Hume
makes this distinction “between justification and prudence,” while con-
sistently prioritizing prudence. But the complex relationship between a
critical mass of public approval and the duty to allegiance means that
prudential considerations cannot for Hume be neatly separated from
justification. Without sufficient acceptance of a present establishment, it


On the complexity of factors determining public opinion about sovereign authority, see Susato,
Hume’s Sceptical Enlightenment, –.
   
David Hume’s Political Theory, . Ibid. Ibid., . Ibid., .

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 Governing 
does not produce the benefit that generates the approbation necessary for
a moral obligation to allegiance. The people’s opinion, therefore, must be
taken into consideration when determining whether or not resistance is
justified.
That opinion, Hume believes, generally will be swayed by the percep-
tion of antiquity. But concern for the antiquarian principle cannot eclipse
all other concerns. When antiquity confronts present violence, antiquity
must yield. “Of Passive Obedience” justifies withdrawing allegiance to an
established government on the grounds of what is presently necessary.
Moreover, although Hume voices scruples about the right of resistance he
has just defended, saying that he “shall always incline to their side, who
draw the bond of allegiance very close,” his scruples arise from concern
about the habits of the current populace and their leaders (..).
Philosophers who detail when it is permissible to rebel may provide
excuses for those disposed to stir up discontent. Even in less precarious
situations, the sense that rebellion is an option can cause trouble, as rulers
who sense “a disposition to rebellion” in the people act tyrannically to keep
the people in check. It is therefore best for everyone if philosophers avoid
dwelling on the situations in which the duty to allegiance fails, let alone
describing them “with all the vehemence of argument and eloquence”
(..). Such efforts can corrupt the present populace and the rulers,
to everyone’s detriment.
Hume evinces the same concern for the people’s current sensibility at
the beginning of “Of the Protestant Succession.” He remarks that restoring
the Stuart line to the throne would have preserved “the succession clear
and undisputed . . . with such a specious title as that of blood, which, with
the multitude, is always the claim, the strongest and most easily compre-
hended” (..). (“Specious” did not necessarily connote sophistry or
insincerity; its basic meaning is “plausible” or “attractive.”) He reflects on
the general reverence for princes associated with respect for the hereditary
line. Public devotion derives force from our attachment “to those names,


This claim does not undermine McArthur’s main argument in this section of his book. I agree that
Hume provides standards for judging societies and polities that transcend customs, and that Hume
can therefore distinguish between justification of political ideals and the prudence of implementing
those ideals. But the distinction cannot be made cleanly with respect to particular acts of resistance.

Hume’s view may be more extreme – that responsible thinkers should sometimes actively conceal
the right to resistance. For a discussion of this possibility, drawing on Hume’s account of Charles I’s
execution in The History of England, see Buckle and Castiglione, “Hume’s Critique of the Contract
Theory,” –.

It was this kind of attempt to represent charitably the Jacobite position that made this essay
controversial enough to be initially suppressed. See note .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
which have had the sanction of antiquity.” These are powerful sentiments,
and Hume warns against attempts to purge them. If a wise person were
able to overcome these sentiments himself, his wisdom would still make
him appreciate them in others: “Far from endeavouring to undeceive the
people in this particular, he would cherish such sentiments of reverence
to their princes; as requisite to preserve a due subordination in society”
(..)
That what matters here is present sentiment, as opposed to past estab-
lishment, becomes clear at the end of the essay, where Hume insists that
Jacobite arguments become incoherent in light of the present stability of
the Hanoverian reign. The Hanovers had been in possession of the crown
long enough to create loyalty in British subjects, so “that now we should
not, even by a revolution, obtain the end of avoiding a disputed title”
(..). The past attachment to the Stuart family thus loses all its
power as an argument in favor of their entitlement to the throne.
Finally, in “Of the Coalition of Parties,” Hume takes on the mid-
seventeenth-century controversy between royalists and the “popular party.”
Each party appealed to past precedent to support its claims, and Hume
again speaks in the voice of both sides. Though the popular party begins
with references to the sacredness of liberty, acknowledging that recent
precedent is not on their side, they insist that they are recovering a more
ancient tradition: “more remote reigns afford instances of stricter limita-
tions imposed on the crown; and those pretensions of the parliament, now
branded with the title of innovations, are only a recovery of the just rights
of the people” (..).
In this dispute, Hume’s heart does not appear to be with the populists
(which would be no surprise to readers of the History). The royalist holds
the stage for a much longer time, and his voice sounds very like Hume’s
own. He proposes to speak for the royalists’ position “at the assembling
of that parliament, which, by its violent encroachments on the crown,
began the civil wars” (..). This accusation against the populists
is in Hume’s own voice, not that of the imagined royalist. Although he
ultimately expresses admiration for the constitutional settlement effected
by the popular party, he demurs by saying that “perhaps, according
to the established maxims of lawyers and politicians, the views of the


Cf. Hume’s remark on the scrutiny of the king by the commons: “the commons, though themselves
the greatest innovators, employed the usual artifice of complaining against innovations, and
pretending to recover the ancient and established government” (H :).

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 Governing 
royalists ought, before-hand, to have appeared more solid, more safe, and
more legal” (..).
What were these solid, safe, and legal views? That the power of the
crown had been long and well established, that the alleged earlier period of
liberty was really one of baron tyranny, and that, in sum, the “true rule
of government is the present established practice of the age” (..,
emphasis added). Hume never denies this last claim; he instead points
out that its force is now transferred to those in favor of broader liberty.
Those who would now attempt “to recall the past government or abdicated
family, would, besides other more criminal imputations, be exposed, in
their turn, to the reproach of faction and innovation” (..).
Hume does respect precedent and warn against tinkering with what
history, tradition, and custom has established. But this respect has nothing
to do with nostalgic attachment to the past, or a sense that what bears the
marks of age demands the tribute of reverence. It rests instead on beliefs
about what the people will respect and a concern for stability in govern-
ment. Arguments attempting to establish the antiquity of one system over
another are often historically suspect – revisionist histories driven by
present desires, needs, and agendas. Such arguments never settle a dispute
in the absence of careful consideration of what the present populace needs
and will accept. Though the past has its influence, the ultimate arbiter
of disputes about these matters will be the present state of the populace
and its relation to the sovereign who happens to be in power. As he says
in “Of Commerce,” “Sovereigns must take mankind as they find them,
and cannot pretend to introduce any violent change in their principles
and ways of thinking” (..). Those who cleave to the past because
they believe that such an anchor is the only refuge from political tempests
deceive themselves about the possibility of unchanging seas. And those
who cleave to the past because they believe that it possesses sacred autho-
rity exhibit a kind of superstition, with all its associated dangers. Since
the tendency to this superstition crosses party lines, Hume cannot mitigate
it by the reasoned appeal to each party’s better arguments. He instead
seeks to undermine it, through incisive satire and a critical history of the
foundation of government.


In a passage removed for the  edition from “Of the First Principles of Government,” Hume
suggests that the association between antiquity and opinion of right may be called enthusiasm
(..). He does not always preserve the clear distinction between superstition and enthusiasm
that he makes in the essay by that title.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays

. A Great Change for the Better

When it comes to governing, Hume’s answer to the assessment question is
clear. He has little patience with those who fail to appreciate the advances
from “barbarism” to civilization that he sees in the history of Great Britain
and the larger trajectory of Western history. Nonetheless, two qualifica-
tions to this progressive view are in order. First, in some areas there has
been either unsustainable progress, no progress at all, or even decline.
Second, moderns tend to deceive themselves about the degree to which
their own ideas and virtues are responsible for that progress.
Hume’s conception of progress is not always palatable. For example,
his commitment to the value of a distinct aristocratic class leads him
to criticize ancient protests against property requirements for legisla-
tive and executive offices. In these ancient societies, the “very quality of
freemen gave such a rank, being opposed to that of slave, that it seemed to
entitle the possessor to every power and privilege of the commonwealth”
(..). Hume disapproves of extending this power and privilege to
those without property. Ancient governments careened between unstable
and violent democracies, at one extreme, and aristocracies who had to rule
recalcitrant subjects with a heavy hand, at the other. In contrast, most of
Europe’s republics are “well-tempered Aristocracies” (..). Modern
polities, he holds, have done well not to emulate this aspect of the ancient
spirit of liberty.
Hume also resists praise of the ancient “simplicity” of manners, which
would prefer Socrates’ city for swine to the modern luxury state. I discuss
this more in Chapter , on “Working,” but suffice it to say that Hume
does not take moral decline to accompany economic progress. He likewise
resists the notion that the story of Rome’s decline provides a moral against
modern decadence. Rome fell, he insists, because of “an ill modelled
government, and the unlimited extent of conquests,” not because of their
luxurious indulgences (..). Nor does Hume fear the rise of larger
nations as necessarily threatening progress in liberty. He argues against this
fear at the end of “Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth.” Though conceding
the difficulty of uniting a large country under a republican government, he
contends that once such a government is established, it can be more stable


Cf. the justification of Athens’s “indictment of illegality,” mentioned earlier. In “Of Some
Remarkable Customs,” Hume makes the same criticism of ancients’ anti-aristocratic sentiments.
See ..–.

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 Governing 
than a republican city or small commonwealth. Such a nation combines
democratic liberty with aristocratic order. Its large size is an advantage, as
“the parts are so distant and remote, that it is very difficult, either by
intrigue, prejudice, or passion, to hurry them into any measures against the
public interest” (..).
Hume tempers some of his strongest praise of ancient governments,
moreover, with qualifications that transform it into censure. In “Of
Commerce,” he discusses the ancient practice of employing superfluous
labor to support military force rather than indulging citizens’ desire for
luxury. This practice produced states more powerful than modern states
of equal size. Yet such power fed off individual unhappiness, and he
recommends against resurrecting the practice. It worked only because of
the ancient republics’ peculiarities and required “violent” policy, “contrary
to the more natural and usual course of things” (..).
To the general assessment question, “Of Civil Liberty” provides a direct
answer. Hume writes that “all kinds of government, free and absolute,
seem to have undergone, in modern times, a great change for the better,
with regard both to foreign and domestic management” (..). This
is from an early essay, published in , but Hume never withdraws
this sentiment. On Britain’s own government, he can sound like a
Pollyanna. We have seen his claim in “Of the Protestant Succession” that
the “Glorious Revolution” ushered in a period of unprecedented harmony
within the government, liberty for the people, and economic and intellec-
tual flourishing (see ..).
In later years, Hume is less sanguine about Britain. Yet as late as January
, he still asserts that things are much better than they used to be. In a
letter to Thomas Percy, though Hume laments the present “miserabl[e]
Degeneracy” and fears “a sudden Inroad of Ignorance, Superstition and
Barbarism,” he asks: “Why still exalt Old England for a Model of Govern-
ment and Laws; Praises which it by no means deserves? And why still


In contrast, Hume thinks that extensive monarchies are “probably, destructive to human nature”
(..–).

Harris conjectures that Jean-François Melon influences Hume here. Melon defends “commerce as a
means of national aggrandisement superior to the brute force of military power” and argues that
“luxury, under attack in France since the rise of Fénelon and the fall of Cobert, should be
recognised as ‘always . . . attendant upon every well-governed society’” (Hume, ).

He seems later to retract the example he gives after this statement, however. “Of Civil Liberty” says,
“The balance of power is a secret in politics, fully known only to the present age.” But “Of the
Balance of Power” argues that the ancient Greeks did recognize this principle and act accordingly.
See later discussion.

The circumstances of this essay’s publication make these remarks somewhat ironic. See Section ...

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
complain of the present times, which, in every respect, so far surpass all
the past?” (Letters :).
Hume’s optimism about political progress is nonetheless cautious. He
recognizes local failures within the general progress and considers his age in
civil society’s childhood. In “Of Civil Liberty,” he warns against excessive
confidence in any political science: “We have not as yet had experience of
three thousand years; so that not only the art of reasoning is still imperfect
in this science, as in all others, but we even want sufficient materials upon
which we can reason” (..).
In some cases, modern errors resemble ancient ones, showing a failure
to learn from history. Jealous, protectionist trade policies are a strong
example. Ancient Athens, Hume reports, so prized their fig that they
outlawed its exportation, believing “it too delicious for the palate of any
foreigner” (..). Though this policy seems silly to modern readers,
moderns act with as little wisdom by erecting trade barriers from fear of
losing domestic commodities, concern about decreasing the supply of
currency, or blind hatred of another nation. England has made this last
error with respect to France. In doing so, England lost the French market
for its wool and – the result Hume seems to lament more – easy access to
French wine. The English must instead buy wine from Spain and Portu-
gal – “worse liquor,” he writes, “at a higher price” (..).
In other cases, modern errors outstrip their ancient predecessors’:
Hume’s direst warnings concern public debt. The virulence of “Of Public
Credit” has struck many commentators, who describe it as “apocalyptic”
and a “jeremiad.” Pocock portrays Hume’s views on public debt as
revealing a dark strain in his thinking, with “an image of a society
destroying itself by heaping up the public indebtedness to the point where
trade and agriculture were both brought to ruin.” These self-destructive
tendencies, Pocock claims, arise from fundamental tensions between
Hume’s ideals of liberty, commerce, and virtue. Istvan Hont, in response,
argues that Hume’s dire warnings proceed not from concern about forces
internal to the world of commerce but from his recognition of the


In the History, Hume suggests that a dark human propensity might make the struggle to maintain
liberty perennial. The Dutch people, he writes, revolted against De Witt and, “agreeably to the
proceedings of the populace in all ages, provided they might wreak their vengeance on their
superiors, they expressed great indifference for the protection of their civil liberties” (H :).

See, e.g., Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment, ; Caffentzis, “Fiction or Counterfeit?,” ; and
Hont, “Rhapsody of Public Debt,” .

“Hume and the American Revolution: The Dying Thoughts of a North Briton,” in Virtue,
Commerce, and History, .

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 Governing 
“scourge” that comes from debt financing of foreign wars. Regardless,
Hume considers the issue so dangerous that he proclaims that “either the
nation must destroy public credit, or public credit will destroy the nation”
(..–). He even proposes voluntary bankruptcy as the lesser evil. In
later revisions to the essay, he loses hope for this option, as he observes the
increasing dependence of both branches of government on stockholders.
The vast increase in the national debt during the Seven Years’ War had
stifled the power of the landholding class, which Hume held to be an
important check on tyranny as a “middle power between king and people”
(..).
Hume’s framing supports Hont’s interpretation of the essay as primarily
concerned with the relation between public debt and war. It also shows
Hume’s willingness to qualify severely his earlier judgment about the
modern “great change for the better.” “Of Public Credit” opens with a
direct comparison between the ancient policy of saving money for wars
and the modern one of using public debt to carry the nation through
calamities. In this instance, “the ancient maxims are . . . more prudent
than the modern”: whatever hazards arise from amassing a war chest, “the
abuses of mortgaging are more certain and inevitable; poverty, impotence,
and subjection to foreign powers” (..–). Although Hume does not
favor channeling all superfluous labor into military force, he would prefer
that the nation save some of its resources in preparation for conflict, rather
than finance wars through debts with no natural limit. These abuses make
modern war more economically destructive; ancient war could temporarily
stimulate the economy, whereas modern war “is attended with every
destructive circumstance; loss of men, encrease of taxes, decay of com-
merce, dissipation of money, devastation by sea and land” (..). These
remarks must be qualified by comparison with Hume’s observations about
the destructiveness and frequency of ancient war, which I discuss in
Chapter . Nonetheless, Hume considers increasing national debts a most
dangerous policy, threatening all other advancements that modern polities
have achieved.
Another threat to progress in government is ungrounded confidence –
both in the relation between principle and practice and in the stability of


Hont, “Rhapsody of Public Debt,” . Pocock does acknowledge Hume’s concern about the
relation between debt and war in his discussion of Hume’s opposition to empire building. See
“Hume and the American Revolution,” .

See Hont, “Rhapsody of Public Debt,” –, for an illuminating discussion of Hume’s changes
to the essay for the  edition.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
progress itself. “Of the Balance of Power” is an interesting study of these
issues. Its ostensible question is whether ancient polities recognized the
importance of maintaining a balance of power among neighboring states.
By appealing to explicit articulations in ancient records and to ancient
endeavors that aimed to maintain the balance, Hume argues that the
ancient Greeks were aware of this maxim. He speculates that the notion
that the principle is uniquely modern stems from reflection on Roman
history. Foreign powers acquiesced to Rome’s increasing ambitions with-
out forming any plausible design to unite with each other to preserve their
independence. But “the maxim of preserving the balance of power is
founded so much on common sense and obvious reasoning, that it is
impossible it could altogether have escaped antiquity, where we find, in
other particulars, so many marks of deep penetration and discernment”
(..).
Perhaps the balance was often preserved in ancient Greece out of
“jealous emulation” more than “cautious politics,” but ancient historians
“expressly pointed out to us” the working of the principle, and Demos-
thenes provides “the utmost refinements” on it (.. and ). John
Robertson therefore overstates Hume’s position in saying that Hume sees
the principle as “derived from the circumstances of the Greek cities rather
than from reflection.” Moreover, predominance of jealous emulation
does not much distinguish the ancients from the moderns. Hume does
consider widespread, acknowledged consensus about the maxim’s import-
ance to be a modern achievement. He even refers to maintaining the
balance as “the aim of modern politics” (..). Still, modern European
nations have also served this end from rancor and mutual jealousy. Britain
had done well to concern itself with the encroaching power of France, the
Austrian empire’s dangerous successor. But, as Robertson argues, Hume’s
revisions to the essay from  forward show that he abandons his
anxiety about French dominion. And the way that Britain opposes
French power reveals more intemperate spite than wise policy. Once war
between the two powers has begun, much blood and money are spent on
carrying matters to unnecessary extremes, “too far pushed from obstinacy
and passion” (..). Furthermore, Britain gets embroiled in too many


Hont writes that “‘Of the Balance of Power’ serves as a perfect introduction to ‘Of Public Credit,’”
as the former was “a scathing indictment of all non-defensive warfare” (“Rhapsody of Public
Debt,” ).

“Universal Monarchy and the Liberties of Europe,” .

Ibid., –. Robertson also provides a helpful discussion of seventeenth-century debates about
universal monarchy and Britain’s place within the power structure of Europe.

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 Governing 
conflicts with France, because Britain’s European allies count on its
willingness to engage its inveterate enemy and therefore refuse concessions
to France. Finally, Hume returns to his favorite warning: animosities with
France increase the national debt, as “once engaged, we lose all concern for
ourselves and our posterity, and consider only how we may best annoy the
enemy” (..).
This situation illustrates a point that Hume makes in more suspicious
moments: a reasonable justification for behavior can be little more than a
screen for real motives, especially in politics. Balance of power always
provided a ready justification for patriotic Britons urging conflict with
France. The irrational extremes that followed, however, showed the real
motive to be jealousy and hatred, rather than “the prudent views of
modern politics” (..). Modern nations thus not only act in the same
unreasonable ways as their predecessors; they are in danger of suffering the
same fate. People eventually tire of violent altercations, and the British
people at some point may have enough and imitate the ancient Greeks,
who “abandoned all attention to foreign affairs” (..).
There is an ominous possibility here, which other essays suggest that
Hume recognizes. An acknowledged theoretical principle justifying ran-
corous acts may carry modern conflicts to more prolonged and deadly
destructions. When hatred is powerful, it can support itself with the
borrowed reason of needing to check the enemy’s ambition. When hatred
weakens, the principle’s inflexible demands can inflame conflicts that
might have been avoided or ended quickly. In politics, as in ethics, having
a rule grounded in reason is not the same as acting from the calm passions
that we call reasonable.
This point relates to a final worry that Hume expresses in relation to
political progress. He hopes that the “progress of reason” will dampen the
spirit of religious factionalism, so bound up with political conflicts. But
expressing hope for such progress in “Of the Protestant Succession,” he
adds that “the spirit of moderation has, as yet, made too slow advances to
be entirely trusted” (..). And Hume believes modern interactions
between religion and politics to be more dangerous than ancient ones.
In “Of Parties in General,” he claims that “parties from principle,
especially abstract speculative principle, are known only to modern times”
(..). These speculative differences do not imply any necessary practical
difference. Political principles often imply such differences: a monarchist
and a democrat must conflict over the nation’s proper course of affairs. But

See T ....

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
according to Hume, “in all religious controversies,” “every one may follow
his own way, without interfering with his neighbour” (..). Party
divisions based on such differences, then, result from discomfort with
the cognitive dissonance that arises when we confront people with opin-
ions that differ from our own.
On the face of things, Hume’s claim that religious controversies do not
imply behavioral conflicts is simply false. If one sect’s beliefs imply that its
members should be allowed to do things prohibited by the larger commu-
nity, such a conflict will ensue. Examples of such conflicts include the
occasional clashes between governmental authorities and fundamentalist
Mormon sects that practice polygamy. A sect’s belief that it has a right or
obligation to control the behavior of the community among which they
reside will also generate conflict. We see examples of these conflicts in
communities where religious sects prohibit education for all women within
the boundaries of their city or state.
Perhaps Hume would claim that these differences are moral rather than
religious. He may be defining religious controversies as those concerning
only claims about the divine that do not imply differences in moral
behavior. For instance, it is not clear that any conflicting behavior need
arise from the dispute between Roman and Orthodox Catholics over the
Filioque clause in the Nicene Creed, which says that the Holy Spirit
proceeds from both the Father and the Son, rather than simply proceeding
from the Father. Examples of such controversies abound; nonetheless,
religious believers could with some justice accuse Hume of handling their
perspectives uncharitably. Many believe their religious tenets to have
practical implications, some of which conflict with those of different
creeds. A definition of religious controversy that ignores such experience
seems ad hoc at best.
Nonetheless, Hume’s remarks here point to an important insight.
Conflicts over principles with clear practical implications, such as who
possesses a right to the throne, can be violent and enduring. Yet there is a
clear indication of when the dispute has been settled, or at least who is
presently winning. No such indication exists in speculative disputes with-
out practical implications. One might say the same of many academic
disagreements, but there is an important difference between these and
religious conflicts. In an academic conflict, standards within the discipline
adjudicate the conflict (or can do so, at least when the discipline is in


Jennifer Herdt discusses the limits of Hume’s sympathetic understanding of theism in Religion and
Faction in Hume’s Moral Philosophy, –.

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 Governing 
good order and not undergoing a paradigm shift). Those well trained in
these standards judge for themselves who has the upper hand in ongoing
disputes. They may judge that the evidence on both sides is at present
insufficient, but there is often hope for long-term consensus. Those engaged
in religious conflicts, however, seek the allegiance of their followers (or
perhaps the public in general) regardless of the followers’ education. How
then is it possible to tell when the dispute has been resolved, or who is
winning?
Suppose it is not possible to tell: no standards are available to decide
between alternatives or compel rational assent. If so, then the conflict
might endure for a long time, carrying with it whatever energy, resources,
and blood people are willing to dedicate to it. Perhaps, on the other hand,
it is possible to tell, because the people being asked to accept the beliefs
submit to the authority of a religious leader who tells them which side
to take. Such submission can result from the powerful inspiration of a
spiritual leader, but it has often resulted from compulsion. In these cases,
the religious controversy has become political.
One might object that these possibilities ignore another, less objection-
able procedure: to treat the controversy as an academic dispute, analogous
to one in, for example, theoretical physics. The experts – theologians or
reflective teachers – examine the question, present arguments, and she
who has the best argument wins. Because, however, the religion demands
adherence from a broader public, this solution tends to collapse into one
of two other possibilities. For the general public, the religious arguments
are likely just as opaque as those of the physicists. These arguments offer
no standards of judgment at all to average believers. They may then cease
to care about the dispute, or align themselves with one or another theolo-
gian – putting that thinker in the position of either spiritual or political
leader. If the latter, then again, the religious controversy has become
political.
What does all this have to do with the progress of reason and its relation
to government? If these suggestions are cogent, disputes over speculative
religious questions will have three likely outcomes: people stop caring
about the issue being disputed, the dispute continues interminably, or
the dispute fuels the rise of a new political leader. From Hume’s point of
view, the first outcome would count as progress, but the latter two are also


These suggestions go beyond Hume’s analysis in “Of Parties in General.” There, he ascribes the
modern rise of religious factions and their ill effects on government to certain peculiarities of
Christianity and its history, which I discuss in Chapter .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
real possibilities, and the disputants might see themselves as advancing the
cause of reason. In this way, speculative argumentation can foment the
party factionalism that leads Hume to make the following comparison
between the ancients and the moderns: “Sects of philosophy, in the ancient
world, were more zealous than parties of religion; but in modern times,
parties of religion are more furious and enraged than the most cruel
factions that ever arose from interest and ambition” (..).
The principle of the balance of power and the question of the progress
of reason against immoderate religion thus have something interesting
in common. In both cases, Hume credits the moderns with significant
intellectual progress compared with many ancient predecessors. Yet intel-
lectual progress not only does not guarantee political progress; it can
actually make that progress more precarious, given the creative ways in
which human passions can twist truth and insight to serve other passions.
It is not clear that Hume would agree with Robertson’s claim that it “was
always a strength of English Whiggism . . . that its practice was closely
supported by principles, whether theoretical or historical.” Robertson
says this while explaining that Hume’s retraction of worries about Bour-
bon France did not lead him to abandon his interest in the balance of
power or concerns about universal monarchy. The virtue of this continued
interest in a political principle is evident. But Hume also recognizes that
principles can always be misused, particularly by factions with passions
they would rather not admit to, or perhaps do not even recognize. We can
press vengeance to the most irrational extremes, marching under the
banner of rational foreign policy when what we really seek is to “infuse
our very souls into the wounds we give an enemy” (EPM App .). And
we can prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching-out of a
clause in a treasured creed.

. Progress and Government Intervention

In this final governing section, I consider a version of the political inter-
vention question, which asks whether or not government should intervene
to achieve progress. My concern is again not to assess Hume’s alleged
progressivism or conservatism. Instead, I focus on the extent to which he
believes that governments can shape their citizens’ virtues. This question


“Universal Monarch and the Liberties of Europe,” .

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 Governing 
relates to the ongoing debate about Hume’s relation to the civic trad-
ition, which emphasizes the interdependence of flourishing polities and
individual virtue. But that debate focuses on civic virtues that are required
to sustain a robust polity. These virtues overlap with those Hume calls
“artificial” in the Treatise, but the Essays show that his belief in govern-
ment’s influence on virtue extends to the “natural” virtues as well, includ-
ing some whose importance reaches beyond their contributions to civic
ideals. Unlike the Aristotelian view that sees virtue’s formation as an
essential function of the polis, however, Hume’s hopes for government
improvement of character are largely negative. Achieving good is precar-
ious; avoiding harm is a more reasonable goal.
Because of peculiar features of the artificial virtues, their cultivation
needs some government help. In the Treatise, Hume writes that these
virtues, which include justice and allegiance to government, “produce
pleasure and approbation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which
arises from the circumstances and necessities of mankind” (T ...).
The second Enquiry abandons the language of “artificiality” and relegates
focused discussion of justice’s conventional nature to an appendix. But
the distinction between virtues whose benefit depends on convention
and those whose natural motives do not require convention remains
important. It is also present in the Essays, in, for example, “Of the Original
Contract” and in the passage (cited above in Section ..) describing
the progress from natural family relations to political society in “Of the
Origin of Government” (..).


I follow Robertson in using civic “tradition” rather than “humanism” or “republicanism”; his
argument that the latter terms suggest “too specific an historical definition of the form in which [the
tradition] reached eighteenth-century Scotland” is compelling (“Scottish Enlightenment at the
Limits of the Civic Tradition,” ). Pocock is largely responsible for bringing the importance of
the civic tradition to scholars’ attention, first in The Machiavellian Moment and in later works.
Scholars disagree about Hume’s relation to this tradition. Livingston claims that Hume’s remarks
about the importance of public spirit and regard to the community at ..– place him “in the
civic humanist tradition” (Philosophical Melancholy and Delirium, ). Dennis Rasmussen agrees
that Hume was no radical individualist. But he places Hume in a group of thinkers who, because of
their commitment to a generally negative conception of liberty, ambivalence about popular
government, and elevation of commercial pursuits, are at odds with the civic tradition (Pragmatic
Enlightenment, especially chapter ). Other important treatments of Hume’s distance from the civic
tradition include James Moore, “Hume’s Political Science and the Classical Republican Tradition,”
and Stewart, Opinion and Reform in Hume’s Political Philosophy. Stewart argues that “the content of
[Hume’s] political theory is far closer to natural-law theory than to civic humanism” (). See also
ff. For a brief but subtle treatment of Hume that argues that his ethics distances him from
both the natural law and the classical republican tradition, see J. B. Schneewind, “Classical
Republicanism and the History of Ethics.”

EPM App .n acknowledges that justice is artificial in one sense.

See especially the distinction between two types of moral duties at ..–.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
From these various discussions of convention-dependent virtues, a pro-
file emerges with a set of distinctive characteristics. These virtues originate
in human artifice but need not arise from deliberate instrumental reason-
ing. They can develop gradually, through the influence of circumstances
and habit. Though their evolution may be messy, they depend on deter-
minate rules. The problems that these virtues address demand precision
and inflexibility that is uncharacteristic of natural virtues. We need some
way of allocating property and determining which sovereign we owe
allegiance to. The accommodation to particularities that serves well
in other realms would lead to chaos here. This necessity for inflexible
rules leads to another characteristic: although artificial virtues are useful
in general, their exercise may not be useful in particular cases. In the
Enquiry, Hume even says that justice and fidelity, though “highly useful,
or indeed absolutely necessary to the well-being of mankind,” may “in
many instances” be “extremely hurtful” (EPM App .).
It is therefore unsurprising that people find it hard to be just. The
benefits are remote, and seeing them requires reasoning about distant
consequences. Hume notes that we often “prefer any trivial advantage,
that is present, to the maintenance of order in society, which so much
depends on the observance of justice” (T ...). But this remark does
not fully capture the psychological challenge. It is difficult for people even
to see the remote benefit of upholding a system of justice. In some cases,
there is no plausible reason to believe that a violation will damage that
system. And the individual harms or foregone benefits may be significant.
As a partial remedy, we make justice’s observance the close and particular
interest of a few – the rulers – who can then increase the populace’s own
interest in following the rules.
So far, this account suggests nothing more than a system that promotes
negative liberty by working on the self-interest of individuals. Further
details of Hume’s view, however, complicate the picture. He does not
attribute the rulers’ persuasion solely to a system of rewards and punish-
ments. They also encourage the development of civil morality: education
“and the artifice of politicians, concur in bestowing a farther morality on
loyalty” as well as justice and promise-keeping (T ...). The language
of artifice, especially as it suggests a Mandevillean view, proved misleading.
Readers saw it as a denigration of these virtues, despite Hume’s insistence
on their importance and benefit. But this political artifice is not to be
lamented. Within bounds, a loyal populace benefits everyone, and the

See T ....

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 Governing 
artificial virtues are genuine virtues that contribute to a meritorious char-
acter. Government thus plays an essential role in the inculcation, devel-
opment, and preservation of the artificial virtues.
Still, this account suggests minimal influence of the state on citizens’
moral character. Government intervention proves requisite to promoting
artificial virtues because of their peculiar features, but do the natural virtues
require such training? Perhaps any state attempting to inculcate them
would be at best ineffective and at worst tyrannical. Some passages in
the Essays support a dim view of more substantial political cultivation of
virtue. In “That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science,” Hume remarks,
“The ages of greatest public spirit are not always most eminent for private
virtue. Good laws may beget order and moderation in government, where
the manners and customs have instilled little humanity or justice into the
tempers of men” (..). But at the beginning of “Of Parties in General,”
he extols the efforts of good legislators, claiming that “general virtue and
good morals in a state . . . must proceed entirely from the virtuous educa-
tion of youth, the effect of wise laws and institutions” (..). It would be
a stretch to interpret “general virtue and good morals” as referring only to
artificial virtues.
Although not strictly contradictory, these two claims seem to express
quite different hopes for the effect of wise laws on character. To begin to
make sense of this tension, let us consider what Hume has to say about
some particular virtues: courage and genius.
Courage is peculiar in two ways: first, Hume seems to characterize it as
both natural and artificial, and second, he sometimes seems suspicious of
its status as a virtue at all. In the Treatise, he notes that courage, “which is
the point of honour among men, derives its merit, in a great measure, from
artifice . . . tho’ it has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see
afterwards” (T ...). He does not explain this remark. The context
suggests that he may have in mind courage as part of the system of
gallantry that likewise increased the importance of women’s chastity. But
he might also be thinking of parallels between courage and justice: one
courageous soldier, for example, does no good amid a rank of cowards, as
one just individual helps no one without a critical mass of other just
people.


There is voluminous literature about whether or not Hume’s account of justice and its motivation is
consistent with his moral psychology, which I cannot detail here. I defend the consistency of
Hume’s account in Margaret Watkins Tate, “Obligation, Justice, and the Will in Hume’s Moral
Philosophy.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
In the Enquiry, Hume cautions against the tendency of martial societies
to elevate courage to the form of all the virtues. But he also concedes that
it is useful (to both its possessor and others) and immediately agreeable in
its sublimity. At least some of its utility is independent of convention:
bravery serves in any situation that requires conquering fear for the sake
of action. And “that peculiar lustre, which it derives wholly from itself,
and from that noble elevation inseparable from it,” is common to virtues
related to magnanimity (EPM .).
Given these natural aspects of courage’s appeal, we would expect it to
be useful and approved of in diverse cultures, both ancient and modern.
Among the things that it is useful for, however, is protection of the state,
at least when combined with patriotism. Wise politicians, then, always
have a motive for promoting courage within their state, but they also have
a motive to control its exercise. They want courage that promotes loyal
citizenry and soldiering, not crime and rebellion.
Is there any reason to believe that efforts to promote courage might
be successful? “Of National Characters” suggests that Hume would have
given a positive answer. He there contests the notion, most famously
defended by Montesquieu, that “physical” causes, such as air and climate,
determine differences in national characters. Instead, the differences largely
result from “moral causes,” defined as “all circumstances, which are fitted
to work on the mind as motives or reasons, and which render a peculiar set
of manners habitual to us.” The “nature of the government” is Hume’s
first example of a moral cause, coming before “the revolutions of public
affairs, the plenty or penury in which the people live,” and “the situation of
the nation with regard to its neighbours” (..).
Hume repeatedly claims in this essay that government has an enor-
mous, often overwhelming, influence on the character of the governed.
A long-established, “extensive” government, he says, “spreads a national
character over the whole empire.” Contiguous nations with different gov-
ernments have different characters. National character “commonly follows


It is surprisingly difficult, however, to find nonambiguous cases in which Hume uses “bravery” or
“courage” to refer to nonmartial contexts. The clearest evidence for his more extensive use of the
terms comes from his correspondence. But there is this remark from the dominant character of “A
Dialogue”: “‘How usual is it,’ says T, ‘to find C, C, and other Barbarians,
who bear, with inflexible constancy, all the fatigues and dangers of the field; But are immediately
dispirited under the pain and hazard of a languishing distemper: While, on the other hand, the
G patiently endure the slow approaches of death, when armed with sickness and disease; but
timorously fly his presence, when he attacks them violently with swords and falchions!’ So different
is even the same virtue of courage among warlike or peaceful nations!” (EPM Dialogue.). For a
discussion of Hume’s preference for “peaceable” courage, see Baier, Progress of Sentiments, –.

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 Governing 
the authority of government to a precise boundary” (..). The first
factor explaining a change in national character over time is “great alter-
ations” in the government (..). And he appeals to England’s mixed
form of government to explain the absence of an English national charac-
ter; in nations whose government is entirely republican, monarchical,
aristocratic, or mercantile, the “uniform way of life will fix [the people’s]
character” (..).
Hume’s general response to the hypothesis that national characters arise
from physical causes depends on his principle of sympathy. Our propen-
sity to catch one another’s sentiments promotes the communication of
“vices as well as virtues,” and “where a number of men are united into one
political body, the occasions of their intercourse must be so frequent,
for defence, commerce, and government, that, together with the same
speech or language, they must acquire a resemblance in their manners”
(..–). Sympathy alone, however, is an insufficient explanation.
Diffusion of traits ought, absent other causes, produce roughly the same
mix of characters across different nations. While allowing for the possi-
bility of random overrepresentation of particular traits among a people,
Hume supplements this jejune explanation by appealing to the rulers’
influence. Those “in credit and authority” have considerable effects: “If
on the first establishment of a republic, a Brutus should be placed in
authority, and be transported with such an enthusiasm for liberty and
public good, as to overlook all the ties of nature, as well as private interest,
such an illustrious example will naturally have an effect on the whole
society, and kindle the same passion in every bosom” (..).
Sympathy’s force varies. We are more apt to catch the sentiments of
those more closely related to us, those whom we admire, and those whose
power vivifies our impressions of them. The last, in particular, applies to
political rulers. But the influence of the sovereign’s character is neither
absolute nor equally powerful for all traits. Some traits propagate because
of their social utility. Industry, knowledge, and civility, he says, “may be of
constant and universal use, and for several ages, may become habitual to
the whole people” (..). Courage proves more variable. Hume says
that “of all national qualities, [it] is the most precarious; because it is
exerted only at intervals, and by a few in every nation.” (Here he must
mean courage as a martial virtue.) Its preservation requires “discipline,


Hume explicitly uses the language of sympathy at , and what he says about the “contagion of
manners” in the essay is consistent with his portrayal of sympathy in the Treatise. See also ...

See T ...–, ...–, ..., and ....

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
example, and opinion.” “Opinion” means the belief, regardless of warrant,
that the people are courageous: “The tenth legion of Caesar, and the
regiment of Picardy in France were formed promiscuously from among
the citizens; but having once entertained a notion, that they were the best
troops in the service, this very opinion really made them such” (..).
Martial courage is useful intermittently but may be needed suddenly.
Moreover, a reputation for it might prevent its being necessary, since other
nations hesitate to engage in hostilities with a nation that possesses such a
reputation. Wise sovereigns therefore want patriotic courage to endure
longer than it is likely to in peacetime. What can such leaders do? If the
sovereign is a single individual or a small group, exhibition of valor in the
rulers themselves might inspire imitation. But Hume’s emphasis on opin-
ion suggests that examples without rhetoric do little. A public, linguistic
emphasis on martial honor’s value will be more effective. This sugges-
tion is implicit in the Enquiry, where Hume notes that in “uncultivated
nations,” courage is “celebrated by poets” and “recommended by parents
and instructors” (EPM .). He sees the modern devaluation of martial
courage as progress, but ancient methods of encouraging it may still
prove valuable on occasion. Sovereigns who wish to encourage courage’s
development do well to praise their people for already possessing it and to
commission the necessary supporting hymns.
Again, there is no reason to interpret this encouragement as promoting a
sham virtue. As I discuss in Chapter , Hume sees no necessary tension
between vanity and the cultivation of virtue. The tenth legion of Caesar
and the regiment of Picardy became truly excellent soldiers, and virtues are
not fake if people develop them in the service of pride. Nor should we
overstate the difference between ancient and modern courage so that the
latter appears an entirely distinct trait with distinct motivations. Mikko
Tolonen errs in this direction while emphasizing the continuity between
Hume and Mandeville on the relation between honor and modern cour-
age. Tolonen reports Mandeville’s view that modern soldiers develop
“artificial courage” because of the system of modern honor and its rewards
of pride and glory. The ancients and other barbarous people possessed
“natural courage,” whose source was anger and hatred. But Mandeville
claims that “in the eighteenth century, natural courage was substituted
altogether with artificial policy.” Tolonen holds that Hume shares these


“Gothic Origin of Modern Civility,” . Tolonen’s analysis depends heavily on Hume’s early
unpublished essay, “An Historical Essay on Chivalry and Modern Honour.” In disagreeing with
Tolonen’s ascribing these Mandevillian categories to the mature Hume, I do not mean to deny the

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 Governing 
views, providing evidence of Hume’s disagreement with Shaftesbury’s
admiration for ancient courage. But Hume uses the term “natural courage”
only once, in a History reference to Robert Bruce’s traits (H :). Hume
makes no systematic distinction between natural and artificial courage,
though he clearly believes that courage can take more or less civilized
forms. Modern improvement, in this case, consists in a gradual devaluing
of martial courage relative to the other virtues, especially humanity.
Courage nonetheless remains a real and significant virtue.
The sovereign’s influence on courage cuts both ways: bad rulers can
make their people cowardly, perhaps more easily than good rulers can
make them courageous. Contra Machiavelli, Hume argues that a “tyran-
nical government” with no source of authority besides the sovereign – i.e.,
no independent nobility – does not produce a populace that is difficult to
conquer. Such a government, he says, “enervates the courage of men, and
renders them indifferent towards the fortunes of their sovereign” (..).
Moreover, the tyrant’s policies inculcate blind submissiveness, which
allows temporary delegates and underlings to abuse their authority to
“produce the most dangerous and fatal revolutions” (..). Ultimately,
there is no greater bulwark against threats from within and without than a
strong, brave populace who believe their good to be yoked to that of the
state as a whole. Tyrannical rule tends not to foster these civic virtues.
In “Of Refinement in the Arts,” Hume again argues that governmental
policy can destroy as well as cultivate martial spirit. He rejects the notion
that refinement weakens the people’s spirit, arguing that refinement’s
natural accompaniments – industry and discipline – make courage more
useful and enduring. When there are exceptions to this rule, government

probable influence of Mandeville on this essay or the importance of Mandeville for Hume, which
Tolonen has ably demonstrated in his Mandeville and Hume. See also John P. Wright, “Hume on
the Origin of ‘Modern Honour.’”

For a nuanced and helpful treatment of this point, see Jacqueline Taylor, “Hume on the
Importance of Humanity.”

Machiavelli and Hume agree on the value of a loyal populace. Machiavelli argues in chapters  and
– of The Prince that it is important for the prince to be both loved as well as feared: “the best
fortress a ruler can have is not to be hated by the people” (The Prince, ).

Tolonen ascribes the endurance of martial spirit entirely to the principle of honour (“Gothic Origin
of Modern Civility,” ). Hume does say that a sense of honor “acquires fresh vigour by that
elevation of genius which arises from knowledge and a good education,” making up for anger
having lost “somewhat of its asperity” (..). Hume’s appeal to industry as the preserver of
spirit, which Tolonen does not mention here, comes before this reference to honor. The desire to
make a good show in mixed company may be temporally prior to other developments in modern
civility, but it is not the only motive for the virtues that it helps engender.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
is the likely cause. “It is observable, that, as the old Romans, by applying
themselves solely to war, were almost the only uncivilized people that
ever possessed military discipline; so the modern Italians are the only
civilized people, among Europeans, that ever wanted courage and a martial
spirit” (..–). What explains the latter failing? “The sword was
dropped at once by all the Italian sovereigns; while the Venetian aristoc-
racy was jealous of its subjects, the Florentine democracy applied itself
entirely to commerce; Rome was governed by priests, and Naples by
women” (..). The Italian city-states were then at the mercy of lazy
and indifferent mercenaries.
Good public policy produces brave, disciplined soldiers and a popula-
tion that admires them. Bad public policy produces an ineffective military
that endangers the stability that Hume includes among the first purposes
of government. Good policy, however, requires restraint: in their enthusi-
asm for providing examples of bravery, leaders may neglect the equally
important need not to stifle the people’s spirit with tyrannical rule. Or
rulers may find themselves in the difficult position of having inherited
a constitution whose structure promotes tyranny and thus its negative
effects. In such a situation, it is not clear what wise policy prescribes,
given the dangers of constitutional innovation. Nonetheless, courage is a
virtue – not wholly artificial – that Hume believes government action can
encourage through deliberate policy. Let us now consider some virtues
for which the potential effects of government are not as straightforward:
intellectual powers, or what Hume sometimes calls “genius.”
“Genius” is ambiguous in eighteenth-century usage. Its wide range of
meanings included brilliance or unusual talent, distinctive characteristics
of nations, people, or ages, and “natural ability or capacity.” I am using it
to refer to virtues of the mind, broadly conceived. Some might scruple to
call these traits virtues at all. But Hume dismisses attempts to distinguish
between moral virtues and natural abilities as verbal disputes, without
roots in the moral discourse that is natural, effective, and indispensable
to common life. Wisdom, ingenuity, understanding, wit, and discre-
tion benefit their possessors, sometimes benefit others, and often prove
immediately agreeable. Hume lists them as part of personal merit at


Hume’s denial of the corrupting forces of commerce is one of his main disagreements with the civic
tradition. McArthur’s discussion of Hume’s criticism of “civic moralism” illuminates the complexity
of Hume’s evaluation of the ancients (Hume’s Political Theory, chapter ).

See, e.g., ..– and ...

Oxford English Dictionary, rd ed., s.v. “genius,” June , http://oed.com.

See T .. and EPM App .

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 Governing 
EWU .. They contribute to good reputation or “character” in the
eighteenth-century sense. Such traits, then, are Humean virtues.
Hume most directly addresses the relationship between government
and the progress of genius in “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and
Sciences.” His initial comments suggest little hope for governmental influ-
ence. After reflecting on the difficulty of distinguishing chance (“secret and
unknown causes”) from causes that are “determinate and known,” he
argues that we should posit causes only for events in human affairs
resulting from the behavior of large numbers of people. We are likely to
err in reasoning from peculiar effects on a small sample of individuals,
particularly since causes that work on the few tend to be “delicate and
refined,” as opposed to the “grosser and more stubborn nature” of those
“fitted to operate on a multitude” (..). But this same principle
means that governments attempting to promote learning will likely fail.
Encouraging financial enterprise works on common motives (like avarice),
but “curiosity, or the love of knowledge, has a very limited influence, and
requires youth, leisure, education, genius, and example, to make it govern
any person” (..). States can therefore better promote commerce
than learning.
Hume does make some general observations about the conditions that
promote advancement of the arts and sciences. Translating these obser-
vations into advice for rulers, however, produces largely negative recom-
mendations of the form: do not oppress your people. Genius requires
the nurturing soil of free government and the rule of law for its initial
development. Arbitrary power removes opportunities for and incentives
to intellectual advancement. Concentrating power in inferior magistrates
left to their own judgment but aware of the limits and uncertainty of their
own positions exacerbates the effect. “A people,” he says, “governed after
such a manner, are slaves in the full and proper sense of the word; and it
is impossible they can ever aspire to any refinements of taste or reason”
(..). Once republicanism has appeared, however, Hume does not
think that it need attain perfection to allow the birth and even flourishing
of learning.
Hume’s suggestion that the love of knowledge requires example and
education may lead us to hope that if a brave leader can inspire a martial
populace, an erudite leader might inspire a learned one. “A noble emula-
tion,” after all, “is the source of every excellence.” Individual striving
feeds on stimulating examples, confirmation that greatness is achievable,
and inspiration from advanced minds. The humanists’ admiration of the
ancients shows inspiration’s power: “The models left us by the ancients,”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
he says, “gave birth to all the arts about  years ago, and have mightily
advanced their progress in every country of Europe.” But widespread
intellectual achievement enervates that power. With too many examples
of greatness, nascent geniuses get discouraged. They sense that they will
not attain their predecessors’ heights, and are unlikely to receive encour-
agement from the praise of a public fed on a steady diet of masterpieces.
The more promising the genius, the greater the effect: “no one is so
liable to an excess of admiration and modesty, as a truly great genius”
(..).
No government should expect continual success in promoting genius.
Still, it remains true that genius flourishes best under the rule of law.
Hume does not infer that intellectual refinements require democracy;
civilized monarchy might be the most fertile ground for certain arts and
sciences. But severe oppression, tyranny, and slavery always depress the
progress of learning. In “Of National Characters,” he says, “where any
government becomes very oppressive to all its subjects, it must have a
proportional effect on their temper and genius, and must banish all the
liberal arts from among them” (..). A government can avoid
discouraging genius by pursuing republican policies and abiding by checks
to its own authority and power. Good government cannot guarantee
progress in learning, but bad government can guarantee its demise.
Hume also holds that government’s effect on genius indirectly affects a
trait with undisputed moral status: humanity. In the second Enquiry, he
includes humanity among those virtues that superlatively entitle one to
“the general good-will and approbation of mankind” (EPM .). In the
Essays, he repeatedly pairs humanity with moderation and gentleness, and
contrasts it with brutality, cruelty, and barbarity. He also insists on its close
relation to learning and progress in the liberal arts.
Hume sounds this note early in the Essays, in the opening discussion of
“Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion,” where he quotes with approval
Ovid’s claim that a “faithful study of the liberal arts humanizes character
and permits it not to be cruel” (..). It attains full volume in “Of
Refinement in the Arts,” where he argues that “industry, knowledge, and
humanity, are linked together by an indissoluble chain, and are found,
from experience as well as reason, to be peculiar to the more polished, and,
what are commonly denominated, the more luxurious ages” (..).


See also ... For a more fabulous statement of this view, see the withdrawn essay, “Of
Impudence and Modesty.”

Hume also claims that development in the arts itself preserves liberty. See, e.g., ...

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 Governing 
The origin of this improvement is not noble: it is the desire to display
one’s knowledge, wit, and taste. But, like Nietzsche, Hume believes that
base characteristics can generate noble traits. Self-display requires conver-
sation, and conversation in close quarters naturally takes place in mixed
company. “Curiosity allures the wise; vanity the foolish; and pleasure both.
Particular clubs and societies are every where formed: Both sexes meet in
an easy and sociable manner; and the tempers of men, as well as their
behaviour, refine apace” (..). In “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts
and Sciences” Hume likewise argues that conversation with women pro-
motes civilization and that the ancients’ sexual segregation might explain
their failures of civility. “What better school for manners,” Hume asks,
“than the company of virtuous women?” (..). He argues in “Of
Essay-Writing” that learning will be at its best when it makes itself
conversible, and women are the sovereigns of the conversible world. As
increased learning brings the sexes together, both humanity and genius
benefit from the collaboration.
So, for multiple reasons, Hume believes that the cultivation of genius
encourages that of humanity. If government can support the former, it
thereby supports the latter. But sexual segregation is not Hume’s only
hypothesis for the cause of ancient barbarity. In “Of the Populousness of
Ancient Nations,” he suggests that the most plausible explanation for the
“barbarous manners of ancient times” is the widespread practice of domes-
tic slavery (..). Slavery, he argues, both stems from and produces
inhumanity. I examine these arguments in detail in Chapter . But slavery
provides a clear example of an institutionalized, state-supported practice
that, Hume insists, does great damage to a most significant natural virtue.
Furthermore, Hume believes that the inhumanity generated by slavery
infuses its ill effects widely. Improvement in humanity, he claims, “is the
chief characteristic which distinguishes a civilized age from times of
barbarity and ignorance” (..).
Finally, the dangers of public debt include harming citizens’ virtue. The
problem arises from the separation of wealth from work and land. As taxes
rise to maintain the debt, Hume predicts, only stockholders will possess
significant excess income. These men, without ties to the state, can live
anywhere, “will naturally bury themselves in the capital or in great cities,
and . . . will sink into the lethargy of a stupid and pampered luxury,
without spirit, ambition, or enjoyment” (..–). As we will see, he
has no objection to luxury earned through industry. But separating the two

See EWU ..

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
produces slothful, irresponsible people. The ill effects extend beyond the
stockholders; this new wealthy class blights the independent nobility’s
power, promoting tyranny, as mentioned above. Again, tyranny crushes
the spirit that drives industry, enervates the activity of genius, and provides
an inhumane model of power relations.
It appears that Hume believes that rulers can do little to improve the
populace’s virtue but may do much to destroy it. This appearance, how-
ever, requires two correctives. First, the government’s role in inculcating
artificial virtues is significant. The goods of a stable system of justice and
sovereignty are primary: without them, life (and therefore additional goods)
cannot subsist. Second, awareness of the relation between policy and char-
acter is no small achievement, even if that awareness mainly serves as a
warning against ambitious citizen-improvement programs and tyranny.
There is a political dispute here between the ancients and the moderns.
But it is not the straightforward disagreement between those who think
that the state can form virtue and those who think that the state can
only check the rapacious pursuit of narrow self-interest. We will not fully
comprehend Hume’s assessment of this disagreement by placing him
within or without the civic tradition, which he both draws on and criti-
cizes. Overall, he is sceptical about the power of governments to design
effective policies or education systems that improve character. But he takes
for granted that the state’s constitution will influence the people’s charac-
ter, and he suggests ways that rulers can avoid doing harm and, more
cautiously, do a little good. If modern governments are less ambitious
about inculcating morality, this lack of ambition may itself be an advan-
tage in producing courageous, learned, and humane citizens. Appreciation
of this delicate advantage, on the other hand, should arrest overweening
confidence that such progress will endure.

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  

Domineering

Moving beyond the political aspects of the Essays, which have received the
most treatment in recent scholarship, means moving toward questions
about progress that increasingly will relate to individual progress as well
as group or social progress. For Hume, this distinction is somewhat
misleading. Because people are inherently social, there can be no fixed
separation between improving self and society. But there can be space
between those two modes of improvement, as we will see.
In the following chapters, the issue of whether or not the fundamentals
of human nature have changed over time becomes more pressing. Deter-
mining Hume’s position on this issue proves difficult. It has generated
much debate and is a prime example of how Hume has been misunder-
stood by philosophers because of their focus on the Treatise and Enquiries.
I therefore devote the first section of this chapter to discussing what the
Essays can contribute to our understanding of Hume’s position about
change in human nature.
I then move to the main focus of the chapter: domineering. Among the
circumstances of life that are never congenial to human nature is living
under tyranny. We have seen Hume’s claim that political tyranny can
oppress a people’s vigor, stifling their genius and industry. But he recog-
nizes that tyranny and oppression come in many forms, all of which
decrease happiness and waste potential. Life in general will be worse in
proportion to the degree that some people domineer over others in private
as well as public life. Although Hume recognizes that all people can enjoy
exercising power over others, he also believes that our dispositions to seek
such power can change with the circumstances in which we live.
I consider two ways in which Hume believes that modern life has
successfully curbed our domineering tendencies. These advancements are
the curtailing of domestic slavery and a reduction in war’s violence and
cruelty. Then I turn to one segment of the population whose domineering
tendencies, he claims, have not been checked by modern progress: priests.


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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays

. The Qualified Uniformity of Human Nature

“Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations” is by far the longest essay,
about eighty-seven pages in the Liberty Fund edition. Its question, Hume
writes, is “the most curious and important of all questions of erudition”
(..a). What gives the relative population densities of ancient and
modern polities such importance? Assuming that people reproduce when-
ever they can, it follows that good living conditions ensure high population
density. Climate and natural resources have some effect, but “if every thing
else be equal, it seems natural to expect, that wherever there are most
happiness and virtue, and the wisest institutions, there will also be most
people.” At stake, then, is our judgment of other ages’ “whole police, their
manners, and the constitution of their government” (..). If ancient
nations were more populous, they must have been superior in the most
essential aspects of life.
Writing almost half a century before Malthus’s Essay on the Principle of
Population, Hume need not defend the assumption that high population
signifies general well-being. He does explain its logic: “all men, both male
and female,” share “a desire and power of generation, more active than is
ever universally exerted” (..). Failure to reproduce “must proceed
from some difficulties in their situation, which it belongs to a wise
legislature carefully to observe and remove.” The desire for “generation”
is one of Hume’s euphemisms for sexual desire. Healthy people will be
sexually active. This activity results in children, and he believes that most
people who are able will support rearing those children. In worse circum-
stances, they may take active measures to avoid having children or to
get rid of those they have. (Hume is aware of the history of destroying
unwanted children: later in the same essay, he discusses the practice of
exposing infants [..].) He allows that the correlation between well-
being and populousness might have exceptions, since the powerful may
have reasons to encourage or even force population increase regardless of
the wishes of unhappy subjects.


The next longest, “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,” is about twenty-six pages.

The remark is in a note, removed after the  edition. The note was outdated, since it referred to
Robert Wallace’s unpublished manuscript of A Dissertation on the Numbers of Mankind in Ancient
and Modern Times. Wallace published the Dissertation in . See editor’s note at ..n.

See T ...

He calls this practice “almost as innocent” as the modern method of sending unwanted daughters to
convents.

See ..n. Hume’s point here concerns slaves and their masters, and his suggestion is
hypothetical, since he does not believe that masters usually encouraged reproduction among their
slaves.

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 Domineering 
The view that ancient nations were more populous was common,
defended by Montesquieu and others. In challenging it, Hume faces
significant obstacles. Evidence was scanty: the historical record for ancient
polities afforded only “scattered lights,” and even modern Europe did not
keep reliable census records (..). There may have been evidence for
population decline in parts of Europe. David B. Young claims that “for a
Frenchman looking back over the reign of Louis XIV, dwindling population
and decreasing prosperity were facts rather than theories.” But advanced
census methods were not developed until the mid-nineteenth century.
Knowing that his methods cannot be ideal, Hume acknowledges that he
must “intermingle the enquiry concerning causes with that concerning
facts; which ought never to be admitted, where the facts can be ascertained
with any tolerable assurance” (..). He later distinguishes between
domestic and political circumstances, saying that he will discuss both “in
order to judge of the facts by their moral causes” (..). Recall that
in “Of National Characters,” his examples of moral causes include “the
nature of the government, the revolutions of public affairs, the plenty or
penury in which the people live, the situation of the nation with regard to
its neighbours, and such like circumstances” (..). These causes are
moral in the sense in which the Treatise of Human Nature is a study of
“moral subjects”: they concern the distinctively human and work on us
through features of our minds.
Hume does “intermingle” various modes of inquiry. He asks whether
ancient morals would be more likely to promote human flourishing. He
reflects on ancient war practices and their probable psychological effects. He
argues that economic systems that discourage property ownership lead to
political instability, and that weak manufacturing and industry encourages
oppressive tyrants, or at least deprives people of means to escape oppres-
sion. Finally, he examines the manuscript record, establishing nuanced
hermeneutic principles that anticipate later schools of interpretation.


Hume mentions Isaak Vossius, whose arguments for the high population of ancient Rome in
Variarum Observationum Liber Hume dismisses as well-known “extravagancies” (..) and his
fellow Scot, Robert Wallace, though not by name. (See variant a, –.) M. A. Box and Michael
Silverthorne emphasize the influence of Wallace on Hume’s essay and argue that Hume’s argument
is therefore “best examined in relation to Wallace rather than to Monstesquieu, Vossius, or other
famous luminaries” (“Most Curious & Important of All Questions,” ).

“Libertarian Demography,” . Young cites harsh winters, the burdens of war, and the coerced
exodus of Calvinists as factors contributing to this decline.

For a summary and analysis of Hume’s use of sources in this essay, see Box and Silverthorne’s “Most
Curious & Important of All Questions.” For a meticulous analysis of his use of classical sources, see
Moritz Baumstark’s “Hume’s Reading of the Classics.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
“Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations” thus includes an element of
conjectural history. Roger Emerson uses “conjectural history” to “denote
any rational or naturalistic account of the origins and development of
institutions, beliefs or practices not based on documents or copies of
documents or other artifacts contemporary (or thought to be contempor-
ary) with the subjects studied.” When Hume posits, for instance, that
primitive battle practices would have produced ferocity that disrupted
normal social life, he is conjecturing from theses about human behavior,
not historical documents or artifacts. He also speculates about how various
circumstances would have affected ancient characters and rates of repro-
duction. These techniques are consistent with Dugald Stewart’s original
description of conjectural history in : absent certain facts, it is
necessary to consider “in what manner [men] are likely to have proceeded,
from the principles of their nature, and the circumstances of their external
situation.”
Yet Hume’s investigations go beyond conjectural history. He refers to
ancient texts for clues to the population density of ancient cities, as well as
references to historical battles and other events. Furthermore, scholars
often take the aim of conjectural history to be explaining some general
institution or widespread practice, like justice or monotheistic religion,
but this is not Hume’s aim here. Instead, he wants to answer a factual
question about whether or not population density was higher in the
ancient world, and to draw lessons about the superiority of some features
of modern culture. Understanding the logic of this essay will therefore
require going beyond standard analyses of conjectural history.
“Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations” presents one problem
common to any form of conjectural history: such histories presume
continuities in human nature that can seem ahistorical or implausible.
Hume queries whether the situations of ancient peoples would interact
with human nature in ways that would increase or decrease population.
But how can we know that these situations would affect ancient humans in
the same way that they affect modern humans? How, in other words, can
we assume that human nature is static over time? If it is not, then how can
we infer anything about human behavior from information about ancient
situations?


“Conjectural History and Scottish Philosophers,” .

“Account of the Life and Writings of Adam Smith,” xxxv.

See, e.g., Juan Samuel Santos Castro’s “Hume and Conjectural History,” . Castro’s article is a
helpful attempt to explain and justify Hume’s use of conjectural history in light of his claims about
historical explanation.

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 Domineering 
Hume has often been accused of assuming that human nature is static.
R. G. Collingwood, in The Idea of History, writes that Hume “always
assumes that our reasoning faculty, our tastes and sentiments, and so forth,
are something perfectly uniform and invariable, underlying and condi-
tioning all historical changes.” Collingwood acknowledges that Hume
believes that a new “science of human nature” could lead to progress, “but
not by altering human nature itself – that, he never suggests to be possible –
only by improving our understanding of it.”
Such criticism is at best exaggerated. The beginning of “Of the Popu-
lousness of Ancient Nations” implies that alteration in human nature is
possible. Hume concedes that humans might share in the variations of the
world, which is not “eternal or incorruptible,” and therefore may be in
decline (..). He does not limit this possible variation to bodily
attributes; at the world’s prime, people might “possess greater vigour both
of mind and body” (..–). Given Hume’s suspicion of belief in an
underlying substance that constitutes our nature, change in human attri-
butes is sufficient to constitute a change in a Humean “human nature.”
His resistance to concluding that there have been such changes comes
from a sceptic’s cautiousness about the available evidence, not an a priori
commitment to a static human nature. If there are “any such gradual
revolutions, they are too slow to be discernible in that short period which
is comprehended by history and tradition. Stature and force of body,
length of life, even courage and extent of genius, seem hitherto to have
been naturally, in all ages, pretty much the same” (..). Hume is
attacking both Athens and Jerusalem. Against Aristotle’s belief in the
eternality of the world and its species, Hume asserts that earth and
humanity might have finite existences. Against a literal interpretation of
Hebrew scriptures, he denies that earlier humans had significantly longer
natural lifespans.
The only mental attributes that Hume acknowledges here to be static
are “courage and extent of genius.” But is even this limited claim plausible,


Idea of History, . Cf. Alasdair MacIntyre’s claim that Hume and Hutcheson share a view of
human nature as “uniform and invariant” (Whose Justice? Which Rationality?, ). David Fate
Norton writes that Hume believes human nature to be “not merely stable, but also unalterable”
(“Hume, Human Nature, and the Foundations of Morality,” in Norton, Cambridge Companion to
Hume, ). Berry claims that for Hume, “Human nature is not historically defined” (Hume, Hegel
and Human Nature, ).

Idea of History, . For a survey of Collingwood’s engagement with Hume, see S. K. Wertz,
“Collingwood’s Understanding of Hume.”

See also EWU ..

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
especially given the effects of government on these traits that I discussed in
the previous chapter? It is if we read Hume’s “naturally, in all ages” as
referring to natural ability or capacity rather than cultivated and mature
traits. Consistency of the extent of genius or courage in this sense does not
eliminate the possibility of significant differences in societal or individual
cultivation of these attributes. Charity requires this reading, as Hume
repeatedly acknowledges changes and developments in both.
Courage is certainly an ancient virtue, particularly when understood
primarily as a martial excellence. Homeric epics celebrate it, Plato’s
Republic associates it with the military class, and Aristotle argues that its
quintessential setting is the battlefield. Again, Hume recognizes courage’s
ancient pedigree but argues that its status alters significantly over time. In
“all uncultivated nations, who have not . . . had full experience of the
advantages attending beneficence, justice, and the social virtues, courage
is the predominant excellence; what is most celebrated by poets, recom-
mended by parents and instructors, and admired by the public in general”
(EPM .). The ranking of virtues – not only their recognition –
partially constitutes a form of life. Hume’s reference to what is recom-
mended by parents and instructors is helpful: consider the differences in
child-rearing between a society in which bravery is the most admired virtue
and one in which compassion takes that place. We would expect both the
extent and form of courage to be quite different in the two societies.
Later in “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations,” Hume quotes with
approval Strabo’s claim that in pre-Roman Gaul, “the genius of the
inhabitants” led them “less to arts than arms, till their slavery under Rome
produced peace among themselves” (..). He thus links variation in
genius to the martial skill often associated with courage. Hume therefore
recognizes significant variation in the cultivation of both genius and
courage. He holds no strong view of the immutability of human nature
in these two respects. Though one society may admire and inculcate
courage more than others or in a fiercer vein, it does not follow that their
people are born with a greater capacity for courage. The context of Hume’s
denial of significant change in these respects is an objection to the view
that human nature and therefore fecundity must decline along with the
earth in general, as if we were the graying hair on the head of the globe.


See Nicomachean Ethics, ..

See also H :, where Hume claims that “valour and love of liberty” are “the only virtues which
can have place among an uncivilized people, where justice and humanity are commonly neglected.”

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 Domineering 
If this view were correct, then human decline should be present from birth,
in the form of diminished natural capacities.
Hume’s reference to unchanging courage and genius therefore provides
no direct evidence for his strong belief in uniform and invariant human
nature. At most, we can infer that he rejects the notion that modern
humans are born with significantly different capacities than ancient humans.
But am I saving Hume from a substantive mistake – supposing human
nature to be more constant than it is – only to convict him of a serious logical
error? Again, it seems that asking how moral causes might change popula-
tion requires believing in invariant human nature; otherwise, we cannot
know how such causes would affect human behavior. Furthermore, there is
another way that the logic of “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations”
presupposes significant continuity in human nature. Were the ancients so
far removed from the moderns that we could make no inferences about how
particular situations would influence their behavior or well-being, then the
populousness of ancient states could imply nothing about the superiority for
modern people of ancient “police, manners, or constitution of government.”
Perhaps their systems worked well for people like them, but if modern
people are so different, ancient systems might not work well at all for
moderns. Hume recognizes cases in which differences between the ancients
and the moderns are substantial enough to require different policies. We saw
one example in his warning against ancient austerity practices for modern
polities. But the seriousness with which he treats the thesis of ancient popu-
lousness shows that he accepts continuity enough for some comparison.
Charity again requires that our interpretation accommodate this acceptance
of continuity as well as change.
This objection requires two levels of response. First, Hume does believe
that some aspects of human nature are static across time and cultures.
Compare the following two passages, the first from the Enquiry Concerning
Human Understanding, and the second from “Of Commerce”:
It is universally acknowledged, that there is a great uniformity among the
actions of men, in all nations and ages, and that human nature remains
still the same, in its principles and operations. The same motives always
produce the same actions . . . Mankind are so much the same, in all times
and places, that history informs us of nothing new or strange in this
particular. (EHU .)


See Hume’s conclusion that “general physical causes ought entirely to be excluded from the
question” (..).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Man is a very variable being, and susceptible of many different opinions,
principles, and rules of conduct. What may be true, while he adheres to one
way of thinking, will be found false, when he has embraced an opposite set
of manners and opinions. (..–)
Does Hume sloppily contradict himself, failing to remember his philo-
sophical views when he turns toward politics? Or it is a noble contradic-
tion, revealing a change of mind and no need for the hobgoblin of foolish
consistency? We can do more justice to the complexity of Hume’s thought
than either of these possibilities would. Something like Forbes’s thesis that
Hume’s science of human nature proceeds in two phases is more plaus-
ible. The first phase, “Hume’s general psychology,” identifies the causal
principles of the human mind, such as sympathy and association. This
deep structure is universal to all humans. The second phase applies these
general principles to humans as they inhabit varying societies, where
circumstances mold the “very variable being.” In this phase, Hume is well
aware that people in different times and settings take pride in different
things, become offended in different ways, and even honor different
virtues.
The second level of response to the objection requires recognizing that
the argument of “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations” does not rest
on a simple dyadic relation between human nature and the relevant
situations. It instead depends on a complex network of relations between
what we know of past human behavior, the principles of human nature,
and what we know of past situations. Some of Hume’s inferences depend
on assumptions about human nature, and some do not. If those that do
not cohere with those that do, as Hume often thinks is the case, this result


See Hume’s Philosophical Politics, –. Alix Cohen distinguishes between “human nature
considered as a ‘body of principles’ that is common to all human beings, and human nature as
malleable and influenced by society and political structures” – the “social nature” of human beings
(“Notion of Moral Progress in Hume’s Philosophy,” ).

Forbes also challenges the usual interpretation of the passage at EHU .. While admitting that its
wording is not felicitous, he argues that in its context (the defense of necessity in human action),
Hume only means that we all acknowledge that people act on predictable principles. Concrete
predictions for behavior must take into account local customs and manners, but the “local
uniformities prove the general principle of uniformity” (Hume’s Philosophical Politics, ). Other
scholars who argue against a strong “uniformitarian” interpretation of Hume include Evnine,
“Hume, Conjectural History, and the Uniformity of Human Nature,” and Richard Dees,
“Hume and the Contexts of Politics.” For a subtle treatment of this issue as it relates to the
passions, see Jacqueline Taylor, Reflecting Subjects, –. Berry defends his position in “Hume’s
Universalism,” which provides further references to recent literature in the debate.

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 Domineering 
provides evidence for the stability of human nature in the relevant respects.
To make this clearer, let us see how this web of factors structures Hume’s
comparisons of ancients and moderns in their most domineering charac-
ters: soldier and slave-master.

. War
War is among the “political customs and institutions” that might influence
population rates (..). Hume observes that “the ancient republics
were almost in perpetual war” – a claim based on his reading of histories
and other sources. But he does not leave the remark as a bare statement
of fact. He adds that this bellicose state was “a natural effect of their
martial spirit, their love of liberty, their mutual emulation, and that hatred
which generally prevails among nations that live in close neighbourhood”
(..). Martial spirit and love of liberty are characteristics that Hume
believes ancient peoples to have possessed in greater abundance than
moderns. But mutual emulation and the hatred of close neighbors are
in no way limited to ancient polities. He explicitly generalizes the latter,
and we saw him appeal to it to explain Britain’s imprudent extremes
toward France, under the guise of maintaining a balance of power. And
many of the essays show that he finds emulation to be a powerful,
pervasive force for all humans. It is one of the constant principles of
human nature.
Frequent wars of any kind reduce population, but Hume thinks the
manner of ancient warfare augmented its mortal cost. He argues that
firearms actually made war less destructive, because the “long thin lines,
required by fire-arms, and the quick decision of the fray, render our
modern engagements but partial rencounters” (..). Ancient battles,
in contrast, comprised a mass of single combats with great destruction on
both sides, and often the loss of entire armies. Again, Hume supports these
observations with historical battle reports. But he then appeals to general
principles of human nature to infer further effects of such fighting:


He writes that the ancients “were extremely fond of liberty; but seem not to have understood it
well” (..). (Hume’s example refers to the abuses of Athens’s thirty tyrants, but the referent of
this remark does not seem to be limited to the Athenians.) In his discussion of ancient trade
practices, he refers to the “extreme love of liberty, which animated those ages” (..).

See, for example, his claim in “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences” that a “noble
emulation is the source of every excellence” () or the discussion of the role of emulation in
advancing the arts through our imitation of foreigners (..–).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
The battles of antiquity, both by their duration, and their resemblance
to single combats, were wrought up to a degree of fury quite unknown to
later ages. Nothing could then engage the combatants to give quarter, but
the hopes of profit, by making slaves of their prisoners . . . What a stout
resistance must be made, where the vanquished expected so hard a fate!
How inveterate the rage, where the maxims of war were, in every respect, so
bloody and severe! (..–)
Thus, ancient battle practices would produce high levels of both courage
and rage. This conjecture is based on the principles of human nature. But
it derives support from and helps explain other historical facts, such as
records of cities destroying themselves rather than falling victim to a
superior invading army, thus avoiding a cruel fate in a way “sweetened
perhaps by a little prospect of revenge upon the enemy.” Finally, he draws
one more inference about the influence of these practices on population:
“And the same determined spirit and cruelty must, in other instances less
remarkable, have been destructive to human society, in those petty com-
monwealths, which lived in close neighborhood, and were engaged in
perpetual wars and contentions” (..).
Evnine has pointed out that conjectural history can be thought of as a
triangulation. The triangle’s three points are “the progress of some human
institution of activity,” the relevant external circumstances, and the prin-
ciples of the human mind. Drawing conclusions about the first requires
fixing the other two. But Hume is not only engaging in simple modus
ponens reasoning of this form:
If circumstances were X, then humans must have responded by Y.
Circumstances were X.
So, humans must have responded by Y.
He does use such reasoning, which relies on his understanding of the
principles of human nature to establish the plausibility of the first premise.
The conclusion of these arguments can be about specific behaviors, but
they can also be about variations in human nature, such as the suggestion
that ancient warfare would have produced “determined spirit and cruelty.”
Hume also relies, often implicitly, on inference to the best explanation
of the following kind:


“Hume, Conjectural History, and the Uniformity of Human Nature,” –. Evnine makes this
point in discussing conjectural history in general and Dugald Stewart’s presentation of it in
particular. He recognizes that Hume’s own practice is more complex. See .

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 Domineering 
Human variation X would explain a response, Y.
Y has occurred.
So, there is reason to believe in the existence of human variation X.
That whole cities destroyed themselves rather than surrender to their
enemies is the second premise in an argument of this form. It thus provides
additional support for Hume’s postulate that ancient peoples had a
heightened sense of vengeance.
Once the plausibility of such variations has been established by either
type of argument, they are then available for use in modified inferences of
the first form:
If circumstances were X, then these humans must have responded by Y.
Circumstances were X.
So, these humans must have responded by Y.
This complexity enables Hume to move beyond triangular reasoning to
something more flexible, with more moving parts. Which fixed points are
necessary depends on the specific argument that he is making at the time.
He must be committed to some fundamental principles in the human
mind, but not to a completely static human nature.
I do not claim that Hume’s real aim in this essay is to provide evidence
for human variation. Often, he takes such variations for granted based in
part on his reading of ancient texts. Nonetheless, the complex reasoning
shows that Hume’s understanding of human variation is not simplistic.
The web of relations that he describes between circumstances, human
nature, and behavior aims to challenge the claim that ancient nations were
more populous and therefore superior in their modes of life to modern
ones. But in drawing out these relations in this nuanced way, Hume also
provides more immediate – though not explicit – persuasion concerning
the relative superiority of different ways of life. Evidence of pervasive
martial spirit, determined cruelty, and political instability so extreme that
it leads to mass suicide and murder speaks for itself. Hume need not point
out that such things would be difficult to endure regardless of their effects
on population. He usually refrains from doing so, thus making this aspect
of his case more subtle and, for those who might be put on guard by more
direct reasoning, more compelling.
Hume’s discussion of war in “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations”
suggests a greater prominence of aggressive, violent traits among the
ancients than among the moderns. This suggestion coheres with many of
his remarks about the value of martial courage in ancient societies and the

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
increased importance of humanity in modern ones. But it provides no
ground for complacency about modern progress. Readers of Hume’s
History know that he adduces plenty of evidence for extreme cruelty in
recent wars. The circumstances of ancient battles may have produced
people who manifested their domineering tendencies in especially bloody
ways. But since domineering tendencies can spring from more fundamen-
tal Humean principles of human nature, they therefore could be reacti-
vated, or even surpassed, under different circumstances. Colonial slavery
provides a haunting example for us. But Hume’s own treatment of slavery
is another challenge to nostalgia about the ancient world.

. Slavery
Hume believes domestic slavery to be the most important difference
between ancient and modern domestic economy. His discussion of it
includes the subtle, intricate forms of reasoning that he uses in his
treatment of war. The case for slavery’s beneficial effects on population
relies on the notion that slave owners, like good shepherds, would breed
the enslaved persons under their control, thus increasing the general stock
of human beings. Hume meets this reasoning on its own terms. Though
the “comparison is shocking between the management of human creatures
and that of cattle,” he notes wryly that it is in this case “extremely just”
(..). But when approaching questions of humanity from an eco-
nomic perspective, we should be better economists. Just as, in urban
centers, it is cheaper to import livestock from outlying areas than to rear
them with expensive city resources, it would be cheaper to import human
resources from the provinces than to rear them within a city household.
This speculation belongs to the category of inferences based on relations
between circumstances and human nature. The desire to maximize wealth,
all else being equal, is a constant. But Hume again draws on a wide variety
of confirmatory sources to support the speculation. He notes that Aris-
totle’s Politics implies that slaves are foreigners. He refers to the listing of


Hume ascribes much modern cruelty to religious disputes. His discussion of the  Irish
rebellion shows fundamental principles of the mind working together with religious zeal. He
writes, “Amidst all these enormities, the sacred name of Religion resounded on every side; not to
stop the hands of these murderers, but to enforce their blows, and to steel their hearts against every
movement of human or social sympathy” (H :). But he also remarks of the extreme cruelties
involved: “Depraved nature, even perverted religion, encouraged by the utmost licence, reach not to
such a pitch of ferocity; unless the pity, inherent in human breasts, be destroyed by that contagion
of example, which transports men beyond all the usual motives of conduct and behaviour”
(H :).

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 Domineering 
Demosthenes’ inheritance and notes that only male slaves were mentioned,
without reference to women, children, or family. And in a striking instance
of linguistic analysis, he argues that the presence in Latin of a term for a
slave who had been reared within a family (verna), with no correlative
designating the opposite, suggests that such slaves were in the minority
(..n).
Disputing the notion of fertile slave households provides indirect criti-
cism of the practice, if one begins by assuming a correlation between
population and well-being. But Hume gives another kind of indirect
evidence, akin to that in his discussion of war. He refers repeatedly to
particular examples of inhumanity, usually without moral comment. He
relies throughout on the metaphor between cattle and enslaved people,
thus reminding readers that the practice treats fellow humans as livestock.
He paints in vivid colors instances of violence against the enslaved, such as
the story of the four hundred who were summarily executed in response to
the assassination by one of them of their Roman master (..). And
he shows enslaved people either living in forced celibacy or paying dearly
for the privilege of sexual relations that the rest of the population would
have enjoyed as rights. Such observations would not trouble a hardened
slave owner, but they might check the self-deception of those who would
like to believe slavery to be compatible with general humanity.
Before all this, Hume treats slavery quite differently than he treats
war, forcefully condemning its cruelty and directly deleterious effects.
Abandoning slavery has produced more liberty under “the most arbitrary
government of Europe” than under any ancient polity (..). While
consistently admiring the ancient spirit of liberty, Hume emphasizes its
irony. For the citizen, liberty is to be preserved and valorized, but the
associated social structures oppress huge portions of the population:
Some passionate admirers of the ancients, and zealous partisans of civil
liberty, (for these sentiments, as they are, both of them, in the main,
extremely just, are found to be almost inseparable) cannot forbear regretting


The idea is that when two categories form proportional parts of a whole, language usually desig-
nates each part with its own term, as in “man” and “woman.” But if one category forms a
disproportionate majority, only the minority category has a special term, as with “seaman,”
“carpenter,” etc. We have no words for non-seamen or non-carpenters.

Hume feels so strongly about slavery, however, that he denies that its promoting population would
be evidence of a superior form of life: “We may here observe, that if domestic slavery really
encreased populousness, it would be an exception to the general rule, that the happiness of any
society and its populousness are necessary attendants. A master, from humour or interest, may make
his slaves very unhappy, yet be careful, from interest, to increase their number. Their marriage is not
a matter of choice with them, more than any other action of their life” (..n).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
the loss of this institution; and whilst they brand all submission to the
government of a single person with the harsh denomination of slavery,
they would gladly reduce the greater part of mankind to real slavery and
subjection. (..)
This judgment depends on more than the sheer number of people enslaved
in ancient times. Petty tyrants, Hume claims, will likely be more oppres-
sive than great ones. A monarch distant in space and consequence from
her subjects cannot concern herself with each one’s everyday acts. So she is
less likely to impose severe restrictions on such acts – or enforce them
effectively if she attempts to. The distance also reduces the psychological
burden on the subject, making “fainter that cruel comparison . . . between
our own subjection, and the freedom, and even dominion of another”
(..). But slavery creates especially inhumane petty tyrants, since
they have complete control over other human beings and may have
enjoyed this control since childhood. Here Hume blames slavery for the
“barbarous manners of ancient times, . . . by which every man of rank was
rendered a petty tyrant, and educated amidst the flattery, submission, and
low debasement of his slaves” (..–).
Hume details the cruelty exercised against enslaved people in the
ancient world, including exposure and starvation of those made useless
by age or infirmity, chaining during all varieties of work, extorting testi-
mony through torture, and regular beatings as “due correction and discip-
line” (..). His ire culminates in a footnote at the end of this passage,
in which he vents a desire to return barbarism for barbarism. After
identifying the violence of “amphitheatrical entertainments” as another
effect of slavery, he writes: “One’s humanity is apt to renew the barbarous
wish of Caligula, that the people had but one neck: A man could almost
be pleased, by a single blow, to put an end to such a race of monsters”
(..n).
Such virulent language is uncharacteristic of Hume in the Essays, and
such directness is out of sync with this essay’s explicit intent and overall
method. At the end of these passages, he mentions the incongruence:
“But our present business is only to consider the influence of slavery on
the populousness of a state” (..). Box and Silverthorne note that
Hume’s use of the “correction” trope here emphasizes everything he has


Hume echoes this claim throughout the Essays. See, e.g., ..–: “Arbitrary power, in all
cases, is somewhat oppressive and debasing; but it is altogether ruinous and intolerable, when
contracted into a small compass; and becomes still worse, when the person, who possesses it, knows
that the time of his authority is limited and uncertain.”

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 Domineering 
just been saying. Hume’s charge against slavery is of a different order
than his treatment of ancient war. Why single out this institution? Did
Hume fear a resurgence of domestic slavery as a genuine threat to the way
of life he and his contemporaries enjoyed? The answer to this question
determines whether we see Hume’s attack on slavery primarily as part of
his criticism of the irrational elevation of the past or as a warning for the
present.
Hume does express some anxiety about slavery’s resurgence during his
initial presentation of the issue, by remarking on the zeal of those “pas-
sionate admirers of the ancients” who regret slavery’s loss. He does not
identify these admirers, but one plausible candidate is Andrew Fletcher of
Saltoun – a fierce defender of liberty who advocates returning to the
practice of ancient slavery (though he eschewed the term “slavery”). In
the first of his Two Discourses Concerning the Affairs of Scotland (), he
argues with force and eloquence for Scotland’s need to protect itself against
the British sovereign’s encroaching power. Yet in the second discourse,
he proposes a system of forced servitude as the only effective response to
Scotland’s widespread hunger and famine.
Fletcher explicitly models the proposal on ancient slave practices, saying
that after finding no modern governments effectively dealing with poverty,
he “began to consider what might be the conduct of the wise antients in
that affair.” His admiration for the ancient system seems unbounded. He
credits it with enabling magnificent works of infrastructure and art, all the
more impressive given that these projects were completed among “so much
virtue and simplicity of manners,” during a time in which women were not
so “intolerably expensive.” The enslaved people themselves, moreover,


“Most Curious & Important of All Questions,”  and n.

Fletcher, Political Works, . The editor, John Robertson, suggests that Hume may have had
Fletcher in mind in these passages (n), but I am indebted to Roger Emerson for suggesting this
possibility to me. Fletcher’s Two Discourses were written in . Box and Silverthorne suggest
Fénélon, Montesquieu, Adam Ferguson, and Smollett as others with “a dangerous attraction” to the
ancients (“Most Curious & Important of All Questions,” ).

Political Works, .

Ibid., . Hume’s references to the ancient “simplicity of manners” include “Of Civil Liberty,” ;
“Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,” ; “Of Money,” ; and “Of the
Populousness of Ancient Nations,”  and . His attitude toward this simplicity is
ambivalent. In the “Rise and Progress” passage, he comments that “the ancient simplicity, which
is naturally so amiable and affecting, often degenerates into rusticity and abuse, scurrility and
obscenity.” “Of Simplicity and Refinement” is also helpful, although its discussion concerns these
qualities specifically as they apply to composition, so that simplicity consists of natural writing
without much rhetorical ornamentation. Although Hume argues for erring on the side of simplicity,
his remarks about the portrayal of “sentiments, which are merely natural” show his distaste for
unadorned “low life” (..–).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
were models of usefulness and faithfulness. In this idyllic time, “any master
who had the least judgment or discretion, was served with emulation by all
his slaves.” The contemporary lack of such virtues presents a problem for
Fletcher, which he recognizes by insisting that his proposals “must be
executed with great address, diligence, and severity.” Otherwise, the proud
but wicked beneficiaries “will rather die with hunger in caves and dens,
and murder their young children, than appear abroad to have them and
themselves taken into such a kind of service.”
In the History, Hume calls Fletcher “a man of signal probity and fine
genius,” with strong “republican principles,” yet much subject to passions
with occasionally violent effects (H :). His Political Works were
probably in Hume’s library, and McArthur notes that Hume enjoyed
the patronage of Fletcher’s influential nephew, Lord Milton, “who idolized
his uncle.” Furthermore, there are parallels between Fletcher’s Discourses
and Hume’s Essays. Fletcher’s opposition to using men for a standing army
who might instead be employed in trade and manufacturing provides
context for Hume’s discussion of the potential tension between public
and private good in “Of Commerce.” And Fletcher’s first discourse con-
tains a similar, though harsher, description of soldiers’ characters to that in
“Of National Characters.”
There were plenty of more recent slavery advocates as well. In , one
year before “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations” was published, the
jurist Andrew McDouall wrote in An Institute of the Laws of Scotland in
Civil Rights: “Slavery was introduced by the law and customs of nations. It
is indeed contrary to the state of nature, by which all men were equal and
free; but is not repugnant to the law of nature, which does not command
men to live in their native freedom, nor forbid the preserving persons, at
the expense of their liberty, whom it was lawful to kill.” In light of such
arguments, and especially in light of the growing institution of colonial
slavery, it would be reasonable for Hume to have genuine concern about
sympathy among his readership for returning to the ancient practice.
Indeed, it may seem unreasonable for him not to. Box and Silverthorne,
after quoting the passage about “passionate admirers of the antients,”

 
Political Works, . Ibid., .

See David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton, David Hume Library, .
 
David Hume’s Political Theory, n. Political Works, .

Institute of the Laws of Scotland, –. It was common to argue that slavery was justified if the
enslaved were prisoners of a just war and that enslaving such prisoners was a merciful way of treating
them. See Watkins, “‘Slaves among Us,’” .

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 Domineering 
write, “One senses that we are now in an argument less about population
than conflicting visions for the future of Europe and its colonies.”
One does have this sense, but I believe it is mistaken. Serious textual
obstacles stand in the way. Though Hume acknowledges the inhumanity
of American slavery, he doubts its viability: “The remains which are
found of domestic slavery, in the  colonies, and among some
 nations, would never surely create a desire of rendering it more
universal” (..). American slavery proved to be much more than the
“remains” of a dying institution, and its proponents were all too nimble at
providing arguments for its continuation and expansion. But Hume’s
tone in this section suggests no real concern that the practice of domestic
slavery will encroach upon northwestern Europe’s established system of
paid domestic servants. He seems assured that slavery has really been
“abolished for some centuries throughout the greater part of ,”
and he expresses nothing like the anxiety that he does over public debt.
None of the Essays takes as its main topic the evils of slavery. Given
the strength of Hume’s opposition to slavery, the omission is striking.
He speaks of colonial slavery as outside the purview of his concerns in
the Essays. An infamous footnote in “Of National Characters,” in which he
asserts that he suspects “the negroes to be naturally inferior to the whites”
and refuses to countenance evidence to the contrary, shows that he would
have failed to appreciate the racial dimension of colonial slavery’s injustice
(..n). Fletcher’s proposal was an old one by the time Hume writes
this essay and had largely fallen on deaf ears. Robertson remarks that
“Fletcher’s draconian solutions to the problems of poverty and vagrancy
were not taken too seriously by contemporaries, and secured nothing like


“Most Curious & Important of All Questions,” .

Hume provided a basis for some of these arguments himself, with his remarks in a footnote to “Of
National Characters” (..; see later discussion) and, less shamefully, with the essay in question
itself. See Thomas R. Dew’s use of Hume’s arguments in a post-Malthusian context to argue that
proposed legislation would increase the cost of adult slaves, thus having what he assumes to be the
undesirable result of increasing the birth rate among African-Americans (Debate in the Virginia
Legislature, –).

There has been lively debate about this footnote. Richard Popkin argues that Hume’s remarks
provided a theoretical basis for some of the worst forms of racism and that there was plenty of
counterevidence to Hume’s claims that he should have been aware of (“Hume’s Racism” and
“Hume’s Racism Reconsidered”). See also Immerwahr, “Hume’s Revised Racism”; Emmanuel Eze,
“Hume, Race, and Human Nature”; and Aaron Garrett, “Hume’s Revised Racism Revisited” and
“Hume’s ‘Original Difference.’” For a mitigated defense of Hume, see Robert Palter, “Hume and
Prejudice.” Regardless of how one judges the nature and degree of Hume’s racism, his attack on
slavery cannot serve as a much of a defense. The ancient slavery that is the primary target of this
attack was not a racially based system.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
the support he received for his proposals for constitutional change five
years later . . . The tendency of subsequent discussion was against anything
which smacked of a return to slavery.”
Yet Britain and other European nations were vastly extending slavery
in their own colonies. During the eighteenth century, the average number
of Africans sent to the Americas for enslavement increased from ,
to , per year. One possible explanation for Hume’s nonchalance
holds that the dominant view prior to the  invention of the cotton
gin was that slavery was not economically viable over the long term and
would die a natural death. There is reason, however, to question the
alleged dominance of that view.
Britain adopted a progressive stance against slavery in the late eighteenth
and early nineteenth century. The landmark Somerset case, decided in
, undermined slave owners’ rights to legal domination over enslaved
people in England and quickly extended its reach throughout the United
Kingdom. And in , the British parliament became an international
leader in the movement to abolish the African slave trade by passing the
Slave Trade Abolition Act. Many historians, influenced by Eric Williams’s
 Capitalism and Slavery, have argued for the primacy of economic
motives for abolition. As David Richardson puts it, “Williams reduced the
rise and outcome of antislavery in Britain to a political calculus of national
economic self-interest,” thus “relegating those who fought against slavery,
whether from inside or outside the system, to the role of bystanders in a
drama primarily dictated by impersonal economic forces.”
Recent work, however, has challenged Williams’s view, without revert-
ing to complacent celebration of the moral nobility of everyone involved in
the abolitionist movement. Christopher Leslie Brown and Iain Whyte, for
example, insist on the importance of social movements and moral ideals
for English and Scottish abolitionism. And perhaps most influentially,
Seymour Drescher has argued that abolition was profoundly contrary to
Great Britain’s economic interest, although economic forces were an expli-
cit part of the abolition debates. This last point is particularly telling.
If people were convinced that slavery was economically detrimental, then
no one would have needed to press the point in public debate.

  
Political Works, –n. Seymour Drescher, Abolition, . Ibid., –.

David Richardson, “Agency, Ideology, and Violence,” –.

See Brown, Moral Capital and Whyte, Scotland and the Abolition of Black Slavery.

See Econocide.

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 Domineering 
In fact, however, several philosophers and politicians made such argu-
ments, including Hume’s friend Adam Smith. In his Lectures on Jurispru-
dence, Smith argues that slave labor is far less productive for masters than
paid labor, because enslaved people have no motive to produce anything
above what is required for their own survival. Moreover, the resulting
concentration of wealth in a few hands, with limited natural mechanisms
for that wealth to generate economic activity among a poorer class barred
from holding property, “renders rich and wealthy men of large properties
of great and real detriment, which otherwise are rather of service as they
promote trade and commerce.” Smith insists that slavery harms eco-
nomic prospects for masters and the community as a whole. The Lectures
on Jurisprudence were given from  to ; it is implausible to suggest
that the question of slavery’s economic viability was already settled ten
years earlier.
Moreover, Smith’s belief in slavery’s economic disadvantages did not
make him optimistic about widespread abolition. He believes that in
democratic societies where the people make the laws, they will be unlikely
to act in their own “real interest,” because of the strong “love of domin-
ation and authority and the pleasure men take in having every [thing] done
by their express orders.” Monarchs might be more willing to liberate
enslaved people but will be held back by fear that their wealthiest and most
powerful subjects will rebel. Smith concludes that “it is not likely that
slavery should be ever abolished, and it was owing to some peculiar
circumstances that it has been abolished in the small corner of the world
in which it now is.”
Hume could not have been ignorant of slavery’s growing economic
importance in the colonies, especially given the criticism of the practice
by those, like Montesquieu, with whom he was in close contact or
correspondence. But in his Essays, Hume is addressing the “small corner
of the world” that had chosen paid servant labor over slavery within their
home borders and took pride in that choice. This pride was, for many
northwestern Europeans, neither without hypocrisy nor well grounded in
the facts. Many British citizens were earning income on the backs of slave


Lectures on Jurisprudence, . Smith makes similar arguments in the Wealth of Nations. See
especially Book III, chapter .
 
Seeds of this argument appear in Hume. See ..n. Lectures on Jurisprudence, .

Ibid. See also Wealth of Nations, –.

For a helpful overview of the contribution of Scottish thinkers to the abolitionist movement, see
Alison Webster, “The Contribution of the Scottish Enlightenment to the Abandonment of the
Institution of Slavery.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
labor, either as owners of colonial plantations or as participants in the
industries tied to slavery. Hume had numerous ties to those involved with
the slave economy. But as Drescher documents in Abolition, the story of
Renaissance and early modern European abolition is convoluted at best.
The sense that slavery was a barbaric practice incompatible with Chris-
tianity and Europe’s advanced civilizations developed alongside ever more
sophisticated methods of justifying or ignoring complicity in that same
practice. When it had been established that Christians must not enslave
fellow Christians, the Protestant Revolution opened the door to declaring
a large population of ostensible Christians “beyond the pale of Christian
liberty” on account of their heresy. France adopted a progressive prin-
ciple of freedom, insisting that anyone who touched French soil was
free. The Guyenne Parlement declared as early as  that “France, the
mother of liberty, doesn’t permit any slaves.” Yet, needing a stock of
labor to power galley ships, the French navy discovered that this principle
did not apply to enslaved people purchased in Muslim countries with
established slave commerce. Generations of European civil law jurists,
like McDouall, reiterated the general permissibility of slavery. But, as
Drescher notes:
These same civil law jurists living in the zone of Europe without slave law
might casually, and even proudly, refer to the development of mutual non-
enslavement between European combatants. For these scholars, slavery was
hardly a problem in their culture. In retrospect, nothing is as striking in
their works as their general indifference to the implications of the emerging
transatlantic institution on their writings.
In his complacency about the threat of expanding slavery, then, Hume
inherits a sensibility shared by centuries of Europeans, particularly in
northwestern Europe, and rests assured that most of his audience will do
likewise. To note the history of such complacency is not to defend it.
Hume, as a historian and a philosopher who prided himself on seeing
behind the pretensions of institutions like the priesthood, would have been
as capable as anyone of unmasking this particular hypocrisy.


In “Of Money,” Hume refers to the money earned by the English, French, and Dutch “by their
A trade” (..). I am grateful to Margaret Schabas for bringing this passage to my
attention. On the extent of Hume’s own contact with the colonial slave economy, see Emma
Rothschild, “David Hume and the Seagods of the Atlantic,” –.
 
Drescher, Abolition, . Sue Peabody, “There Are No Slaves in France,” .
 
Drescher, Abolition, . Ibid., .

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 Domineering 
Hume’s criticism of slavery, which barely acknowledges the colonial
institution, does not have an abolitionist character and evinces no real
concern about slavery’s resurgence. Is slavery simply of interest to him,
then, as it relates to ancient versus modern populations? This hypothesis
cannot explain the virulence of Hume’s critique nor his detailing disadvan-
tages of slavery that have nothing to do with population growth or decline.
These aspects of Hume’s discussion in “Of the Populousness of Ancient
Nations” make sense, however, if his target is not a political proslavery
movement but instead a tendency to romanticize an earlier way of life. He
weaves another line of argumentation alongside his arguments that con-
tribute to the stated aim of the essay. This additional argumentation warns
that social institutions have serious consequences for human character. It is
obvious that slavery stems from inhumanity: to enslave humans is to treat
them as subhuman. It is also obvious that slavery produces inhumanity:
cruelty only begins with the initial enslavement. As Hume documents, the
suffering inflicted on enslaved people goes far beyond being forced to work
without any hope of remuneration or autonomy. But he takes the argu-
ment a step further: for the slaveholders themselves, slavery does not leave
everything as it is. Again, human nature is not static: slavery teaches the
privileged class the joys of domineering, hardens them against others’
suffering, and produces “barbarous” habits.
Hume’s account of sympathy in the Treatise explains the process behind
these changes. The mechanism of sympathy – one of the static principles
of humanity – is the complex process whereby we “catch” the sentiments
of other people. When something enlivens our ideas of someone else’s
perceptions, our ideas of those perceptions become impressions in us –
viz., feelings or sensations. Although we know others’ affects through
outward signs – sorrowful lamentations, frightened confessions, cheerful
smiles – these signs never point to wholly alien phenomena: “we never
remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or
other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves” (T ...). It is therefore
easy for ideas of someone else’s emotions to become correlative impres-
sions. This resemblance among shared emotions, moreover, increases the
sense that other people are like ourselves. The vivacity that Hume claims


Hume introduces his distinction between impressions and ideas at the beginning of the Treatise,
appealing to the general distinction that everyone will recognize between feeling and thinking. “The
difference betwixt these,” he says, “consists in the degrees of force and liveliness, with which they
strike upon the mind, and make their way into our thought or consciousness” (T ...). More
lively impressions include “sensations, passions, and emotions,” and the “faint images of these in
thinking and reasoning” are the ideas.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
always accompanies thoughts of the self thus enlivens the idea of another’s
sentiment even more.
We sympathize more easily with those who have some special relation to
us – family members, friends, and even those whose temper reminds us of
our own. But the “great resemblance among all human creatures” forwards
this process between all people. In general, one identifies more closely with
those who share one’s origins, characteristics, and opinions. Because of our
complex networks of relations and malleable nature, it is safe to assume
that sympathies are always in some degree of flux.
In one sense, masters have very close relations to those they enslave:
they are part of the same household and are mutually dependent on one
another. In discussing the correction of our moral sentiments, Hume gives
this apropos example: “Our servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite
stronger sentiments of love and kindness than Marcus Brutus, as repre-
sented in history; but we say not upon that account, that the former
character is more laudable than the latter” (T ...). But Hume makes
a strong distinction between slaves and domestic servants: he lauds the
system of explicitly drawing people into a household’s economy, recogniz-
ing them as deserving of respect (albeit tinctured by class distinctions), and
compensating them for their service. “In modern times,” he claims, “a bad
servant finds not easily a good master, nor a bad master a good servant; and
the checks are mutual, suitably to the inviolable and eternal laws of reason
and equity” (..). In contrast, slavery renders “every man of rank . . .
a petty tyrant.”
Domestic slavery encourages masters to regard enslaved people as live-
stock, as Hume’s reminder of the fitness of the cattle analogy suggests. As a
master loses the sense that enslaved people constitute other humans like
himself, his sympathy with them weakens. Some dangers of weakened
sympathy are familiar: it erodes one block against callousness by obscuring
the effects of our behavior on others. But on Hume’s view, the effects are
more dire: when sympathy works partially, the results can be worse than its
not working at all.
Although sympathy is in principle possible between all normal human
beings, sympathy with suffering does not always generate benevolent
passions. We might observe another’s pain, sympathetically feel pain
ourselves, and consequently develop a repugnance to the suffering person.
It can be difficult to accept that we have such reactions. But consider the
widespread repulsion toward beggars in city streets, or how difficult it is to

See T ....

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 Domineering 
remain friends with someone undergoing a long period of depression or
illness. I am not denying that we should try to overcome such difficulties,
and neither is Hume, but they are nonetheless real. Yet sympathy can lead
us to desire another’s good and to strive to ameliorate her situation.
Whence these contrary effects?
The explanation, according to Hume, lies in the relative strength of
the sympathetic response. Repugnance proceeds from weak sympathetic
responses, either because the suffering is mild or because something
prevents strong sympathetic identification with the sufferer. Benevolent
responses, on the other hand, proceed from strong sympathy. The vari-
ation is possible because passions generate other passions that resemble
them, and passions can resemble one another in two distinct ways. They
may be alike in affect: pride resembles love, for example, in that both are
agreeable to the person experiencing them (T ...). Alternatively, they
may be alike in their “tendency and direction” (T ...). Passions that
include or generate desires can parallel one another by aiming at identical
or similar ends. Pity thus resembles benevolence, as each aims to promote
another’s happiness.
Adopting these future-directed desires, however, requires a strong sym-
pathetic response. For the association of impressions to produce active pity
rather than inert disgust, I must do more than catch a vague sense of the
sufferer’s current pain. Fleeting sympathy tends to produce passions related
in affect (hatred or contempt) to the suffering, rather than related in
direction (benevolence or pity). Only a strong sense of another’s misery
ensures that “the vivacity of the conception is not confin’d merely to its
immediate object, but diffuses its influence over all the related ideas,” thus
giving “a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past,
present, or future; possible, probable or certain” (T ...). Such diffu-
sion requires an abundance of the sympathized passion to begin with,
and the stronger our ties to the sufferer, the more abundant such passion
will be. On the other hand, “when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it
produces hatred or contempt” (T ...).
We can now explain in Humean terms slavery’s vicious cycle of abuse.
As slavery encourages masters to think of enslaved people as chattel or
brutes rather than fellow humans, the force of natural sympathy is broken.


See Hume’s remarks in the second Enquiry on the “aversion and disgust” we feel toward
“a melancholy, dejected, sullen, anxious temper” (EPM .).

Hume’s theory of sympathy has generated an enormous secondary literature. For a recent overview,
see Elizabeth S. Radcliffe, “Hume’s Psychology of the Passions.” Radcliffe discusses the relevant
aspects of the theory at –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
The master may see the other’s suffering, but sympathy with that suffering
is not as encouraged by the “great resemblance among all human crea-
tures” as it otherwise would be. Thus, the causes of enslaved people’s
suffering – poverty, lack of education, subjugation itself – are more likely
to produce contempt and hatred than pity or love. The prolonged contact
that masters have with the people they enslave, therefore, may not rein-
force the masters’ sympathetic identification with their humanity; it may
instead reinforce hatred, cruelty, and malice toward those who serve him.
Even worse, the masters’ role in causing the suffering will likely intensify
the negative passions. Any desires of the masters whose end includes
or implies the suffering of the enslaved person resembles hatred and
anger in direction. Thus, Hume observes, “the injuries we do, not only
cause hatred in the person, who suffers them, but even in ourselves”
(T ...). But there is more. Working alongside and sometimes con-
trary to sympathy is the principle of comparison, or our tendency to judge
objects by comparing them with other nearby or related objects. Unlike
sympathy, by which we adopt the sentiments of others, comparison can
produce an opposing sentiment, as when seeing other people happy in
shared company heightens loneliness. A dark form of comparison produces
malice, or joy in others’ suffering. Someone else’s pain, compared with my
own happiness, can augment the pleasure I take in my own state. Gerald
Postema, who calls this operation of comparison “reversal-comparison,”
argues that it makes sense on Humean principles that malice would result
when the self remains primarily in view. In sympathy, on the other hand,
the self is not “in focus,” although resemblance to self supports sympathy’s
operation. Slavery promotes self-focus in masters’ interactions with
enslaved people, as those people appear to masters primarily as instruments
for the latter’s service. The enslaved’s sorrow therefore becomes a source of
joy to the master – a malice that carries with it a desire to increase that
sorrow. This effect of comparison does not require slaveholders’ conceiv-
ing of enslaved people as inhuman. In fact, it might be augmented by a
continual recognition of their mutual humanity. Hume notes that people
would not derive as much pleasure from domineering over automatons
as they do over “sensible and rational creatures, whose condition, being
compar’d to our own, makes [our authority] seem more agreeable and


Hume does not think hatred itself includes desire. But it is reliably attended with anger or the desire
for the hated person’s misery (T ...). Hume refers to hatred as one of the passions with
“impulses or directions” that can resemble others’ (T ...).
  
See T .... “Cemented with Diseased Qualities,” –. Ibid., –.

Unlike some other indirect passions, malice includes a desire within itself. See Radcliffe, “Hume’s
Psychology of the Passions,” .

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 Domineering 
honourable” (T ...). Whether or not slaveholders succeed in
deluding themselves about the humanity of the people under their control,
their abuse feeds on itself.
Again, Hume can infer from particular circumstances – the widespread
practice of domestic slavery – that ancient peoples must have responded in
specific ways. Universal features of human nature, such as sympathy,
explain this response. But the response is a modification of that nature,
into a crueler version of itself. Outside of slave-holding societies, some
imagine that most masters would treat enslaved people well. (It is sadly still
common to hear claims about gentle slave owners in the American South.)
But Hume believes that the “ancient” way of life, in this respect, hardened
the character, permitting it to be cruel.
The argument that slaveholding can change character for the worse
undermines the view of the “passionate admirer of the ancients.” The
admirer notes the ancients’ concern with nobility, scorn of danger in
battle, elevation of heroism, and fierce dedication to civic liberty. This
admiration carries two distinct threats. One might elevate these positive
traits, ignoring or downplaying accompanying vices. Such self-deception
can erode appreciation for modern progress. On the other hand, one might
recognize the relation between ancient virtues and slavery but prioritize
the virtues, so that they support an argument for actually bringing back
slavery. I have argued that this is not Hume’s concern in “Of the Popu-
lousness of Ancient Nations.” The first danger could easily become the
second, however, and the second was a real danger. We can see this by
looking forward to nineteenth-century proslavery arguments.
These arguments couple slavery with republican spirit, along with
appeals to the ancients’ example. Proslavery literature often cites Edmund
Burke’s  speech to parliament on conciliation with the American
colonies. Warning that Americans were as devoted to their freedom as
Englishmen, Burke insists that the Southern colonies’ system of slavery
was a strong source of this devotion. Wherever there are large numbers of
enslaved people, including the ancient commonwealths, “those who are
free, are by far the most proud and jealous of their freedom . . . In such a
people the haughtiness of domination combines with the spirit of freedom,
fortifies it, and renders it invincible.” Burke does not claim that this love
of freedom counterbalances the evils of slavery; it is a love rooted in
haughty pride and misapprehension of freedom’s burdens. Yet Thomas
Roderick Dew, in his influential Review of the Debate in the Virginia

 
See also T .... “Speech on Conciliation with America,” –.

Burke was in favor of gradual abolition of slavery, as he explains in his Sketch of the Negro Code.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Legislature of  and , selectively quotes Burke, obscuring Burke’s
real point. Dew celebrates slavery’s generation of a spirit of liberty and even
equality in the American South, by analogy to ancient republics. Aristotle,
Sparta, and Burke all show that republican spirit and attachment to liberty
feeds off slavery, and “from the time of Burke down to the present day, the
southern states have always borne this same honorable distinction.”
Dew was not the only, or even the most influential, Southern writer to
connect republicanism, slavery, and the model of the ancients. It was a
common trope as the South moved to an explicitly proslavery position. In
his study of proslavery ideology, Larry Tise notes that William Harper,
chancellor of South Carolina throughout the middle decades of the nine-
teenth century, claimed that there were “important lessons to be gained
from Burke and the examples of the ancient republics: ‘They teach us that
slavery is compatible with freedom, stability, and long duration of civil
government, with denseness of population, great power, and the highest
civilization.’” But Dew extends this sensibility to an absurd mythology of
the Southern ethos. He extols the fraternal spirit among Southern whites
of all stations, who allegedly feel themselves to be on a “common level,”
at least “as nearly as can be expected or even desired in this world.”
“Color alone,” he says, “is here the badge of distinction, the true mark of
aristocracy,” and in such a setting, the nasty effects of class warfare melt
away. This fantasy rests on a claim with a familiar form – that prac-
tices and circumstances shape human nature. With such a method,
Hume cannot quibble: it is his own. But he would protest its application.
Without denying that slavery generates a class of freemen fiercely dedicated
to liberty, he insists that it also has darker, more significant effects on
human nature.
The notion that slavery’s primary effects are salutary requires blinding
oneself to the suffering of a large part of the community. But if Hume is
right, such blinding is precisely what we should expect from this insti-
tution. Even if we grant its promotion of certain local virtues, its cost
is too high. For the enslaved, the pain is undeniable. But from Hume’s
perspective, slavers harm themselves too: their practice encourages a set of
passions that he believes likely to produce misery rather than happiness.
(I will discuss this point in more detail in Chapter , on “Composing.”)


Debate in the Virginia Legislature, .

Larry E. Tise, Proslavery, . Harper’s quotation is from his “Memoir on Slavery.”
 
Debate in the Virginia Legislature, . Ibid., .

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 Domineering 
Hume did not appreciate the threat of modern slavery’s expansion, but
he did warn against the kind of thinking that was later used to justify it.
It is easy to overstate the importance of rational argumentation against
practices so clearly based in greed, anger, and racism. But it also easy to
understate their importance: the early moderns and even their predecessors
recognized that there was a moral problem with slavery, and they had
to develop justifications for it. Some of these justifications exploited the
humor of blaming the present and exalting the past.

. Priests
With respect to the related practices of war and slavery, Hume believes
the moderns to have made progress relative to ancient cultures. Nothing
in his work suggests that this progress is irreversible, nor does he portray it
as steady and gradual evolution from ancient to modern times, or even
from medieval to modern times. The History ascribes extreme, sometimes
unprecedented, barbarism to later inhabitants of western Europe. But he
expresses hope that humanity is moving away from violent domineering
toward more peaceful, economic competition in public life and toward
increasing sociability in private life.
About the priesthood, however, Hume is less optimistic. In “Of National
Characters,” he uses the examples of soldiers and priests to show that moral
causes – in this case, professions – can change character. In a footnote, he
elaborates the specific causes that he believes corrupt priests. The priest-
hood does not necessarily attract men of worse (or better) character; he
writes that they are “drawn from the mass of mankind, as people are to
other employments, by the views of profit” (..n). But once the
collar is donned, the office’s demands tempt all but those of the strongest
character into hypocrisy, conceit, and vengeance.
The details of this attack are not all germane here. But Hume has strong
words about the office’s encouraging domineering tendencies. It is a proto-
Nietzschean analysis of tyranny’s emergence from weakness. Most of
us are ambitious by nature, Hume says, but priests cannot satisfy their
ambition as other men can through diligent work, useful for common life.
Instead, the “ambition of the clergy can often be satisfied only by pro-
moting ignorance and superstition and implicit faith and pious frauds”
(..n). Natural antipathy to being contradicted becomes the “most


For a brief summary of contemporary criticism of Hume’s character of the priest, see Susato,
“Taming ‘The Tyranny of Priests,’” –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
furious and implacable” anger, because priestly power depends on people
accepting their beliefs. And their very character as men of peace feeds the
worm of vengefulness. Again, revenge “is a natural passion to mankind;
but seems to reign with the greatest force in priests and women: Because,
being deprived of the immediate exertion of anger, in violence and
combat, they are apt to fancy themselves despised on that account; and
their pride supports their vindictive disposition” (..n).
The unique constraints of the priesthood focus and intensify static
features of human nature – ambition, pride, and the desire for revenge.
This encouragement of domineering produces two kinds of dangers. One
is political: Hume warns governments to proceed cautiously in restraining
this class, “who will for ever combine into one faction, and while it acts as a
society, will for ever be actuated by ambition, pride, revenge, and a
persecuting spirit” (..n). His recognition of this danger has drawn
the attention of scholars, especially as it relates to his recommendations for
an established church under the control of civil authority.
The other dangerous effect, which has not received as much attention,
is moral damage to individual characters. The footnote in “Of National
Characters” is flush with details of the “irreparable breach in [priests’]
character” resulting from their profession (..n). Priesthood destroys
candor and ingenuity, rationalizes abuses in the name of godliness, gives
men a motive to promote superstition, exacerbates the disposition to
conceit, and encourages anger and vindictiveness. Some of these vices are
only displeasing or harmful to the self, but many also harm others, not
least by infecting followers’ characters. Priests encourage gullibility and
servility in their weaker followers, while providing a model of violence for
the emulation of stronger ones.


I will discuss Hume’s treatment of women, including their alleged lust for power, in Chapter .

This is consistent with, though harsher than, Hume’s description of priests’ motives in “Of the
Immortality of the Soul,” where he says that terror of the afterlife is encouraged by those who want
“to gain a livelihood, and to acquire power and riches in this world” (EWU .). See also .
Susato notes that Berkeley’s Alciphron similarly accuses all intelligent priests of pursuing only
“ambition, avarice and revenge” (Alciphron, ). See “Taming ‘The Tyranny of Priests,’” .

For some additional discussions of Hume’s views on established religion, see Stewart, Opinion and
Reform in Hume’s Political Philosophy, –; Pocock, Barbarism and Religion, Vol. II, especially
–; Will R. Jordan, “Religion and Public Square”; and McArthur, David Hume’s Political
Philosophy, –. For a treatment of Hume’s views on established religion in his later years,
see Baumstark, “End of Empire and the Death of Religion.” Baumstark discovered a previously
unpublished letter that suggests that Hume was not committed to the necessity of established
religion. This suggestion is consistent with Baier’s speculations; see later discussion.

In , Hume wrote an advertisement to a pamphlet in defense of corn merchants, whose public
service, he argues, is more benign than that of “Dealers in Spiritual Ware.” The latter “all aspire to
be monopolists: They sell their Quack Powder, for which they pretend to have a Patent, at most

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 Domineering 
Hume’s recommendations for dealing with the political problem may
actually intensify the threat to individual character. He warns “wise
governments” to be “on their guard” against the factionalist tendencies
of priests. An established church is an important precaution govern-
ments can take against this threat. In “Of Parties in General,” he ascribes
Christianity’s history of violent religious factionalism in part to “the
authority of the priests, and the separation of the ecclesiastical and civil
powers” (..). In “Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,” he writes that
security and stability in free governments requires “the dependence of the
clergy on the civil magistrates” (..). And in the History, he says that
“there must be an ecclesiastical order, and a public establishment of
religion in every civilized community” (H :–). Making the head of
civil society also head of the church discourages the faithful from dividing
their loyalties between two earthly masters (king and pope) or believing
themselves free from all earthly authorities, with a direct link to the divine.
But there is another aspect to establishment that Hume finds beneficial:
having priests paid by civil authorities removes one motive to zeal. Priests
who need not rely on parishioners for their livelihood have less reason to
inflame the spiritual sensibilities of their flock. The best plan for wise
magistrates’ treatment of the clergy “is to bribe their indolence, by assign-
ing stated salaries to their profession” (H :). Annette Baier points out
that this language, which Hume never excised, seems designed to offend;
this provocation suggests no vision for a long-term happy compromise
between sceptical philosopher and moderate priest. Nonetheless, Hume
claims that these arrangements serve “the political interests of the society”;
civilized society, at least in its contemporary state, benefits from institu-
tionalized ecclesial apathy.
But what will these precautions do for the moral interest of the individ-
uals involved? The answer is not clear. On the one hand, apathetic priests
might be less likely to encourage superstition, and Hume would see this as
moral progress. But the specific motives to domineering tendencies that he
details in “Of National Characters” could also be exacerbated by establish-
ment. Priests of the established church may have less power as individuals
than those who challenge civil authority. And clergy bribed into indolence
have either fewer or more corrupt ways to feed their ambition. The
adulation of their following would mean little in earthly terms, and rising

enormous Prices . . . They cram us with Nonsense, instead of feeding us with Truth.” For the full
transcript, see David R. Raynor, “Who Invented the Invisible Hand?”

“Hume and the Conformity of Bishop Tunstal,” .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
through the clerical ranks would require all the methods that generally
lead to promotion in political office. They would avoid corruption at the
expense of impotence. This seems to be a recipe, in Hume’s own terms,
for promoting a vindictive disposition. Emasculated clergy with no hope
for political revenge may well look to the pews to satisfy their need for
domineering.
I discuss Hume’s opinion of the rise of the priesthood later, in Chap-
ter . But his concerns about priests’ special brand of domination over
weak minds are concerns about his present and Europe’s future, not
merely observations about what priests were like prior to the Reformation.
He obviously believes that Britain has made progress (though only with
much cruelty and violence) in dealing with the political threat, relative
to the time when its civil leadership owed obeisance to the Pope. His
confidence in the stability of this progress, however, is subject to all of
the qualifications of his confidence in political progress in general. More-
over, Hume’s own solutions for mitigating the political dangers of priest-
craft might exacerbate its moral dangers. I am not suggesting that he
should have recognized this tension and proposed some alternative solu-
tion; I doubt that he ever believed his solutions to be ideal. I am more
inclined to agree with Baier that Hume sees establishment as a temporary
bandage, suitable until society can make more substantial progress in its
religious thinking in general. In the meantime, he sees the priesthood as
a form of life in which the tendency to domineering lies protected within
a culture that has, in other areas, made progress against practices that
encourage aggressive passions. Its aggression is not less dangerous for being
more hidden.


Ibid., –.

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  

Working

Concern about the increasing social importance of commerce and trade

infuses the discourse of the civic tradition and the narratives of eighteenth-
and nineteenth-century novels. These issues, too, transcend public and
private dimensions. The concerns were never merely economic or political.
They always included speculation about how commercial pressures affect
individual character as well as the state and society. Even now, we might
fear that the modern work ethic encourages the kind of warping of
character reflected in Morris Zapp’s claim that sex is “a sublimation of
the work instinct.”
Hume is well aware of, but optimistic about, the relation between
economic institutions and individual character. The relation’s complexity
is reflected in his use of the ambiguous term “industry,” which can refer to
an activity, habit, or virtue, as well as economic practices. Among the
“many other circumstances, in which ancient nations seem inferior to the
modern,” he cites trade, manufacturing, and industry (..). Because
he juxtaposes it with trade and manufacturing, it may seem that “industry”
refers to business enterprises, particularly the mass production of goods. It
is in the eighteenth century that the dominant meaning of “industry” shifts
from its Latin meaning of general diligence toward this later meaning. But
in Hume’s English, it could still refer to either behavior or a virtue
correlated with such behavior – diligence “or assiduity in the performance
of any task, or in any effort.” Hume usually uses the term in this way, as
in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, where industry is a
prime example of virtues that are useful to the self, or as in “Of National
Characters,” where he tells us that “in every society the ingredients of


David Lodge, Small World, .

Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “industry,” updated December , www.oed.com.



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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
industry and indolence, valour and cowardice, humanity and brutality,
wisdom and folly, will be mixed after the same manner” (..).
Even when Hume uses “industry” to mean something like manufactur-
ing or production, it can sound like a term in transition. In “Of Interest,”
he describes industry as being transported, traded, and controlled, in ways
that would seem to apply only analogically to virtue or individual behavior.
Merchants, he writes, “beget industry, by serving as canals to convey it
through every corner of the state: And at the same time, by their frugality,
they acquire great power over that industry, and collect a large property in
the labour and commodities, which they are the chief instruments in
producing” (..). “Industry” seems here to be a product, rather than
a property of producers. Yet in the preceding paragraph, he uses the term
in its older sense: “But if the employment you give [a man] be lucrative,
especially if the profit be attached to every particular exertion of industry,
he has gain so often in his eye, that he acquires, by degrees, a passion for it”
(..–). Here industry inhabits the individual person, who exercises
it at will.
Hume slides easily between these different senses of “industry.” Even
when he uses it to refer to an economic domain, we may therefore presume
that he is not in danger of forgetting that people engaged in their own
activities populate this domain. The close connection between industry as
an economic term and industry as a trait of character is of more than
merely verbal significance. For Hume, the habits of a people comprise part
of a polity’s economic resources.
In Section ., I consider Hume’s assessment of the progress of industry
in both senses and discuss its status as a virtue. I then turn to the four
“essays on happiness” to argue that Hume believes our need for industry is
among the enduring principles of human nature. Finally, I consider a neo-
Aristotelian objection to this Humean ideal of industry.

. The Progress and Purpose of Industry

Hume’s various essays on economic matters can be read as a sustained
argument that modern economic structures promote greater wealth than
their predecessors, that neither the structures nor the wealth corrupt
individuals or society, and that it is vitally important not to subvert this


See also “My Own Life,” where he ascribes this virtue to his youthful self: “My studious disposition,
my sobriety, and my industry, gave my family a notion that the law was a proper profession for me”
(xxxiii).

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 Working 
progress by stupid policy decisions. Despite the seriousness with which
Hume treated these issues and his significant influence on later economic
debates, philosophers have again neglected this part of his work. To some
degree, this neglect is understandable. It can be difficult to see how interest
rates relate to philosophical questions, or to know how to talk about them
even if one does see some relation. But for Hume and his readers, such
relations were clear: much as communism was seen as a social and moral
threat in twentieth-century America, commercialism was seen as a social
and moral threat in eighteenth-century Europe.
Once again, historians of political thought have long been aware of this
aspect of Hume’s work. But the relation between the ideals of the new
economy and Hume’s moral philosophy and psychology have been com-
paratively overlooked. The virtue of industry proves especially interesting.
There is no doubt that Hume thinks that moderns have improved with
respect to industry in the commercial sense. This improvement, in turn,
has political implications, as he associates it with domestic and inter-
national stability as well as increased liberty. But for Hume, the results
include individual moral improvement, not just political progress. Though
recognizing that industry is a trait uniquely suited to and beneficial for
modern commercial economies, he provides evidence that its importance
to humanity is original to the species. The drive to industry, along with
that which makes us approve it as a virtue, is among the constant principles
of human nature. He thus provides grounds for the claim that commercial
societies that encourage this virtue promote improvement, not just change,
in individual flourishing.
Contemporary economists respect Hume’s proto-econometric methods
for demonstrating economic progress in recent centuries. Margaret Scha-
bas, after summarizing his argument for wealth expansion (based on the
rise in prices relative to the rise in specie), calls it “a brilliant argument” and
compares it with William Harvey’s demonstration of the circulation of
the blood. Hume also uses other methods, some of which will now be
familiar. To argue in “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations” that trade,
manufacturing, and industry were less flourishing in ancient polities than
in modern Europe, he combines evidence drawn from the historical record
with new economic theorizing. Ancient clothing seems to have been


In addition to the other secondary treatments mentioned in this section, Richard Boyd’s “Manners
and Morals” and Till Grüne-Yanoff and Edward F. McClennen’s “Hume’s Framework for a Natural
History of the Passions” are exceptions.

“Hume on Economic Well-Being,” .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
extraordinarily simple, not as one would expect in an economically pros-
perous culture exposed to a wide variety of different habits or with a
productive artisan class. (He thus refuses to ascribe simplicity of dress
to any romanticized simplicity of manners.) Even cities famous for trade
were relatively small, seem to have had little expertise at long-distance
navigation, and did not take advantage of the Asiatic coasts’ proximity.
Moreover, he does “not remember a passage in any ancient author, where
the growth of a city is ascribed to the establishment of a manufacture”
(..). There was no counterpart to the developments in eighteenth-
century Glasgow, where glass, textile, and iron manufacturing, along with
an explosion in tobacco trade and processing, were transforming the city
and its surrounding country. Ancient trade seems to have been largely the
exchange of natural resources readily available in various cities. Finally,
the high interest rate and profits from trade indicate anemic commercial
markets, where limited supplies of commodities and money support a high
price for both.
After this point, the argument shifts to a complex appeal to psycho-
logical principles and their relation to ancient circumstances, as Hume
links economic growth to political freedom. Ancient tyranny would have
depopulated all the cities, had the citizens sufficient commercial resources
to subsist elsewhere:
While the cruel and suspicious Dionysius was carrying on his butcheries,
who, that was not detained by his landed property, and could have carried
with him any art or skill to procure a subsistence in other countries, would
have remained exposed to such implacable barbarity? The persecutions
of Philip II and Lewis XIV filled all Europe with the manufacturers of
Flanders and of France. (..)
Self-interest is the relevant constant of human nature here: those who can
escape persecution will do so. The purported “extreme love of liberty”
among the ancients makes their submission puzzling. Hume’s explanation
is that love of political freedom does not always go with the power to
exercise it. Here, as elsewhere, he recognizes the overwhelming power of


Ian Simpson Ross notes that Bristol merchants “were so incensed about Scottish success in the
tobacco trade that they petitioned Parliament to strangle Glasgow’s enterprise in that sector”
(“Emergence of Hume as a Political Economist,” ).

For Hume’s argument for the relevant economic principles, see “Of Interest,” where he argues that
extensive commerce produces a surplus of money and competition that decrease interest rates and
profits from trade (..–).

As I noted in Chapter , some thinkers argued that lack of freedom increased love of it.

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 Working 
economic barriers to liberty. Industry, unlike land, can be transported.
Such mobile economic resources can liberate people from oppression as
well as poverty. And the absence of them can make it difficult or impos-
sible to escape enslavement.
Commercial progress therefore has moral and political implications: in
more commercial societies, citizens can escape oppressive regimes. But
though a triumph for individual freedom, this development contributes to
instability. Refugees can only hope to find a healthier state in which to
renew their lives, and those left behind may be in a worse situation than
ever. In “Of Refinement in the Arts,” Hume argues for another link
between industry and liberty, which promotes rather than compromises
stability. We have seen before his claim that an independent nobility can
act as a bulwark against ambitious monarchs. But here, he argues that a
non-aristocratic “middling rank of men” might serve this function even
better. People of this rank attain their status through industry rather than
inheritance. A premanufacturing, agricultural society naturally divides
itself into landholders and tenant laborers. The landowners either submit
to the central government’s authority, providing stability at the cost of a
too-powerful sovereign, or they maintain their independence, restraining
the sovereign’s power at the cost of volatility arising from disputes among
themselves. Commercial advancement, however, provides a valuable third
option. With a market for their goods, “the peasants, by a proper cultiva-
tion of the land, become rich and independent” (..). The new
significance of tradesmen and merchants then raises the significance of
the middle class, “the best and firmest basis of public liberty.” They are
proud enough to protect their independence, but “having no hopes of
tyrannizing over others, like the barons,” they have no reason to subject
themselves to a tyrant for his favors (..–). Instead, they desire equal
laws to protect the property that is their strength.
Again, these developments constitute political improvements. But they
work through the effects of economic development on individual people’s
habits. Those who enjoy the self-sufficiency of the “middling rank” eschew
the submissiveness fostered in those who have been beaten down by rigid
class systems. Consequently, they are less vulnerable to exploitation. While
Hume is not so naïve as to suggest that such people are immune to
becoming tyrants themselves, he does not think that the structure of such
an economy offers the opportunity and thus the “hope” for this result.


Cf. his scorn in “Of the Original Contract” for the idea that the poor peasant is free to leave his
country (..).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
In Hume’s economically developed societies, people also develop a
helpful pride and a greater sense of equity. They add to their stock of
virtues in other ways, too. In Section ., I discussed the “indissoluble
chain” that Hume posits between industry, knowledge, and humanity.
The last two links were relevant there, but the first link is the linchpin.
Without industry, the series of causal connections he details in “Of
Refinement in the Arts” would never get moving. This is an essay, after
all, whose main purpose is to defend “luxury” or the enjoyment of com-
mercial goods. (Its original title was “Of Luxury.”) Industry then forwards
progress in sociability, humanity, knowledge, and honor.
Yet in emphasizing these positive moral effects of economic develop-
ment, commentators sometimes overlook the virtue with the closest rela-
tion to that development: industry itself. Carl Wennerlind, for instance,
argues for industry’s importance to Hume’s theory of justice and provides
a helpful outline of Hume’s other “virtues of commerce,” but does not
acknowledge industry as among those virtues, despite recognizing its
sovereign importance for them. But it is clear that Hume thinks that
industry-as-virtue is among those positive traits that industry-as-commerce
promotes. His arguments for this relation again show the subtlety of his
views on the malleability of human nature.
Consider Hume’s claim about the inability to improve one’s circum-
stances in agrarian societies, even to the point of having to submit to
tyranny. He makes a similar point near the beginning of “Of Commerce,”
emphasizing the effects on character and production. This passage’s refer-
ence to a “habit of indolence” in premanufacturing societies has been read
as expressing contempt for the poor. Schabas writes that Hume “showed
none of the admiration that Smith expressed for the oppressed” and
“believed that the poor have a deeply ingrained ‘habit of indolence’ and
never thought to better their condition.” But the full passage does not
support the notion that Hume ascribes any special vice to poor people. He
believes that poor people can be industrious. In “Of Taxes,” he even says
that they “encrease their industry . . . and live as well as before” in response
to judicious taxes (..). But agrarian societies without commerce


See “The Role of Political Economy in Hume’s Moral Philosophy,” –. Though a welcome
contribution to a neglected area of Hume scholarship, Wennerlind’s piece reveals some confusion
about Hume’s moral theory. His implication that the Enquiry is concerned with “deriving moral
codes” and the effects of acts rather than virtues, and his opposing artificial virtues to social rather
than natural virtues, e.g., are misleading (, ).

“Hume on Economic Well-Being,” .

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 Working 
provide no motive to engage in anything beyond subsistence farming.
Farmers who “thought to better their condition” would be stymied with-
out any market for extra crops. They are not held down by essential habits
of their class; in these economic conditions, a “habit of indolence naturally
prevails” (..). As we will see in the following sections, Hume believes
industry to be inherently pleasant. Meaningless labor, however, is not. It is
not even clear that he is speaking in the relevant passage of “the poor” in
general. These farmers are “the bulk of the people” in such a society – not
wealthy, to be sure, but neither at any significant economic disadvantage
relative to the norm (..). In calling these farmers indolent, Hume
is accusing them of a vice. But the vice is the result, not the cause, of their
poverty. At the risk of citing an example that some will think disproves
my point, I am reminded of Jane Austen’s description of Emma Wood-
house’s compassionate charity toward the poor: she “had no romantic
expectations of extraordinary virtue from those, for whom education has
done so little.” Hume has no romantic expectation of virtue from those
for whom the economy does so little. These farmers act just as anyone else
would, provided with such motives by their circumstances.
As economic circumstances can shape indolence, they can also shape its
correlative virtue, industry. They are among the moral causes that form
human dispositions. Recall Hume’s argument against imitating the policy
of ancient republics that strengthened themselves through forced austerity
and military service. Using superfluous labor to sustain an enterprising
market requires none of the violence or asceticism of the Spartan mode of
life. Nor, Hume argues, would it threaten security in the long run. In the


Hume recognizes that poverty wears many faces: it might look like a Swiss farmer in a mountainous
region with no commerce (..n), a landholder left behind by a changing economy
(..–), or even a wealthy man imprisoned by his own greed (EWU .).

In “Of National Characters,” Hume says that “poverty and hard labour debase the minds of the
common people, and render them unfit for any science and ingenious profession” (..).
Again, this does not mean that poor people are essentially base, but that conditions of poverty
prevent them from developing capacities that they might otherwise have. See also “Of the Middle
Station of Life,” where Hume writes that the “poor are “too much occupy’d in providing for the
Necessities of Life” to be “susceptible of philosophy” (EWU .).

Emma, .

In the History, Hume describes the effect of parliament’s prohibiting Irish cattle imports into
England. The Duke of Ormond objects to the law in part because “the indolent inhabitants of
Ireland, finding provisions fall almost to nothing, would never be induced to labour, but would
perpetuate to all generations their native sloth and barbarism” (H :). The law passed anyway.
Hume’s comment indicates his disagreement with Ormond: “This law brought great distress for
some time upon the Irish; but it has occasioned their applying with greater industry to
manufactures, and has proved in the issue beneficial to that kingdom” (H :).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
event of an external threat, labor could be transferred to the war effort. It
will be easier to convert people used to working for their own and their
families’ benefit into an effective military force than to impose continual
conscription and obligation to supply the standing army. While one might
think that former workers would resent all the more the state’s demanding
their resources in exigent times, Hume claims the opposite. “Being accus-
tomed to industry,” the worker will resent compulsory work less under an
emergency “than if, at once, you obliged him to an augmentation of labour
without any reward” (..). In other words, the workers in the com-
mercial society have developed a disposition to industrious behavior, along
with associated passions. They are used to working hard, and, not being
generally alienated from the products of their labor, they like it. They have
the virtue of industry.
It is important to distinguish what is and is not variable about human-
kind’s relation to industry, according to Hume. It is in “Of Commerce”
that Hume remarks on humanity’s “very variable” nature (..).
“What may be true, while he adheres to one way of thinking, will be found
false, when he has embraced an opposite set of opinions and manners”
(..). The Spartan policy worked because of peculiarities of that repub-
lic, which included the people’s character. That character had adjusted to fit
other circumstances. Hume refers to them as “a people addicted to arms,
who fight for honour and revenge more than pay, and are unacquainted
with gain and industry as well as pleasure” (..). Such people might
not be demoralized by demands to leave home and fight, or to work for the
city rather than amassing resources for themselves. Were they instantly
transported into a commercial society, they could not empathize with the
satisfaction of the self-supporting tradesperson or the energetic pursuits of
the scientific researcher. But they have been formed by a mode of life that,
all else being equal, does not promote human flourishing as well as the
culture they would be dropped into. Human adaptability does not imply
that each human adaptation produces people equally likely to thrive.


But see H :: “By a continued and successful application to commerce, the [Dutch] people were
become unwarlike,” and Hume’s “True Account of the Behaviour and Conduct of Archibald
Stewart”: “When Men have fallen into a more civilized Life, and have been allowed to addict
themselves entirely to the Cultivation of Arts and Manufactures, the Habit of their Mind, still more
than that of their Body, soon renders them entirely unfit for the Use of Arms, and gives a different
Direction to their Ambition” ().

Hume has “the Sceptic” make this point about individual variations in temperament: “This . . .
must be obvious to the most careless reasoner, that all dispositions of mind are not alike favourable
to happiness, and that one passion or humour may be extremely desirable, while another is equally
disagreeable” (..).

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 Working 
As a matter of policy, commercial society is a better bet. Hume acknow-
ledges the possibility of a community knit together so tightly that citizens
see no space between their family’s and the polity’s needs. “Could we
convert a city into a kind of fortified camp, and infuse into each breast so
martial a genius, and such a passion for public good, as to make every one
willing to undergo the greatest hardships for the sake of the public; these
affections might now, as in ancient times, prove alone a sufficient spur to
industry, and support the community” (..–). But these are not
natural affections in his time, nor can they be promoted without doing
violence to other aspects of human nature. Strong affections usually extend
to only a small group of people. Wider allegiances come with all the
dangers of factionalism. Still wider allegiances, to the state as a whole,
for instance, come with all the dangers of tyranny. I return to the difficult
questions about the relation between private friendship and public spirit in
Chapter . But unlike some communitarians and utilitarians, Hume does
not recommend attempting to promote affections that are natural in
intimate relationships among all citizens.
Though formed by a warrior society, the Spartans do share something
significant with modern Europeans. In “Of Refinement in the Arts,”
Hume claims that human happiness requires a mixture of three elements:
action, pleasure, and indolence (..). Not everyone values each elem-
ent to the same degree. Some people benefit from education and habitu-
ation that “promote a relish for action and pleasure,” and they should be
grateful for training that is so likely to promote their well-being. Hume
makes a clear distinction between indolence, which has value only as an
instrument (it refreshes us so that we can keep acting and experiencing
pleasure) and action and pleasure, which we value for their own sake. He
does not present this recipe for happiness as fit only for the modern age.
The Spartans shared the need for action, but their need was satisfied by
violence.
Both the Treatise and the second Enquiry categorize industry as a virtue
that benefits its possessor. Hume acknowledges that virtues whose
merit arises primarily from their utility can also be immediately agreeable.
Courage and benevolence, but not industry, are among his examples.
In fact, he asks rhetorically of industry and similar virtues: “can it be
doubted . . . that the tendency of these qualities to promote the interest
and happiness of their possessor, is the sole foundation of their merit?”
(EPM .). But in the Essays, industry is immediately agreeable to the
  
See T ... and EPM .. See EPM ., . See also T ....

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
self, meaning that its “immediate sensation” pleases those who have it,
prescinding from “any utility or any tendency to farther good” (EPM .).
“In times when industry and the arts flourish,” Hume writes, “men are
kept in perpetual occupation, and enjoy, as their reward, the occupation
itself, as well as those pleasures which are the fruit of their labour. The
mind acquires new vigour; enlarges its powers and faculties; and by an
assiduity in honest industry, both satisfies its natural appetites, and pre-
vents the growth of unnatural ones” (.., emphasis added).
We not only enjoy a range of pleasures; we remain unsatisfied unless
those pleasures are, to some degree, the fruits of our own efforts. In
recognizing the joys of work as part of universal human nature and a
principle that might rescue the lower classes from poverty and oppression,
Hume distances himself from Mandeville (otherwise a partner in the
defense of luxury). John Shovlin notes that Mandeville defended “prin-
cipally a luxury of the rich” and that he ascribes “an extraordinary
proclivity to Idleness and Pleasure” to common laborers, who will work
only if in immediate need of money. But Hume believes that common
workers would improve their condition if they could. On the other hand,
even the philosopher loves his work as work. Having said at the end of
Book I of the Treatise that pursuing some “business or diversion” other
than philosophy would make him “a loser in point of pleasure,” he insists
in Book II that part of that pleasure comes from the difficulty of pursuing
philosophical truths (T ...). “What is easy and obvious is never
valued,” he says, “and even what is in itself difficult, if we come to the
knowledge of it without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or
judgment, is but little regarded” (T ...). When assent to an idea
comes too easily, we lose the opportunity “to fix our attention or exert
our genius; which of all other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant
and agreeable.” The seeds of the Essays’ view of industry are present in
the Treatise.
The virtue of industry, by Hume’s lights, has a robust claim to value. It
benefits its possessors by enabling them to achieve their aims. It promotes


See also ..: “There is no craving or demand of the human mind more constant and insatiable
than that for exercise and employment.”

Shovlin, “Hume’s Political Discourses and the French Luxury Debate,” .

Mandeville, Fable of the Bees :. To be fair, it is not clear from this passage that Mandeville
means to ascribe any essential extraordinary laziness to the poor; he may be referring to the habits
they have grown accustomed to, which is more consistent with Hume’s position. And Mandeville
seems to ascribe rampant laziness to the generality of humankind. See Fable of the Bees :
and .

Cf. the last sentence of “The Sceptic” (..).

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 Working 
a commercial society that helps cultivate progress in knowledge and
various social virtues. Its exercise is inherently pleasant – so much so that
it can be the sine qua non of pleasure itself. According to Hume’s moral
psychology, sympathy with all of these positive effects engenders the moral
approbation of the trait that gives it its status as a virtue. That we find
industry immediately agreeable suggests one way in which it possesses
intrinsic value; we pursue it for its sake, not only because we believe it
will promote our advancement in the world. Its status as a virtue implies
another. On Hume’s moral theory, even traits that are virtues because of
their usefulness are not merely means to external ends. We need not
cultivate and honor these traits because of their usefulness to ourselves;
instead, the language of virtue evolves as people recognize such usefulness,
sympathize with its effects, and feel a positive sentiment that constitutes
the sentiment of virtue. So, even if we approve of industry because it
benefits people who have it, the social approval of industry justifies
its inclusion in the set of inherently valuable traits that comprise the
character of virtuous people. As Hume says in the second Enquiry, “virtue
is an end, and is desirable on its own account, without fee or reward”
(EPM App .).
The interest of Hume’s views here becomes clearer in comparison to
those of Pascal and Mandeville. Hume shares with Pascal the insight that
people seek business and occupation. For Pascal, we hunt not for the prey
but only to occupy ourselves. “Man finds nothing so intolerable as to be
in a state of complete rest, without passions, without occupation, without
diversion, without effort.” But our need for occupation is not a reliable
source of pleasure, nor is our ability to satisfy it anything like a virtue. The
need is a sign of our wretchedness; we seek business to avoid the awareness
of our misery that would come were we to sit quietly in our rooms. Our
ingenuity in serving the need also serves evil: as long as we have no time to
reflect, we neglect our ultimate end and our dependence on God.
Such warnings are miles from the irreverent lessons of the Fable of the
Bees. Like Hume, Mandeville defends luxury against its detractors, arguing
that the resulting commerce and industry aids the state and its citizens.
Unlike Hume, he adopts the conventional usage of luxury as a vice,


For explications, sensitive to both Hume’s texts and the discourse of contemporary ethics, of
Hume’s commitment to virtues as ends, see Michael Gill’s “Philosopher in His Closet” and
“Humean Moral Pluralism,” especially chapter .
  
See Pensées, fragment , . Ibid., fragment , . See fragment , .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
though his satiric “vices” produce much public benefit. With an explicit
swipe at Mandeville, Hume concedes that some luxurious indulgence is
vicious, and resolves to “never pronounce vice in itself advantageous”
(..). But the contrast with Mandeville goes deeper. For Hume, the
industry that luxury both requires and produces is virtuous in itself,
abstracting from any utilitarian benefit, and satisfies a need common to
all humanity.

. Industry as a Principle of Human Nature:

The Essays on Happiness
I have argued that Hume believes industry to be an important contributor
to human happiness, as both an individual trait and an attribute of socie-
ties. The four essays that Immerwahr aptly calls the “Essays on Happiness”
provide further evidence for this claim. Each one takes a perspective
associated with a Hellenistic sect, but Hume says that they are meant not
to be historically accurate so much as to “deliver the sentiments of sects,
that naturally form themselves in the world” (..n). The Epicurean,
the Stoic, the Platonist, and the Sceptic all have something to say about the
relationship between industry and happiness, although the word “indus-
try” does not appear in “The Platonist.” Cumulatively, they make a case
that any form of life that neglects industry precludes the possibility of
happiness.
The parallel first lines of “The Epicurean” and “The Stoic” indicate that
a difference of opinion about the relationship between industry and nature
lies at the heart of their disagreements. The Epicurean begins: “It is a great
mortification to the vanity of man, that his utmost art and industry can
never equal the meanest of nature’s productions, either for beauty or
value” (..). The Stoic counters: “There is this obvious and material
difference in the conduct of nature, with regard to man and other animals,
that, having endowed the former with a sublime celestial spirit, and having
given him an affinity with superior beings, she allows not such noble
faculties to lie lethargic or idle; but urges him, by necessity, to employ,
on every emergence, his utmost art and industry” (..).


Defenders of luxury had an uphill battle to fight against the historical connotations of the term. For
an explanation of luxuria’s transition from a Roman vice opposed to Republican virtue to a lethal
sin associated with perversity of the flesh, see Mark D. Jordan, Invention of Sodomy, –, and
Berry, Idea of Luxury, –. On Mandeville’s subversive use of conventional language in his
defense of luxury, see Idea of Luxury, –.

Immerwahr, “Hume’s Essays on Happiness.”

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 Working 
The Epicurean uses “art” ambiguously, sometimes indicating the prac-
tical work of a techne – tailoring a suit, or even attempting to produce an
“artificial happiness” by remaking human nature (..). But some-
times he uses it to mean aesthetic pursuits, like poetry. For the Stoic, in
contrast, “art” is always skill, application, or craft; even his “artists” are
workers “employed to form the several wheels and springs of a machine”
(..). Although he at first appears to value industry only as a means
to happiness, it becomes clear that he conceives of no happiness separable
from industry itself.
In “Of Refinement in the Arts,” industry is one among three elements
of happiness; here, its importance is supreme: labour “is the chief ingredi-
ent of the felicity to which thou aspirest, and . . . every enjoyment soon
becomes insipid and distasteful, when not acquired by fatigue and indus-
try” (..). Even eros, unless animated by social affections, enervates
by offering nothing but “lassitude and disgust” (..). Conversely,
industry energizes the dumbest pastimes, giving “pleasure to the pursuit
even of the most worthless prey,” driving otherwise rational people to hunt
for game when the storehouse overflows with luscious and nourishing fare
(..). But frivolous pursuits do not bring true happiness. The Stoic
insists that our greatest satisfaction lies in molding our own desires: “thou
thyself shouldest also be the object of thy industry” (..). Thus
worked on, the human mind rejoices in protecting liberty and law, perhaps
especially when such protection requires the ultimate sacrifice of one’s own
life in battle. The Stoic has not forgotten beauty’s importance, but indus-
try offers the most beautiful object of all: “If the contemplation, even of
inanimate beauty, is so delightful; if it ravishes the senses, even when the
fair form is foreign to us: What must be the effects of moral beauty? And
what influence must it have, when it embellishes our own mind, and is the
result of our own reflection and industry?” (..).
For the Stoic, then, industry’s significance is primal and pervasive. At
first glance, the Sceptic seems to hold the opposite view, sharing the
Epicurean’s dim view of the prospects for improving our natural condi-
tion. Happiness requires satisfying the desires one happens to have, as well
as having desires that are more pleasant than painful. To champion one
sure path to happiness is to fail to appreciate that not everyone has the
same desires and satisfaction. Although the Sceptic admits that virtuous
dispositions are most fortunate, nature has not made our dispositions
malleable: “The fabric and constitution of our mind no more depends
on our choice, than that of our body” (..). And this determinism
applies not only to the unreflective masses: even a “wise and thoughtful”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
man can struggle “by the utmost art and industry, to correct his temper,
and attain that virtuous character to which he aspires” (..).
Thus, in contrast to the Stoic’s view that happiness consists in industri-
ous relations to both external nature and the self, the Sceptic’s prognosis
is resigned and pessimistic, at least for those not gifted with fortunate
dispositions. His characterization of fortunate dispositions, however,
complicates things. It will sound familiar. Despite interpersonal differ-
ences, “we may safely pronounce in general, that a life of pleasure cannot
support itself so long as one of business, but is much more subject to
satiety and disgust.” Even in our amusements, we enjoy those longer that
have “a mixture of application and attention in them” (..). People
who find their happiness in “internal objects” will more likely find satis-
faction than those whose objects are external. “A passion for learning is
preferable, with regard to happiness, to one for riches” (..). And the
most blessed possess “great strength of mind; and even when they pursue
external objects, are not much affected by a disappointment, but renew
their application and industry with the greatest chearfulness.” Here the
praise is superlative: “Nothing contributes more to happiness than such a
turn of mind” (..).
In other words, although the Sceptic does not share the Stoic’s opti-
mism that we can transform ourselves through industry, he by no means
divorces industry from happiness itself. Instead, the Sceptic admits the
possibility of a tragic existence for many people, whose constitution and
habits do not permit satisfying their passions. But for more fortunate
people, happiness arises at least in part from the virtue that is central to
the Stoic’s ethic. They occupy themselves with diligence and continue
their industry when met with failure.
The Sceptic also acknowledges industry’s value in his discussion of
philosophy’s meager influence on temperament, though in a more subtle
way. His initial argument that disposition and temper are immalleable rests
on a false dichotomy, between the already virtuous, who can reap no
benefit from reformation, and the irredeemably corrupt, for whom there
is no hope of reformation. But then he acknowledges the potentially
humanizing effects of studying the liberal arts, which, industriously pur-
sued, might offer hope for developing a happier disposition. This hope is


Immerwahr characterizes both the Epicurean and the Sceptic as pessimistic, apparently about our
ability to modify our passions (“Hume’s Essays on Happiness,” ). But this characterization of
the Epicurean is misleading. Although he does not have much hope for our ability to modify our
passions, he claims that the proper indulgence of those passions can make us happy.

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 Working 
for those in between the poles of the dichotomy. He describes a program
of reform that includes bending the mind toward speculative pursuits,
improving the ability to make moral distinctions, and developing a habit
of “business or study” that makes indolence seem punishing (..).
These efforts require “application,” “continual effort,” and the willingness
to “impose a violence” on oneself (..–). Thus, although the Scep-
tic makes no explicit appeal to industry here, the prescribed course requires
the virtue of industry at least in a nascent form.
Returning to the Epicurean, the relation between industry and happi-
ness becomes more obscure. Although he shares the Sceptic’s suspicion of
efforts to reform human nature, he seems convinced from the outset that
our nature is built for pleasure, not industry. But even in his lyrical ode to
“elegance and pleasure,” we find intimations that the highest versions of
both require something like industry (..n).
The Epicurean’s attack on “art and industry” as such is relatively gentle:
our most diligent efforts fail to attain nature’s sublimity. He only pillories
industry whose object is internal, attempting to remake the self into
something with inhuman passions and aims. Though he does claim that
“happiness implies ease, contentment, repose and pleasure; not watchful-
ness, care, and fatigue,” his understanding of care and fatigue sounds more
contemplative than industrious (..). He dismisses “severe philoso-
phers” thus: “Away then with all those vain pretences of making ourselves
happy within ourselves, of feasting on our own thoughts, of being satisfied
with the consciousness of well-doing, and of despising all assistance and all
supplies from external objects” (..). Contemplative retreat, which
deprives the mind of “foreign occupations and enjoyments,” induces
lethargy and melancholy (..). Just before the passage from “Of
Refinement in the Arts” in which Hume argues for industry’s importance
for happiness, he claims that activity “requires some intervals of repose,
which, though agreeable for a moment, yet, if prolonged, beget a languor
and lethargy, that destroys all enjoyment” (..). Though the Epicur-
ean does not explicitly recommend industry, he recognizes the danger of
immoderate repose.
Moreover, when the Epicurean seeks a cure for lethargy from “the
divine, the amiable Pleasure,” he is disappointed by how fleeting her
satisfactions are. Quickly bored by wine, fruit, and a rose garden of
nature’s delights, he lapses into “languor.” Pleasure’s “sister, Virtue,”


Cf. Lucretius’ reference to “divine pleasure, the guide of life” at line  of On the Nature of
Things ().

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
provides the cure (.., ). This is not the Stoic’s virtue: Epicurean
sages seize the pleasures of the present in discourse with friends and eros
undisturbed by superstitious fear of the gods. They avoid seduction by the
promise of vain and fleeting glory. But Hume argues in his own voice
(again, in “Of Refinement in the Arts”) that their innocent pursuits benefit
greatly from the development of industry. Recall that he claims there that
the development of industry promotes invigoration of the mind, refine-
ment in the liberal arts, and social interaction (..). In other words,
whether he is aware of it or not, the Epicurean’s happy conversation would
best be enjoyed by those with the virtue of industry, or at least by those
within a society that values this virtue.
Finally, consider the Platonist, who, again, is the only one of these
essayists who avoids the word “industry” altogether. He rejects his two
predecessors’ framing, beginning with our relationship to the divine, not to
nature. Since we were made for contemplating God, he argues, it should
be no surprise that pleasures and pursuits vary widely among persons, or
even within the same person over time. (The Sceptic, as we have seen, also
begins with human nature’s variability.) From the Platonist’s point of
view, only resting in God can relieve the resulting suffering. He rejects
the promise of both repose and industry. The “voluptuous man” revolves
in a circle of frustrating and frustrated desire: “all his happiness proceeds
only from that hurry of thought, which takes him from himself, and turns
his view from his guilt and misery” (..). But he devotes five times as
much space to criticizing the Stoic as he does the Epicurean. The Stoic is
an idolater, who worships art that appears to be a product of human
industry. If he were wise, his industry would point him to something
higher: human works all point toward the genius of their human creators,
who yet can only imitate nature, the work of God.
This attack, however, gives industry a profound status relative to the
end of human life. If we submit to the ascent, the Platonist argues, then
contemplating human industry’s cause and effects could lead us to our true
end. There is an alloy to this good: our weakness prevents full enjoyment
of it, so that many find it insufficient. This failure results from the “narrow-
ness of our faculties” or the “shortness of our lives, which allows not time
sufficient to instruct us” in comprehending such goods. Yet the concluding
sentence promises that our work may not forever be in vain: “But it is our
comfort, that, if we employ worthily the faculties here assigned us, they will
be enlarged in another state of existence, so as to render us more suitable
worshippers of our maker: And that the task, which can never be finished
in time, will be the business of an eternity” (..).

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 Working 
Two conclusions about industry could follow from the Platonist’s
perspective. If one is sympathetic with the Platonist, it appears that indus-
try, properly directed and assisted by grace, can help us ascend the ladder
toward our true end. But even if one rejects this perspective, the essay
implies that the conclusion of a view with disdain for most human indus-
try is that full happiness in this life is not possible. Both conclusions affirm
industry’s importance to happiness.
Each of these four essays, in one way or another, therefore implies an
important relationship between industry and happiness. It would be diffi-
cult to find claims on which all four essayists agree in every nuance. But
certain themes emerge, such as industry’s palliative effects on depressive
languor, its ability to shift our attention from petty suffering toward other
objects, and its relationship to our appreciation of beauty. Overall, these
essays promote the sense that a complete understanding of human life
requires reflection on industry’s place within it. Industry is not the only
theme that receives sustained attention across the four essays; one could
trace similar treatments, for example, of beauty’s significance.
What does Hume’s treatment of themes from various perspectives imply
about how we might understand his conception of human nature? He
introduces these essays as efforts to explain the sentiments of sects that
naturally appear over time. If each one supports the view that happiness
requires industry in some form, this suggests that a need for industry is
among the more enduring features of human nature. If not even the
Platonist can escape the implication that we need industry for happiness
in this life, then this strongly suggests that this need is among the static
principles of humanity.
This interpretation can illuminate our understanding of Hume’s pur-
pose in writing these perspectival essays. Commentators have noted that
they constitute a kind of dialogue, modeled in part on Cicero’s De finibus.
Immerwahr and Colin Heydt have both persuasively argued that these
essays have a therapeutic rather than merely speculative purpose and that
their dialogic character serves the former. Dialogue invites readers to
experiences that transform rather than merely inform. Immerwahr and
Heydt argue that the goals of this transformation include moderation
of the passions through the conflict of four perspectives, which could
soften dogmatic adherence to a single approach. But I would add that
this moderation proceeds also from the recognition that, despite their


See Immerwahr, “Hume’s Essays on Happiness,” and Heydt, “Literary Form and Philosophical
Purpose.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
disagreements, each essayist suggests that the absence of certain features of
human life imperils happiness. Recognizing commonalities with people of
disparate temperaments should be at least as moderating as showing us that
our temperaments have led us to dogmatic hubris about ways of living.
These interpretations, however, require taking seriously the possibility
that the first three essays provide some genuine insight and that the Sceptic’s
role is not simply to reveal the preceding essayists’ failures. We should
therefore take seriously the possibility that the Sceptic is not just Hume
under the “thinnest possible disguise,” as Robert Fogelin calls him. Hume
clearly has most sympathy with the Sceptic. His is by far the longest of the
four essays, and there is no introductory notation characterizing the sceptic
as we find in each of the other three. (The Platonist, for instance, becomes
“the man of contemplation, and philosophical devotion” [..n].)
These notations make their corresponding characters seem distant instances
of a type. And Hume does in his own voice recommend a form of scep-
ticism as the only reasonable philosophy. Finally, the positioning of the
essay as last in the dialectic gives it the air of a victor over opponents who
have failed to compel assent.
It is too hasty, however, to conclude that we can identify the Sceptic’s
position with Hume’s own. Hume introduces all four essays as representa-
tives of perennial opinions, and he would be unlikely to present his own
views as thoroughly representative of a type. There is also internal evidence
against identification. The Sceptic recites arguments and ideas that Hume
defends elsewhere, but he sometimes takes those ideas to an extreme
beyond Hume’s own views. Though agreeing, for example, that critics
can engage in reasoned debate, the Sceptic leans heavily on the remaining
diversity in taste. He confronts his interlocutor with the futility of arguing
with someone who prefers a “ tune” to intricate Italian music:
“You have not even any single argument, beyond your own taste, which
you can employ in your behalf” (..). Yet Hume, in “Of the Stan-
dard of Taste,” explains in detail the qualities of good critics that enable
them to make such arguments. He does concede that some divergences
of taste are ineliminable and beyond dispute, but these are preferences for
Ovid versus Tacitus, not Vivaldi versus simple folk airs. (Hume may
have enjoyed Scotch tunes himself and also may have underestimated their
musical worth.) While Hume would probably agree that you cannot win
over the lover of folk tunes, that is different from saying that you have not

 
Hume’s Skepticism in the Treatise of Human Nature, . See ...

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 Working 
a single argument to use in favor of Vivaldi. The Sceptic lists numerous
causes of divergent judgments, two of which – education and prejudice –
Hume names as relevant to the training of good critics. Qualified judges
must pursue a meticulous aesthetic education and overcome certain kinds
of prejudice. The Sceptic acts as if these are utterly fixed obstacles to any
standard of taste.
Most tellingly, Hume adds an extended footnote challenging the Sceptic
in his own voice. Although the challenge is a friendly amendment, it does
begin, “The Sceptic, perhaps, carries the matter too far” in despairing of
philosophy’s use for working on the passions (..n). He continues to
list numerous philosophical reflections that may “fortify” and “nourish”
people of a certain temperament. Identifying the Sceptic with Hume
requires explaining what kind of mask he is wearing here.
The presumed identity between Hume and the Sceptic is particularly
problematic for my interpretation, if one emphasizes the Sceptic’s pessim-
ism about philosophy’s ability to transform moral character, as Harris
does. Harris argues that these essays show philosophy’s failure in this
regard and explain Hume’s turn toward politics. They “demanded to be
read as, in effect, Hume’s explanation of why he did not think of himself as
able to continue with moral philosophy’s traditional project of emotional
therapy and improvement of character.” But part of the point of writing
dialogues is that they do not demand any particular reading, but invite the
reader to enter into a debate that has no tidy moral forestalling future
conversation. Philosophical engagement with these essays reveals insights
that have the potential to improve the passions and therefore character.
But in the footnote in his own voice, Hume’s task is precisely to correct
the Sceptic’s too-pessimistic assessment of philosophy’s potential to influ-
ence character. As with his exaggeration of the obstacles to aesthetic
argument, the Sceptic articulates a view with which Hume has sympathy
and carries it a step too far for Hume himself. Harris reads these essays as
Hume taking “as his target” the ancient idea that “philosophy might be of
use in the search for happiness.” But the possibilities are not only that
philosophy might hold a surefire key to happiness or be of no use in
finding it at all. This is a false dichotomy akin to the Sceptic’s own initial
notion that people are either perfectly virtuous or completely without hope
of amendment.

 
“Hume’s Four Essays on Happiness,” –. Hume, . See also –.

Ibid., .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Hume no doubt thinks his very modern-sounding Sceptic has more of
the truth about these matters than adherents to sects of any kind. Yet if we
take seriously these essays’ perspectival character, it becomes possible to see
in their commonalities – as well as in their divergences – insights about
Hume’s understanding of which circumstances are likely to be congenial to
the nature that underlies all of the perspectives. Encouragement of indus-
try is among those circumstances. That these essays take their names from
ancient philosophical sects reinforces the point. Hume cautions his readers
at the beginning of “The Epicurean” against assuming that the essays speak
for their corresponding ancient sects. But Hume is too much aware of the
resonance of these ancient names to be unaware of the significance of his
altering the perspective associated with Lucretius, Sextus Empiricus, or
Marcus Aurelius. By recalling ancient names as representatives of views
that are perennially available, Hume draws the reader’s attention to what
endures over time.
Among those endurances, according to Hume, is the value for industry
in our pursuits of happiness. What changes, he suggests, is not the satis-
faction that productive occupation offers. It is instead the encouragement
or discouragement of such occupations given by political, social, and
economic institutions. If Hume is right, then again, these effects can have
secondary effects on humanity. People who live within a system that
encourages and rewards industry will become more industrious and to
that extent more likely to be happy. The essays on happiness, then, in
conjunction with others, do imply the value of some political action. But
uncovering these essays’ implication of the value of industry for human
happiness is itself a philosophical exercise, which Hume does not despair of
having an effect on philosophically inclined individuals. The essays on
happiness thus provide an illustration of the way in which Hume uses the
Essays to reflect on and even encourage both individual and collective
progress, and on the connections between the two.

. Total Work?

In his sanguine assessment of trade, manufacturing, and industry, Hume
expresses an optimism about market forces that provokes criticism from
diverse perspectives. I cannot treat all of these criticisms, but examining
one of them will help clarify Hume’s position. In the aftermath of World
War II, Josef Pieper identified the status of work as the crucial issue in
determining whether or not “the Western tradition” would survive. He
warns of a world of “total work,” in which we value nothing that does not

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 Working 
contribute to the chain of production. Aristotle’s claim that we work in
order to have leisure becomes incomprehensible. Pieper argues that
workers in such a world suffer from “complete absorption in the social
organism, itself rationally planned to utilitarian ends.” Accordingly,
workers’ value depends on their contribution to general socioeconomic
welfare. Market values determine the understanding of this welfare itself.
Liberal arts, defined as activities not pursued for the sake of external
products, are therefore denigrated. Within the contemporary university,
we might recognize the concerns in Pieper’s question: “Is there a sphere of
human activity, one might even say of human existence, that does not
need to be justified by inclusion in a five-year plan and its technical
organization?” A negative answer threatens our ability to conceive of
humanity’s value as anything other than instrumental.
In elevating industry’s value, and tying its operation so closely to
happiness, is Hume guilty of such instrumentalizing? Does he encourage
us to see humans as mere tools for maximizing utilitarian ends? Hume
does not consider precisely this worry anywhere in the Essays. But we have
already seen that they provide some resources for a response. Far from
making any person’s industry only a service to the general good, Hume
believes that industry’s value arises in part from its inherent goodness for
each person. This is not the logic of someone who sees individual work as a
means to an independently defined public good, if that good refers to
maximal happiness. On the contrary, Hume thinks that a full conception
of happiness must refer to industry. It follows that the notion that human
industry’s value derives solely from its instrumental relation to happiness
becomes incoherent. It cannot be valuable merely as a means to happiness,
as it also partly constitutes that happiness.
We may still worry, however, that glorifying industry devalues pursuits
that we do not associate with industriousness: will people convinced that
their happiness lies in being busy honor anything other than business?
Hume answers this question directly, though perhaps with undue opti-
mism. Advances in “the mechanical arts . . . commonly produce some
refinements in the liberal; nor can one be carried to perfection, without
being accompanied, in some degree, with the other” (..). As “the
minds of men [are] roused from their lethargy, and put into a fermenta-
tion,” they “turn themselves on all sides, and carry improvements into
every art and science,” including ethics and politics (..).

  
See Nicomachean Ethics, b–. Leisure, . Ibid., .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
The reasoning of this passage – and even more the passage that follows,
extending the optimism beyond industry and knowledge to the virtue of
humanity – must sound naïve. How could Hume believe that a productive
society must be liberating and humane? Could he not imagine a capitalist
system whose driving avarice demands that we not waste resources on
unproductive enterprises like music, poetry, and liberal education?
Hume is careful to present this claim as a general rule, not a universal
truth. But suppose we invert our perspective and think of necessary, not
sufficient, conditions. Although we may be more aware than Hume of how
badly productive economies can neglect knowledge, and how knowledge
can serve inhumane ends, is it plausible to suggest that knowledge and
humanity can thrive under impoverishing circumstances?
Hume does address the objection that the wealth engendered by pro-
gress in trade and manufacturing might promote evils. He responds that
“wherever luxury ceases to be innocent, it also ceases to be beneficial”
(..–). Nonetheless, removing one occasion for vice may do more
harm than good, given that we cannot perfect all humanity at once. “By
banishing vicious luxury, without curing sloth and indifference to others,
you only diminish industry in the state, and add nothing to men’s charity
or their generosity” (..). We will not promote the honor of art
and philosophy by discouraging pursuits that maintain the conditions of
life that serve genius. Removing motives to industry encourages “a mean
uncultivated way of life . . . amongst individuals, without society, without
enjoyment” (..).
Hume’s membership in a privileged class that can speak of the benignity
of luxuries without compunction, while others go without, undoubtedly
informs his optimism about the relationship between industry and the arts.
Yet notice the commonality between his point and the complaint raised by
members of oppressed classes, who know the difficulty of finding open
space for ideas to breathe in poverty’s confinement. Hume’s claim that
economic growth supports artistic development is not far from Virginia
Woolf’s central argument in A Room of One’s Own. The women’s college is
impoverished because female ancestors were too harried, tied down by
childbirth and rearing, and oppressed to earn any excess money to leave
their daughters. Even had they engaged in such pursuits, they might not
have been allowed to keep what they earned or choose its inheritors. Such
a history cannot generate as a legacy “the urbanity, the geniality, the
dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space.” Hume
connects industry and knowledge to humanity through the medium of

Room of One’s Own, .

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 Working 
conversation, as women and men assemble together. But such conversa-
tions, Woolf insists, require material support: “a good dinner is of great
importance to good talk . . . The lamp in the spine does not light on beef
and prunes.”
If we think of the problem in this way, it becomes clearer how far
Hume’s vision of refined society is from Pieper’s dystopian world of total
work. Berry has coined the helpful term “superfluous value” to describe
what Hume is defending against the attacks of the “severe moralists” who
censure the consumption of a commercial age. Those moralists, Berry
notes, draw on traditions that see poverty as a virtuous choice – a discipline
against the relentless desire for more than is necessary. But as I noted
above, Hume recognizes poverty’s constraint on freedom and construes
poverty as lacking what one needs, rather than being content only with
what one needs. Luxury is therefore no longer the vice to which virtuous
poverty is opposed, and it becomes possible for us to consider superfluity
valuable. Pieper, on the other hand, is concerned about an ethic that must
reconceptualize the superfluous as the useful, and which actually scorns
any enjoyment of superfluity that does not itself contribute to the utilitar-
ian social machine. Hume sees such enjoyment as good in itself, and
vicious only if it is associated with other vicious action.
Untrammeled industrial and economic expansion have done great
harm, and societies that make room only for the useful prove disagreeable –
even intolerable – to anyone with more profound interests. But as Hume
reminds us, such reflections do us no benefit if we compare our ills with an
imaginary life in some mythical paradise populated with beings very unlike
ourselves. Our conceptions of past cultures can be part of such mythology.
Because of the antiquarian principle, and because “the sentiments and
opinions of civilized ages alone are transmitted to posterity,” it is easy for
many to criticize modern luxury and science (..). Yet if we admire
ancient dedication to the “liberal” arts, we must acknowledge that insti-
tutions that condemned a majority of the population to servility supported
that dedication. Berry notes that “the moral critique of luxury . . . in
practice has often served to underwrite a hierarchical status quo.” The
same could be said of the related critique of industry and our satisfaction in
work. The traditional contrast to the “liberal” arts was “servile” work – that
is, the occupation fit for slaves. Hume, while undoubtedly being among

  
Ibid., . “Hume and Superfluous Value,” –. Ibid., .

Pieper does not elevate those who pursue the liberal arts above those who engage in manual work.
In fact, he argues that we ought to elevate our conception of the manual laborer, not debase the
intellectual. See especially Leisure, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
those who enjoy the liberal arts as their work, insists that the enjoyment
has something in common with the manual laborer who takes pride in
his more physical enterprise. Both of them enjoy their occupation as its
own reward.
Hume recognizes the subversive tendencies of his praise of luxury, trade,
and manufacturing, though he softens his voice for a public he wants to
calm, not inflame. Yet in the second Enquiry, he acknowledges his radical-
ism in the third person: “Those, who prove, or attempt to prove, that
[luxury and refinement] tend to the increase of industry, civility, and arts,
regulate anew our moral as well as political sentiments, and represent, as
laudable or innocent, what had formerly been regarded as pernicious and
blameable” (EPM .). To change our opinions about economic insti-
tutions and their effects is to change our moral sentiments – a change
profound in itself, which also touches every aspect of human life. Again,
there can be no neat separation between developments in public policy and
those in private character.
Beyond Hume’s general remarks about the relations between industry,
knowledge, and humanity, the Essays have much to say about the human-
istic pursuits that resist the ethic of total work and its utilitarian ends. In
the next chapter, I consider their treatment of one kind of these pursuits:
our production and enjoyment of the beautiful.

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  

Composing

Beauty and its appreciation are not merely pleasant for Hume; they are
important. In this chapter, I will explore what the Essays suggest about this
importance, beginning with Hume’s assessment of modern eloquence as
“much inferior” to the ancients’. I argue that understanding his judgment
on these matters requires appreciation of the relation between aesthetic
experience and the emotions. I then argue that this relation offers hope for
those with emotional problems. Such problems take various forms, and
Hume believes some forms are more likely in barbaric, others in civilized,
societies. Regardless of their form, however, aesthetic sentiments promise
improvement for disorders of the emotions.
It is difficult to say what this chapter is about without falsifying Hume’s
language. Hume uses “art” and “artist” more broadly than we are apt to
now, often to refer to any human attempt to work on raw materials for our
own ends. “Beauty” and “taste” are cognate terms, but Hume recognizes
that we find beauty in and have a taste for parts of the natural world
untouched by human intervention. This appreciation is beyond my scope
in this chapter. Our experience of unimproved nature is important to
many aesthetic theories, but Hume does not emphasize it in the Essays.
“Criticism” is promising; he uses it to refer to a projected but never
completed part of the Treatise. But “criticism” is too narrow, since I am
interested in the activity of artists as well as audiences and judges.


Yet humans and their activities are natural, and beauty arises from our interaction with other things.
We find this thorough intertwining of nature, humanity, and beauty in “Of the Standard of Taste”:
“Though it be certain, that beauty and deformity, more than sweet and bitter, are not qualities in
objects, but belong entirely to the sentiment, internal or external; it must be allowed, that there are
certain qualities in objects, which are fitted by nature to produce those particular feelings”
(..).

See the  advertisement to Books  and : “If I have the good fortune to meet with success, I shall
proceed to the examination of Morals, Politics, and Criticism; which will compleat this Treatise of
Human Nature” (T p. ).



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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
I have therefore chosen “composing” to refer to the portion of human
life devoted to producing and appreciating beauty created by human
activity. Hume refers to paintings and treatises as compositions, as well
as fictional stories and pieces of music. The term does have the opposing
disadvantage of “criticizing”: “composing” may suggest only the artist’s
activity, excluding that of her audience or judges. But criticism, as Hume
conceives of it, requires imaginatively reconstructing the artist’s activity to
some degree. Even those who never write about art, but only judge it as
part of their aesthetic experience, engage in such reconstruction. Critics,
then, must be composers as well.

. Much Inferior to the Ancients

“Of Eloquence” contains the most direct statement of ancient superiority
in the Essays. After some general remarks on the wide historical variations
in taste and science, Hume states, “if we be superior in philosophy, we are
still, notwithstanding all our refinements, much inferior in eloquence” to
the ancients (..). What evidence does Hume offer for his denigration
of modern oratory? At first, only indirect signs based on public judgment:
instead of explaining the features of ancient eloquence he admires, he notes
that the Greeks and Romans held eloquence in such high regard that
they scrupled to judge any orators equal to the two greatest (Demosthenes
and Cicero) or claim that even these two had attained perfection. But
decent modern orators are a dime a dozen, and no one commands the
awe awarded to these two. Perhaps more telling, the ancients treated their
civilians’ speeches as prized occasions, traveling from all quarters and great
distances to hear them. “At London,” on the other hand, “you may see
men sauntering in the court of requests, while the most important debate
is carrying on in the two houses; and many do not think themselves suffi-
ciently compensated, for the losing of their dinners, by all the eloquence of
our most celebrated speakers” (..).
I have called public judgment indirect evidence, but it is direct in
one sense. Hume thinks that great speeches just are those that the public
judges to be great. But he does not leave the public reaction undiagnosed:
modern speechmaking’s tepid and disorderly style, he argues, withers
in comparison to the ancients’ bold and sublime poetic arts. The latter
were better able to express and inspire passion in their listeners, and this
skill is their oratory’s central virtue. Hume criticizes the speakers of
his own day as too “temperate and calm.” Their sedate oratorical style
eschews the imagery, tropes, and flourishes that were so effective in ancient

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 Composing 
assemblies. The ancients were not above calling on the most extreme
analogies, or entering physically into their performances, stamping their
feet to add force to verbal indignation. Such “vehemence of thought and
expression” carries a danger: passion expressed fiercely but ineptly is the
province of a clown, not a leader of the polis. But this very danger evinces
the greatness of ancient rhetoricians. When Cicero claims that “the rocks
and mountains” would be “moved with horror and indignation” at the report
of a Roman citizen’s crucifixion, he risks appearing like a madman calling
on inanimate objects as witnesses (..–). The most “noble arts and
sublime talents” must surround such devices to convey appropriate passion
to the audience (..). But here public judgment enters in again: the
enduring reverence accorded to Cicero shows that his arts were indeed
noble and his talents sublime.
Perhaps that reverence endures only because modern audiences cannot
watch Cicero thundering away about rocks and mountains, stamping his
foot and smiting his brow. Perhaps Hume’s fellows were too sophisticated
for such arts; perhaps “our modern customs, or our superior good sense . . .
should make our orators more cautious and reserved than the ancient, in
attempting to inflame the passions, or elevate the imagination of their
audience.” But as with speakers’ temperance and calmness, what appears
virtuous becomes a problem to be overcome. If modern audiences possess
so much sense and so little sensibility, then modern orators should take up
the challenge: “It should make them redouble their art, not abandon it
entirely.” What efforts might be effective? Hume’s answer reinforces the
centrality of passion to the rhetorical enterprise. Ancient orators were not
inspiring passion in their audiences while floating stoically above the fray.
“The orator, by the force of his own genius and eloquence, first inflamed
himself with anger, indignation, pity, sorrow; and then communicated
those impetuous movements to his audience” (..). A Cicero
wanting to convey crucifixion’s horrors must first be horrified himself.
In light of this centrality of passion, how can Hume ignore the dispute
between the philosopher and the orator? Plato’s seminal portrayal of


Hume seems to think that modern writers, unlike modern speakers, are in danger of the contrary
problem. In “Of Simplicity and Refinement in Writing,” he says that the progress of learning can
lead to an ill-judged “endeavour to please by novelty” that “leads men wide of simplicity and nature,
and fills their writing with affectation and conceit” (..).

From Cicero’s Against Verres, ...

Hume does accord more sophistication to the British parliament than ancient audiences. He
concludes a footnote elaborating on this argument thus: “It would be a strange prejudice in favour
of antiquity, not to allow a British parliament to be naturally superior in judgment and delicacy to an
Athenian mob” (..n).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
this dispute in the Gorgias climaxes in a fight about passion. Callicles,
defending the right of the stronger to rule through manipulative elo-
quence, defines strength in terms of large appetites, raging passions, and
the ability to satisfy them. Socrates replies that such men enslave them-
selves to the whims of the people whom they manipulate and that his own
love for philosophy is more satisfying and empowering. Callicles remains
thoroughly unconvinced. Socrates’ brand of manliness cannot impress the
Dionysian nature, however much he can fight imperviously in the bitterest
cold, drink his companions under the table, and lie all night chastely
tangled with the most sensual beauty. This is fighting without exultation,
consumption without intoxication, and embracing without sex.
“Of Eloquence” contains no traces of this battle. Here, Hume seems
blithely unconcerned with rhetoric’s manipulative effects; indeed, one
might read him as complaining that modern orators have too few powers
of manipulation. But this reading imposes a Platonic or Kantian under-
standing of manipulation on Hume that he would not accept. As Marc
Hanvelt points out in The Politics of Eloquence, Hume’s belief in the
inertness of reason alone means that nonmanipulative persuasion cannot
be defined by its absence of passion. Adam Potkay goes further: “In
overturning the classical faculty psychology that places reason above pas-
sion, Hume elevates eloquence from a subrational to a suprarational
art.” Hume’s view of the relation between passion and motivation means
that rhetoric has an essential role to play in moving the public to good as
well as ill.
Hume is well aware of the dangers of manipulative rhetoric and the way
these dangers are exacerbated in speech (as opposed to writing). In the first
Enquiry, he notes that eloquence “at its highest pitch, leaves little room
for reason or reflection; but addressing itself entirely to the fancy or the
affections, captivates the willing hearers, and subdues their understanding.
Happily, this pitch it seldom attains” (EHU .). He acknowledges
ancient concerns about vehement oratory in the original ending to “Of the
Liberty of the Press,” mentioning the “ill consequences” of “the harangues
of the popular demagogues of Athens and tribunes of Rome” (..d).
A free press, he argues, does not present such a danger, since people read


See Politics of Eloquence, especially –, –, –, and –. Hanvelt also emphasizes the way
Hume’s analysis of belief, which holds that beliefs vary from other ideas in a peculiar vivacity of
feeling, elevates the importance of rhetoric. Rhetoric has a “special ability to produce lively ideas that
mimic the empirical evidence of sense impressions” ().

Fate of Eloquence, .

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 Composing 
alone rather than among mobs of people who “catch” each other’s passions
and can execute immediate violent action.
Hume also appeals to sympathy’s effects in “Of Eloquence,” but is
silent about its dangers. We catch others’ passions more rapidly and easily
when we are with other people, mimicking their expressions, hearing
their murmurs and exclamations, and sensing the tension in their bodies.
“The movements are mutually communicated between the orator and the
audience” (..). But here, the effect is only a reason why “an elevated
stile has much better grace in a speaker than in a writer”; in speaking, the
elevation is “seconded by the graces of voice and action” (..–).
Hanvelt argues that Hume promotes a “modernized version” of an
idealized Demosthenean eloquence, “one that has been united with the
‘arts of conversation.’” Such eloquence requires, among other things,
“elegance, clarity, simplicity, and ease . . . because they facilitate the mind’s
natural processes for forming beliefs and for eliciting passions.” Hume’s
double reference to grace in speaking of the orator’s “elevated stile”
highlights the importance of beauty to great oratory. He demoralizes
rhetoric as he does luxury, divorcing its potential for corruption from its
appeal to the passions. To inspire virtuous action and public spirit,
speakers must inspire emotion in their audiences, including the emotions
of aesthetic appreciation. Sublime speeches inspire noble acts. But in
addition to this instrumental end, the beauty of ancient speeches is itself an
important good. Potkay writes that, while eighteenth-century “men of
letters savored through [Demosthenes] a taste of self-transcendence, that
flight hovered between aesthetic thrill and political commitment.” To
see the significance of that thrill, we need to understand both Hume’s


For the last edition of the Essays, Hume replaces these sentences with a darker assessment: “It must
however be allowed, that the unbounded liberty of the press, though it be difficult, perhaps
impossible, to propose a suitable remedy for it, is one of the evils, attending those mixt forms of
government” (..).

Potkay suggests that Hume’s “doctrine of sympathy derives rather directly from classical rhetorical
descriptions of ‘action’ or ‘delivery’” (Fate of Eloquence, ). “Action” refers here to an orator’s
manner of speaking and physical gestures. Eighteenth-century rhetorical studies made much of
Cicero and Demosthenes’ ability to inspire mirroring of emotion.
 
Politics of Eloquence, . Ibid., .

It is not clear that Hume makes any principled distinction between “passion” and “emotion,” but
he sometimes uses “passion” in a more restricted sense that excludes most aesthetic sentiments.
I discuss this later in Section ...

Fate of Eloquence, . Potkay goes on to note that “for eighteenth-century readers Demosthenes’ style
derived much of its enrapturing power by being read through the magnifying lens of Longinus’s On
the Sublime.” Hanvelt claims that Hume’s own idealized Demosthenes comes from Hume’s reading
of Plutarch’s Lives. See Politics of Eloquence, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
account of aesthetic judgments as grounded in emotions, and the import-
ance of aesthetic emotions in human life.
A large part of that importance, I argue, comes from the ability of
aesthetic emotions to improve character. From Hume’s commitment to
the inertness of lone reason, it follows that () all defects of character,
because they involve action and the will, include defects of emotions and
() improving such defects requires emotions, because reason alone can
neither extinguish nor contravene emotion’s force. For emotional defects,
the cure must fit the disease.

. Aggressive and Melancholy Passional Problems

.. Aggression
Before explaining how aesthetic experience might provide therapy, some
diagnosis is in order. One emotional defect that Hume is concerned about
is a preponderance of emotions that he calls boisterous, fierce, barbarous,
and cruel. I will call these emotions “aggressive” rather than violent,
because “violent” has a technical meaning for Hume that needs to remain
distinct. Although Hume recognizes diversity in ancient temperaments,
he ascribes a greater degree of aggressive emotions to ancient peoples
overall than to modern ones. This preponderance of aggression was not
confined to Greece and Rome. In the History, when discussing the
manners of England’s ancient inhabitants, he describes the Anglo-Saxons
as “addicted to intemperance, riot, and disorder” (H :).
The violence of ancient war and the domineering of slavery provide two
explanations for this aggression. Another explanation, Hume argues, is
women’s exclusion from polite society. I have mentioned the discussion of
this issue in “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,” whose
themes include the significance of conversation for social development.
Conversation and manners may seem like small beer relative to battle and
enslavement, but conversation can be the setting for private violence, as
the battlefield is the setting for public violence.


In “Of National Characters,” for instance, he writes that “the A were as remarkable for
ingenuity, politeness, and gaiety, as the T for dulness, rusticity, and a phlegmatic temper”
(..).

It is also important to remember the significance of the eighteenth-century concept of “manners.”
There is extensive literature about the modern development of this concept and the related
“politeness.” See, e.g., Pocock, Virtue, Commerce, and History, especially chapter , “Virtue,
Rights, and Manners”; Lawrence Klein, “Liberty, Manners, and Politeness”; and Nicholas

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 Composing 
Despite his praise of ancient oratory, Hume finds in it and in other
ancient writing signs of inferior conversational habits. In “Of the Standard
of Taste,” he goes so far as to say that the “want of humanity and of
decency” of characters in ancient poetry diminishes these compositions
and blocks the sympathy of more civilized audiences (..). Ancient
compositions exhibit scurrility, vanity, licentiousness, and immodesty.
Missing are the habits of restrained deference that are important for
maintaining peace between interlocutors. For people to converse amicably,
they must refrain from expressing their superior opinions of themselves.
When others express their pride, we cannot but believe their self-assessment
to some degree, and once we have sympathetically absorbed this opinion,
we cannot but compare our own merit to that of others. This process
“shocks our own pride” and “causes the disagreeable passion of humility”
(T ...). In civilized societies, sympathy with this painful effect of
conceit leads to moral disapproval of it, and virtuous people learn to hide
their self-satisfaction. In “Rise and Progress,” he says that this “mutual
deference or civility” pleases more than any other art of conversation, since
it “leads us to resign our own inclinations to those of our companion, and
to curb and conceal that presumption and arrogance, so natural to the
human mind” (..).
Such reticence is especially important when there is real inequality
between conversation partners. If “a person’s situation may naturally beget
any disagreeable suspicion in him, it is the part of good-manners to prevent
it, by a studied display of sentiments, directly contrary to those of which he
is apt to be jealous” (..). This consideration explains Hume’s belief
that social interaction with women helps cultivate conversational defer-
ence. Polite people take special care in speaking to those who fear their
contempt, and in patriarchal societies, women fear contempt.
In addition to the desire of the sexes to please one another and the
example of “female softness and modesty,” the “company of virtuous
women” teaches manners through the fear of offending women whose
“delicacy . . . puts every one on his guard” (..). Without training
in reticence, people may attack others verbally without even realizing it.
It is fair to assume that some braggarts mean only to express their own
self-conception, not wound anyone else’s. But if Hume is right, most

Phillipson, “Politics and Politeness.” For a recent treatment of Hume’s concept of politeness that
criticizes Pocock’s emphasis on virtuous sociability, see Tolonen, “Politeness, Paris, and the
Treatise.”

In the second Enquiry, Hume adds that conceit’s being a more common danger than excessive
modesty contributes to this moral disapproval (EPM .; cf. T ...).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
others will be wounded nonetheless. Add in a little pugilism, and the
interchange becomes a close occasion for violence.
Hume does not claim that the presence of women will magically erase
this problem. He also argues that a civilized monarchy, as opposed to a
republic, can improve manners, because power in a monarchy requires
deference to the court: the “long train of dependence from the prince to
the peasant” aids modesty’s development by giving everyone a motive to
please those in front of her in the train (..–). But he does ascribe
serious aesthetic failures to the exclusion of women from polite society: it
may be “the true reason why the ancients have not left us one piece of
pleasantry that is excellent . . . though many of their serious compositions
are altogether inimitable” (..).
Is this a serious criticism? Does a culture fail in any important way by
producing only coarse humor rather than witty and subtle comedy?
Hume’s answer is both yes and no. Such a culture may produce many
treasures; it may even hand down to a distant posterity the materials to
revivify itself centuries later. But some gentle yet important emotions will
be foreign to its people. In banishing women from polite society, it
foregoes the refinement produced by free and active conversation between
men and women. There are points of view from which it cannot see, and
sympathies it cannot feel. These may indeed be serious failings. Spirited
and aggressive passions drive action and sustain existence in the face of
suffering. But they also encourage short-sighted behavior and cruelty. In
Plato’s Symposium, the women must leave the room before real conversa-
tion can begin. Hume insists that a society that sees such banishment as
necessary cannot help but produce too many men like Alcibiades.

.. Delicacy and Melancholy

Hume believes his own culture to be less cruel and less enamored with
martial violence. “Treachery and cruelty, the most pernicious and most
odious of all vices,” he says, “seem peculiar to uncivilized ages” (..).
A civilized culture may coexist with ferocious, lying men, but it does not
celebrate them. When Homer “represents heroism in  and
prudence in , he intermixes a much greater degree of ferocity in
the former, and of cunning and fraud in the latter, than  would
admit of” (..).
But civilization has its own woes. Hume’s Essays evince a concern with
melancholic emotions, which coheres with the self-conception of the
modern age. We associate with Nietzsche the thesis that modern life,

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 Composing 
deprived of heroic thumos and losing religious consolation, creates nihilis-
tic danger – a state of “joyless unfruitfulness.” But by the middle of the
previous century, the notion that modern people were unusually prone
to melancholy was already commonplace. England, the “region of the
spleen,” produced more than one tome on this modern epidemic. Hume
himself composed no extended treatment of melancholy. But he does
address issues that the early moderns associated with this disorder. Melan-
choly, like aggression, requires a therapy of the emotions.

... Melancholy Themes

“Melancholy” is a protean term with a complex history. In The Nature of
Melancholy: From Aristotle to Kristeva, Jennifer Radden provides a guide to
its diverse meanings across the centuries. “Melancholy” has been used to
refer to at least four different categories: “fleeting moods, mental disorders
ranging from severe to very mild, normal reactions, and long-term charac-
ter traits.” Even within these categories, the term’s referent has varied,
ranging from the very specific (a psychological disorder with peculiar
cognitive or affective manifestations) to the extremely general (any mental
disorder whatsoever). Nonetheless, she identifies four enduring themes
in writings about melancholy, one of which is this variety itself. The others
include the identification of fear and sadness without cause (or without
sufficient cause) as melancholy’s central subjective states, the linking of
melancholy to genius and creativity, and the association of melancholy
with idleness (with action and labor, especially meaningful labor, as the
cure). Radden warns against inferring from the continuity of these themes
that we have access to a unified, static pathology over time that is merely
described in different ways. At best, we have something approaching a
family resemblance term. This warning is important to bear in mind when
thinking about what the Essays have to say about melancholy. Hume has no
access to the concepts of contemporary psychology, and his notion of
melancholy includes but goes beyond a disease.
Each of Radden’s last three themes is present in the Essays. The first, the
identification of both fear and sadness as melancholic affects, may seem


Nietzsche, “Schopenhauer as Educator,” .

The absence in this chapter of a discussion of the unpublished essay “Of Suicide” may seem odd.
But that essay’s primary task is to defend the permissibility of suicide against what Hume sees as the
superstitious prohibition of it, not to examine the melancholy that might lead someone to consider
it. I discuss the characterization of superstition in “Of Suicide” in the final chapter.
  
Nature of Melancholy, . Ibid.,  Ibid., .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
strange. Current psychological taxonomies distinguish depressive disorders
from those whose primary symptoms are fears or delusions. But this
dichotomy gains ascendancy in the nineteenth century, largely through the
work of Emil Kraepelin. Previous discussions made no such distinction.
In The English Malady (), George Cheyne lists among symptoms of
the “Vapours” “a deep and fixed Melancholy, wandering and delusory
Images on the Brain, and Instability and Unsettledness in all the intellec-
tual Operations, Loss of Memory, Despondency, Horror and Despair.”
Hume also associates sorrow with fear. In “Of Superstition and Enthusi-
asm,” he describes the superstitious temperament as “subject to certain
unaccountable terrors and apprehensions, proceeding either from the
unhappy situation of private or public affairs, from ill health, from a
gloomy and melancholy disposition, or from the concurrence of all these
circumstances” (..). Hume envisions an amalgam of passions, with a
correspondingly complex set of psychological results. He explains super-
stitious people’s propensity to submit to priests as “founded on fear,
sorrow, and a depression of spirits,” which “represents the man to himself
in such despicable colours, that he appears unworthy, in his own eyes, of
approaching the divine presence” (..). The superstitious disposition
ensnares its host with a sense of dangers she is too weak to overcome – a
sense that arises from and reinforces paralyzing self-disgust.
Hume describes the relevant fears as “unaccountable” and as effects of
general situational factors or personal disposition rather than reasonable
responses to threats. This explanation fits the notion that melancholic
fear and sorrow is “without cause” or “without sufficient cause.” Writers
on melancholy distinguished various ways that these passions could be
groundless. Robert Burton, for instance, in The Anatomy of Melancholy
() gives examples of fear and sorrow as extreme reactions to objects or
events, as free-floating moods without intentional objects, and as responses
to imaginary states of affairs. Sufferers may even believe that they are made
of glass or, without reason, that they or their friends are dead or soon to
be killed.


The current Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-) separates depressive
disorders from anxiety disorders, which include phobias and panic disorders. It also includes,
however, a reversion to the older association between melancholic disorders and fear or anxiety,
with an “anxious distress” specifier to help identify and guide the treatment of patients with bipolar
or depressive disorders who also struggle with anxiety. See the American Psychiatric Association’s
“Highlights of Changes from DSM-IV-TR to DSM-V,” at http://dsm.psychiatryonline.org/doi/
./appi.books..changes.
  
Nature of Melancholy, . English Malady, . Anatomy of Melancholy, .

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 Composing 
Hume’s explanation of superstitious people’s “unaccountable terrors
and apprehensions” likewise acknowledges diverse origins and symp-
toms. Some come to superstition from difficult situations, whereas others
begin from some physical disease or unfortunate temperament. Regardless,
“where real objects of terror are wanting, the soul, active to its own
prejudice, and fostering its predominant inclination, finds imaginary ones,
to whose power and malevolence it sets no limits” (..–). Hume thus
explains how unhealthy passions can cause what we might classify as a
cognitive break (believing in imaginary spirits), generating another set of
corresponding passions, more violent than before.
The linking of melancholy to genius and creativity had the peculiar
inflection in the later eighteenth and nineteenth centuries of being associ-
ated with moral and aesthetic sensibility. Those with strong sensibility
(akin to our current concept of “sensitivity”) were thought to be delicate
and responsive in body and mind. Thus Cheyne lists the following
attributes as signs of overly relaxed, loose, and tender nerves:
THOSE who Stutter, Stammer, have a great Difficulty of Utterance, speak
very Low, lose their Voice without catching Cold, grow Dumb, Deaf, or
Blind, without an Accident or an Acute Distemper; are quick, prompt, and
passionate; . . . have a great Degree of Sensibility; are quick Thinkers, feel
Pleasure or Pain the most readily, and are of most lively Imagination.
As this cluster of symptoms suggests, strong sensibility could be both
blessing and curse: such people were exceptionally vulnerable, thoughtful,
and receptive. “Composers” would have been well represented in the class
of nervous patients. As Stephen Ahern notes, “In aesthetic theory, sens-
ibility is a quality of refined receptivity to one’s environment, and is the
source both of creative genius and of tasteful appreciation of artistic
production.”
Most eighteenth-century writers considered women especially prone
to weak constitutions, and sensibility was often seen as a weakness of
constitution. Yet the general association between sensibility and artistic
genius did not promote the notion that sensibility made women better
writers, thinkers, or artists. Physicians used various strategies to avoid this
inference, including positing an exclusively (almost) male version of

English Malady, –.

“The Sex of Spleen and the Body of Sensibility in Early Romantic Lyric,” in Colburn, English
Malady, .

For the story of an exceptional woman diagnosed with hypochondria, see Nancy Isenberg,
“Without Swapping Her Skirt for Breeches: The Hypochondria of Giustiniana Wynne, Anglo-
Ventian Woman of Letters,” in Colburn, English Malady, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
melancholy – hypochondria – that produced works of genius. Another
strategy admitted that masculine nerve disorders inclined their victims
to weaknesses but portrayed men as able to draw on other strengths to
conquer these. In Glen Colburn’s introduction to The English Malady:
Enabling and Disabling Fictions, he notes that writers who admitted the
weakening effects of hypochondria sometimes exhorted men to fortify
themselves “by adopting a new kind of internal, private heroism.”
On these points, Hume proves to be both within and beyond his time.
He too argues that strong sensibility enables discernment of beauties and
refinements of character. In “Of the Standard of Taste,” Hume places
“that delicacy of imagination, which is requisite to convey a sensibility of
those finer emotions” of beauty at the head of his list of characteristics of
qualified critics (..). Delicate taste enables production as well as
appreciation of art: Ovid and Lucretius were “delicate writers” (..).
Hume also portrays sensibility as Janus-faced. He begins the Essays with
a dialectical study of two sides of delicacy, “Of the Delicacy of Taste and
Passion.” Delicate temperaments of both kinds make people vulnerable to
pains that others do not feel or feel less strongly. Those with delicacy of
passion suffer from emotional rawness, elevated and depressed in turn.
Such people are “extremely sensible to all the accidents of life” and experi-
ence “a lively joy upon every prosperous event, as well as a piercing grief,
when they meet with misfortunes and adversity” (..–). Those with
delicacy of taste, on the other hand, possess “the same sensibility to beauty
and deformity of every kind, as [someone with delicacy of passion] does to
prosperity and adversity, obligations and injuries” (..). Both traits
enlarge “the sphere both of our happiness and our misery, and [make] us
sensible to pains as well as pleasures, which escape the rest of mankind”
(..). Hume even suggests that delicacy of taste can produce the hetero-
geneous pleasure/pain that the literary cult of sensibility celebrated. It is
not quite the “temple of Delight” where “Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran
shine,” but he does write that studies of beauty “produce an agreeable
melancholy” (..).
Hume’s treatment of the relationship between women and sensibility,
however, departs significantly from the norm. He is not above referring to
women as the weaker sex: “nature has given man the superiority above
woman, by endowing him with greater strength both of mind and body”
(..). And he does attribute to women greater delicacy or sensibility
than men in general. But instead of adopting a defensive posture, he
 
Colburn, English Malady, . John Keats, “Ode on Melancholy.”

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 Composing 
admits that this greater delicacy may make women superior judges of taste
to men of equal intelligence. In most editions of “Of the Delicacy of Taste
and Passion,” he remarks that “women, who have more delicate passions
than men, have also a delicate taste of the ornaments of life, of dress,
equipage, and the ordinary decencies of behavior. Any excellency in these
hits their taste much sooner than ours” (..a). This praise is not as
superficial as it may seem. In ascribing to women greater propensity to
delicacy of taste, Hume credits them with an attribute that he believes to
be important to happiness and social progress. What tempers the praise is
that he also ascribes to women a greater vulnerability to the negative
version of the trait, delicacy of passion.
In “Of Essay-Writing,” Hume claims that “Women of Sense and
Education . . . are much better Judges of all polite Writing than Men of
the same Degree of Understanding.” He also assures his “fair Readers” that
“all Men of Sense, who know the World, have a great Deference for their
Judgment of such Books as ly within the Compass of their Knowledge,
and repose more Confidence in the Delicacy of their Taste, tho’ unguided
by Rules, than in all the dull Labours of Pedants and Commentators”
(EWU .). Undeniably, these passages smack of condescending flat-
tery, which may be why Hume withdrew them. Yet his serious remarks
about women’s importance for maintaining and improving civil society
remain. His respectful correspondence with a number of women, more-
over, suggests a rare willingness to take women seriously as critics and
interlocutors.
The last theme is melancholy’s association with idleness, with the corol-
lary that useful or meaningful work can be a cure. Burton writes: “Nothing
begets [melancholy] sooner, increaseth and continueth it oftener, than
idleness.” Cheyne agrees with those who blame luxury for the idleness
that causes melancholy. Though ridiculing the notion that coffee, tea, or
chocolate accounts for melancholy’s increase, he argues that the problem
stems from the overall variety and richness of modern diets, along with
ever-increasing efforts to make daily life as easy as possible – all of which


Hume removed the sentence about women’s “excellency in taste” for the  edition, and none of
this passage appeared in the  edition. “Of Essay Writing” was only in the  edition of the
second volume of Essays, Moral and Political.

See, for example, Hume’s letter to Madame de Boufflers on July , , in which he replies to her
criticisms of John Home’s Douglas. He attempts to defend the play but acknowledges that all her
criticisms are valid. He asks her to judge it on a “second perusal” but says that he will ultimately
defer to her superior judgment (Letters :–).

Anatomy of Melancholy, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
are fed by increasing trade and wealth in modern economies. “Is it any
Wonder then, that the Diseases which proceed from Idleness and Fulness
of Bread, should increase in Proportion, and keep equal Pace with those
Improvements of the Matter and Cause of Diseases?”
Given Hume’s high opinion of industry, we should expect him to be
sympathetic to the notion that idleness produces melancholy, as indeed
he is. Though rest is necessary, prolonged periods of it “beget a languor
and lethargy, that destroys all enjoyment” (..). We know that he
believed that idle and sedentary habits contributed to his own struggle
with “the disease of the learned.” Hume distinguishes himself, however,
by severing the link between luxury and idleness. As we have seen, he
argues that economic advancement and luxury do not lead to unhealthy
idleness but rather increase industry and its concomitant “stock of labor,”
to the benefit of the populace as a whole.

... Modern Melancholy

The eighteenth century had its peculiar inflections of melancholy, but of
course melancholic emotions in general are not uniquely modern. The
Essays do give some reason to think, however, that aspects of modern
culture exacerbate those emotions.
Consider fear and sadness without cause. Hume consistently associates
the tendency to these pathological emotions with superstition. In “Of
Superstition and Enthusiasm,” he claims that some people are prone to
superstition because of natural temperament, occasional misfortunes, or
illness. A disposition to fear and sadness can be part of natural tempera-
ment, so it seems that melancholic emotions cause superstition, not the
other way around. But Hume’s account is more complex. Superstitious
devotions or sects may arise out of people’s peculiarities, but as their
practice evolves, they encourage the growth of melancholic emotions in
those under their influence. The conduits of this influence are priests with
increasing authority. As a natural outgrowth of a low view of humankind,
superstition makes people believe they need an intercessor with God
(..). As the religion advances, it “renders men tame and abject, and
fits them for slavery,” even if, we may assume, this was not their natural
disposition (..).


English Malady, .

See Hume’s letter to an anonymous physician from March or April  in Letters :.

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 Composing 
The superstitious disposition, in other words, makes people think that
they need priests. Once the priestly order is in place, priests have every
reason to reinforce the laity’s humility. In “Of National Characters,”
Hume describes the priesthood as a profession that turns men into either
hypocrites or self-satisfied knaves, forcing them to sublimate anger into
hidden vengefulness and binding them together in the common project of
subduing the rest of humankind. To maintain their power, priestly masters
must cultivate a race of slaves. Too few communicants could resist the
message, preached from authority and reinforced by power and practice,
that they are lowly, vile creatures, unworthy to judge or think for them-
selves. One needs no chemical imbalance to develop melancholic emotions
under such circumstances.
Ancient religions had their share of priests and other intermediaries,
and Hume makes no principled distinction between ancient and modern
superstitions in “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm,” as he does in the
Natural History of Religion. But it is clear from the essay that he thinks
that priests get more out of hand as time goes on. The bulk of “Of
Superstition and Enthusiasm” consists of a discussion of three influences
of false religion: one is superstition’s tendency to elevate the priesthood,
and the other two concern superstition’s increasingly deleterious effects
over time. Enthusiasm – the effect of violent and aggressive passions –
initially has worse effects, but superstition sneaks in like a lamb and then
attacks like a lion, upending social order. “How smoothly did the
 church advance in her acquisition of power? But into what dismal
convulsions did she throw all , in order to maintain it?” (..).
Finally, superstition opposes, while enthusiasm promotes, civil liberty’s
progress, both because of priestly tyranny and because followers of super-
stitious religions are taught to be comfortable only when servile.
In a passage that he removed only in the  edition, Hume writes,
“Modern Judaism and popery, (especially the latter) being the most
unphilosophical and absurd superstitions which have yet been known in
the world, are the most enslaved by their priests” and adds that the Church
of England inherited the “propensity to priestly power and dominion”
(..d). This particular source of melancholy thus reaches heights
in the modern world that would have been unknown to the ancients.


The distinction between superstition and enthusiasm would have already been familiar to many of
Hume’s readers. For a discussion of Addison’s treatment of it in The Spectator, see Harris, Hume,
–. For a discussion of Hume’s essay’s similarity to an essay in The Old Whig (first pointed out
by Duncan Forbes), see Susato, “Taming ‘The Tyranny of Priests,’” –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Although the Reformation had diminished the Roman church’s power, its
influence over the character of European people continued.
Hume develops these ideas in the Natural History of Religion, published
as part of Four Dissertations in . Polytheism, he claims, produces a
range of qualities that sound quite attractive. When we imagine the gods as
only a little higher than ourselves, they can be objects of emulation and
even competition – “Hence activity, spirit, courage, magnanimity, love of
liberty, and all the virtues which aggrandize a people.” Later monotheistic
religions, however, insist on God’s infinite distance from humanity – a
belief that “is apt, when joined with superstitious terrors, to sink the
human mind into the lowest submission and abasement” (NHR .).
Ancient religions promoted activity and spirit; modern religion promotes
passivity and subjugation.
Hume takes his criticism farther. Modern religion’s tentacles reach more
deeply into the psyche, exacerbating the harm. He does not claim that
religious adherence has become more common, only that it is now more
influential. Relative to modern religion, “As many people gave their assent
to [the superstition of antiquity]; though that assent was not seemingly so
strong, precise, and affirmative” (NHR .). This stronger assent is
more emotional response than intellectual conviction. Although monothe-
istic religions may be more philosophically reasonable than polytheistic
ones, few people arrive at religious faith through rational argumentation.
Furthermore, such argumentation, removed from experience and common
life, is unlikely to produce enduring vivid belief. But here the priests’
tactics prove their worth. Where rational persuasion is lacking, priests
supply fear and rituals to placate the fear. Peculiarly absurd ordeals satisfy
the need to feel that one has done something specifically for God, as
opposed to simple virtuous behavior with its obvious benefits to self and
others (NHR ., .). The art and poetry at the service of the priests


In “Whether the British Government Inclines More to Absolute Monarchy, or to a Republic,”
Hume does write that the “clergy have much lost their credit: Their pretensions and doctrines have
been ridiculed; and even religion can scarcely support itself in the world” (..). This is not,
however, Hume’s own voice, but that of an imagined defender of the notion that the British
government leans toward a republic. That earlier editions had said that the clergy had “entirely” lost
their credit shows both that Hume cared about this interlocutor’s arguments being respectable and
that his own views about the influence of the clergy probably changed over time. The change was
for the – edition of Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects. The older version last appeared in
the  edition of Essays, Moral and Political.

See NHR ., ., and .. Cf. the Sceptic’s claim that “an abstract, invisible object, like that
which natural religion alone presents to us, cannot long actuate the mind, or be of any moment in
life” (..).

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 Composing 
reinforce terror with tales of malicious devils who love to possess human
souls, and “seas of brimstone” ready to ignite eternal tortures (NHR .).
By contrast, ancient religious fables promise no such tortures to the
common devotee. They did promise that it was bad practice to cross
purposes with gods, but they did not torment people with the notion that
they must perform humiliating rituals to purge themselves from guilt into
which they fell simply by being born. Hume gives evidence that there was
no shame for the ancients in publicly ridiculing ideas of an afterlife, and
he claims that religion was an “easy and light” burden for ancient peoples
(NHR . and ). A “traditional, mythological religion,” he concludes,
“happily makes no such deep impression on the affections and understand-
ing” as a “systematical, scholastic one” (NHR .).
Modern religion’s final psychological torment comes in the form of
traumatic cognitive dissonance. Latter-day believers conceive of the divine
as more powerful and knowing, but they do not develop a genuine
corresponding notion of divine goodness. They therefore ascribe to God
horrifying acts of vengeance. Human parents who punished their children
in such ways would be grossly vicious, but true believers must praise God
for these terrible acts. The nonpsychopathic believer thus experiences
ongoing spiritual turmoil:
The heart secretly detests such measures of cruel and implacable vengeance;
but the judgment dares not but pronounce them perfect and adorable.
And the additional misery of this inward struggle aggravates all the other
terrors, by which these unhappy victims to superstition are for ever
haunted. (NHR .)
This is an advanced form of psychological pain, corresponding to an
advanced, though perverse, notion of the divine. Hume presents all of
these tendencies as symptomatic of popular and sometimes “false” religion,
preserving the possibility of a true, if rare, religious practice without
detrimental emotional consequences. He also claims that enthusiasm
gains strength in the modern world, particularly in sects of Protestant


Whether or not Hume believes “true religion” to be a genuine possibility, and what its content
might be in any case, are questions of lively scholarly debate. For accounts of Humean true religion
that give it the most substance and possible influence, see Livingston, Philosophical Melancholy and
Delirium, –, and Andre C. Willis, “Potential Use-Value of Hume’s ‘True Religion’” and Toward
a Humean True Religion. Other important discussions include Don Garrett, “What’s True about
Hume’s ‘True Religion’?”; Lorne Falkenstein, “Hume on ‘Genuine,’ ‘True,’ and ‘Rational’
Religion”; Terence Penelhum, “Hume’s Views on Religion”; Willem Lemmens, “‘True Religion’
of the Sceptic”; Immerwahr, “Hume’s Aesthetic Theism”; and Paul Russell, Riddle of Hume’s
Treatise, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
dissenters, with some positive psychological effects for its devotees. None-
theless, in both the Essays and the Natural History, he also argues that
modern religions provide unprecedented sources of fear and sadness with-
out cause – terrifying common people with threats from an angry God and
humiliating them with continual emphasis on their worthlessness.
Moving to the link between melancholic emotions and sensibility, the
notion that modern people were progressing in delicacy was so commonplace
that Hume does not bother to argue for it, though he makes the occasional
offhand remark showing that he accepts it. His surmise that the ancients
lacked civility in conversation shows that he conceives of them as lacking
what had become commonplace sensitivity. Modern delicacy is so advanced
beyond such insensibility that it is in danger of veering too far in the other
direction: “modern politeness, which is naturally so ornamental, runs often
into affectation and foppery, disguise and insincerity” (..–).
Sensitivity in itself makes one vulnerable to melancholic emotions,
as Hume argues in “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion.” But he also
believes that the related dedication to genius and the sciences brought its
own melancholy dangers. Cheyne and others believed that too much time
spent in study instead of physical pursuits increased the risk of developing
nervous disorders. Hume identifies intellectual work among the causes of
his own youthful melancholy. He writes to an anonymous physician that
“there are two things very bad for this Distemper, Study & Idleness,” and
“two things very good, Business & Diversion” (Letters :). Throughout
his life, he retains the belief that studious occupations can be dangerous
for health. In December of , he warns his nephew about studying
too much (Hume to David Hume the Younger, in Letters :). Hume
does not think that scholarly life, even vigorously engaged in, necessarily
produces melancholy. In later adulthood, he expresses confidence in his
own “robust Constitution” and unusual ability to endure marathons of
study and writing (Hume to Adam Smith, May , in Letters :).


Cf. Burton (quoting Ficino): “other men look to their tools; a painter will wash his pencils; a smith will
look to his hammer, anvil, forge: an husbandman will men his plough-irons, and grind his hatchet if it be
dull; a falconer or huntsman will have an especial care of his hawks, hounds, horses, dogs, &c. a musician
will string and unstring his lute, &c., only scholars neglect that instrument, their brain & spirits
(I mean), which they daily use, and by which they range over all the world, which by much study is
consumed. See thou (saith Lucian) twist not the rope so hard, till at length it break” (Anatomy of
Melancholy, ).

Actually, Hume seems to have arrived at this view of himself much earlier, only months after his
letter to the anonymous physician. In May of , he writes from La Flèche to James Birch: “For
my part, I spend alwise more of my Time in Study, than it would be proper for you, who certainly
wou’d choose to give one half of the day to Company, & the other to Reading” (Mossner, “Hume
at La Flèche,” ).

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 Composing 
But he accepts the notion that studious pursuits put one at risk for melan-
cholic disorders and that modern science’s encouraging young men to
become scholars rather than soldiers therefore promoted such disorders.
But what of the compensations of modern economic progress, which
Hume believes encourage activity and industry? Here there is reason
for hope. Business and manufacturing provide occupation for common
people, without the violent disadvantages of other solutions to boredom,
such as pillaging neighboring countries. Two caveats are in order, however.
First, given industry’s nascent state in much of eighteenth-century Europe,
its promise was at best a well-founded hope. Hume believed that economic
progress could improve the lives of all classes of people in civilized nations,
but he knew that such progress was in its earliest stages. Second, he also
recognized that the connections between economic development, individ-
ual happiness, and virtue were vulnerable. Certain economic innovations,
he believed, could corrupt the people and their industry, such as amassing
a large public debt. We have seen before his concern in “Of Public Credit”
that public debt encourages “an useless and unactive life” as public stock
falls into “the hands of idle people, who live on their revenue” (..).
These men “will sink into the lethargy of a stupid and pampered luxury,
without spirit, ambition, or enjoyment,” as well as interrupting the con-
nection between labor and superfluous goods that provides an essential
motive for others’ industry (..–). Siphoning away production’s
fruits to remote cities would introduce profound inequalities, which
demoralize the poor and encourage the few and powerful rich to “conspire
to lay the whole burthen on the poor, and oppress them still farther, to the
discouragement of all industry” (..).
By this reckoning, modern life introduces risk factors for melancholy, in
its more advanced superstition, its increased sensibility, and its emphasis
on scientific learning rather than more active pursuits. Its developing
economy also introduces hope for a different kind of active life for a
broader distribution of people, but one that had yet to be fulfilled and
was inherently precarious. One final consideration suggests that Hume
would have been aware of the dangers of melancholic emotions: his own
advocacy of women’s increasing prominence in society. Women had long
been considered more vulnerable to nervous disorders of a destructive sort.
But concern about this vulnerability for the sake of women themselves
was novel. In ancient literature, women’s mental and emotional disorders
typically trouble male writers only as presenting obstacles or threats to
men or sometimes to the social order as a whole. Hume may have shared
these concerns, perhaps in a more constructive sense of wanting to channel

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
women’s delicacy into more socially beneficial forms. Pocock suggests that
the Essays may have been inspired by Hume’s thinking “that the modern
polity he wished to advocate was founded on opinion, that opinion was
formed in conversation, and that the participation of women in both
reading and conversation . . . had reached a level where attention must
be paid to their inclusion in the formation of the polity.” On this issue,
however, Hume’s experience would have led him to concerns that went
beyond the health of the polity to the health of the self. In a letter to
Madame de Boufflers in , he attempts to console her over her
disappointment in hopes of marriage with the Prince de Conti, writing:
“I foresee that your lively passions, continually agitated, will tear in pieces
your tender frame: melancholy and a broken constitution may then prove
your lot, and the remedy, which could now preserve your health and peace
of mind, may come too late to restore them” (Letters :). Madame de
Boufflers’s problem was an ancient one: she felt betrayed by a former lover.
But Hume’s letter is not a screed against her vice or even her imprudence.
It is the consolation of a friend, who is concerned for this woman for her
own sake. Because modernity makes such friendship possible, it also makes
the melancholic suffering of women important.

. Therapeutic Beauty

.. Distinctions in the Passions

How are emotional disorders significant for Hume’s views on taste and
composition? They are significant because they explain one way in which
aesthetics, for Hume, is not merely theoretically intriguing but profoundly
significant for human life and happiness. Producing, enjoying, and reflect-
ing on beauty can train our emotions and therefore our character, in ways
that can help both the aggressive and the melancholy. To see this, we need
to consider which emotions would predominate in a virtuous Humean
character. I will argue that these emotions must be not only calm and
strong, but also warm.
In the terminology of the Treatise, emotions are reflective impressions;
that is, they are feelings that “proceed from” sensations. Hume says that
reflective impressions “are the passions, and other emotions resembling


Barbarism and Religion, Vol. II, .

Hume distinguishes between passions and character traits; only a significant propensity to passions
constitutes the latter. See EPM .n.

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 Composing 
them” (T ...). He then divides the reflective impressions along two
axes: calm/violent, on the one hand, and strong/weak, on the other.
Sentiments of taste, including “the sense of beauty and deformity in
action, composition, and external objects,” are typically calm. Love,
hatred, grief, joy, pride, and humility are typically violent, and Hume
writes that these are “properly call’d passions” (T ...).
Hume immediately qualifies this apparently tidy taxonomy: “This
division is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and music fre-
quently rise to the greatest height,” and typically violent passions “may
decay into so soft an emotion, as to become, in a manner imperceptible”
(T ...) He introduces this “vulgar and specious” distinction for exposi-
tory convenience but does not pretend to be carving our emotional world
at its joints.
Nonetheless, there is some cause for ascribing to Hume a distinction
between “passions,” strictly speaking, and “emotions.” At the beginning of
Treatise , “emotions” seems to refer a broader category that includes the
passions. His tendency to refer to aesthetic impressions as “sentiments,”
not passions, as well as his distinction between delicacy of taste and
passion, provide further reasons for this scrupulosity. On the other hand,
we cannot equate violent emotions and passions, since Hume sometimes
uses the term “calm passion.” In general, I will try to use “emotion” as
the more general term, but I will not hesitate to use the term “passion”
when Hume does so himself. Regardless, we should not let these scruples
overshadow the point that sentiments of beauty and other emotions are the
same kind of thing for Hume. They are all affective mental states, which
we experience as pleasurable or painful in a variety of ways.
The distinction between calmness and violence concerns an impres-
sion’s level of emotional agitation, whereas that between strength and
weakness concerns its power to motivate action. Hume writes that


There are precedents for the distinction between calm and violent passions in Hutcheson and
Malebranche, among others, although the nature of their distinctions differs from Hume’s.
Hutcheson, drawing on Malebranche, associates violent passions with “bodily motions” (Essay,
). On the differences between Malebranche’s distinction and Hume’s, see Éléonore Le Jallé,
“Hume, Malebranche, and the Self-Justification of the Passions,” .

See T ...–, ..., and ...; DP ., ; and EPM .. Hume’s Treatise discussion of
why reason alone cannot generate moral distinctions appeals to the reason/passion distinction, but
moral sentiments are typically calm emotions.

I am agreeing with Árdal that the “fundamentum divisionis” between calm and violent passions is
“emotional intensity” (Passion and Value in Hume’s Treatise, ). This way of understanding the
distinction between calm and violent passions sidesteps the issues raised by analyses that emphasize
the specific passions named at T ..., such as James Fieser’s in “Hume’s Classification of the
Passions.” Fieser’s approach relies on a type/token distinction, so that moral approval is a calm

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
“passions influence not the will in proportion to their violence, or the
disorder they occasion in the temper; but, on the contrary, . . . when a
passion has once become a settled principle of action, and is the predomin-
ant inclination of the soul, it commonly produces no longer any sensible
agitation” (T ...). It is true that we can mistake calm passions
for reason, which Hume claims “can never produce any action, or give
rise to volition,” and is “incapable of preventing volition, or of disputing
the preference with any passion or emotion” (T ...). He also advises
that “when we wou’d govern a man, and push him to any action, ’twill
commonly be better policy to work upon the violent than the calm
passions” (T ...). But this policy does not capture the complexity of
human nature. People “often counter-act a violent passion in prosecution
of their interests and designs” (T ...). In fact, Hume associates
personal strength with calm passions, not violent ones: “strength of mind,
implies the prevalence of calm passions above the violent” (T ...).
And the propensity to mistake calm passions for reason explains, according
to Hume, why people likewise mistake reason for a motivating force:
reason alone cannot motivate, but calm passions can.
The Essays reinforce the idea that calm emotions can be very strong. In
early editions of “Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature,” Hume
goes so far as to assert that “several great Moralists of the present Age” have
“prov’d beyond Question . . . that the social Passions are by far the most
powerful of any, and that even all the other Passions receive from them
their chief Force and Influence” (..). “Social passions” refers here
to disinterested passions in general; they may not all be calm. Erotic love
could be social in this sense, yet quite violent. But Hume believes that
some powerful social emotions are calm. In “Of Polygamy and Divorces,”
he characterizes friendship as “a calm and sedate affection, conducted by
reason and cemented by habit” (..). (As we will see, he appeals to
habit to explain the power of all calm emotions.) In the same essay, he
testifies to friendship’s importance, asking rhetorically, “Destroy love and
friendship; what remains in the world worth accepting?” (..). In so

passion, though particular instances of it may be violent. But first, there is no reason to think that
Hume’s listing here is an exhaustive classification of the calm or violent passions, especially since he
gives other examples elsewhere. Second, this interpretation fails to take seriously Hume’s caution
about the vague nature of the distinction. The debate about these issues is quite complex, and I do
not pretend to have dealt with all of the related problems here. For an excellent summary of this
debate with references to the current literature, see Radcliffe, “Hume’s Psychology of the Passions,”
– and –.

Cf. T ...: “The force of our mental actions in this case, [poetry and eloquence], no more
than any other, is not to be measur’d by the apparent agitation of the mind.”

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 Composing 
doing, he echoes one of the most beautiful passages in the Treatise, in
which he claims that the most fortunate person, who has all that is “useful
or agreeable . . . will still be miserable, till you give him some one person
at least, with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and
friendship he may enjoy” (T ...). The sedate passions of friendship
not only make life worth living themselves; they undergird the strength of
all the other passions that do so as well.
But does Hume think that calm emotions are necessarily good?
Immerwahr emphasizes the connection between calm passions, happiness,
and virtue for Hume, saying that “calm desires in themselves yield greater
satisfaction than violent ones” and that “human misery is caused by violent
passions.” But Hume does not always portray calm emotions in a
positive light. After remarking that we can mistake calm passions for
reasoning, he mentions resentment as an example of “certain calm desires
and tendencies” that may come from instinct (T ...). Resentment can
be appropriate, but it is inherently unpleasant and could not be a domin-
ant passion in a happy life. In a letter to Hutcheson, Hume writes that
there “is a calm Ambition, a calm Anger or Hatred, which tho’ calm, may
likewise be very strong, & have the absolute Command over the Mind”
(January , in Letters :). Finally, “Of Avarice” discusses a calm,
powerful passion that is clearly vicious. Hume wonders at the extremes to
which avarice brings some people, who grip wealth even in the deathbed.
It is bizarre “that so frosty, spiritless a passion should be able to carry us


Hume’s Stoic eulogizes the social affections, the charm and power of which, he says, prevent the
true sage from hardening his heart against the suffering of others. He also seems to attribute much
of eros’s power to the associated passion of friendship. See ...

“Hume on Tranquillizing the Passions,” , . Immerwahr does say that “Hume’s real enemy is
violent passions experienced violently,” which leaves room for benign violent passions (). He
still neglects the possibility that calm passions might be malignant. Much of his evidence for
Hume’s preference for calm passions comes from “The Sceptic.”

Radcliffe acknowledges that Humean calm passions can have a darker side, noting that it appears
that “prevailing calm passions” might be “vicious traits of character” (“Strength of Mind and the
Calm and Violent Passions,” ). This possibility plays an important role in her argument that
strength of mind itself is a more complicated virtue than many take it to be. She argues that
Humean strength of mind “is not simply any calm passion exercising control of actions over the
violent actions” but “has to do specifically with those calm passions that have as their aim the long-
term interest of the agent or the goals whose pursuit are approved by the moral sentiments”
(–). Jacqueline Taylor also notes that “strength of mind might be cultivated by the vicious as
well as the virtuous” (Reflecting Subjects, ).

See EPM App .: “And what a malignant philosophy must it be, that will not allow, to humanity
and friendship, the same privileges, which are indisputably granted to the darker passions of enmity
and resentment?” For an important discussion of the positive function of Humean resentment in
overcoming repression, see Baier, “Hume on Resentment.” See also Jacqueline Taylor, Reflecting
Subjects, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
farther than all the warmth of youth and pleasure” (EWU .). He can
only explain such perversion by presuming that its possessors have neither
youth nor pleasure. Avarice is the characteristic vice of sour old men or
unfortunate people whose temper never knew warmth. Without opposing
passions, “the mind being incapable of remaining without some passion or
pursuit, at last finds out this monstrously absurd one, which suits the
coldness and inactivity of its temper” (EWU .).
If it is difficult to imagine Hume’s greedy old man as calm, consider
a more sympathetic portrait of a miser – George Eliot’s Silas Marner.
Betrayed by his closest relations, he is left with only weaving and the
money it brings:
So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his guineas rising
in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening itself more and more
into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no relation to any
other being. His life had reduced itself to the functions of weaving and
hoarding, without any contemplation of an end toward which the functions
tended.
There is no violence in this greed, yet it becomes Silas’s sole motivating
passion, determining the monotonous structure of his days. His avarice is a
calm, cold master.
If emotions can be strong and calm, yet unhealthy or vicious, we need a
third axis of evaluation for a full understanding of the relationship between
the emotions, happiness, and virtue. I propose a temperature axis, ranging
from warm to cold. Though this distinction adds something to Hume’s
taxonomy, it is consistent with both his language and his characterization
of specific emotions. An emotion’s temperature is a function of its relation
to others: warmer emotions promote fellow-feeling and affection; colder
ones increase distance between persons. A cold emotion can be strong, like
the miser’s avarice, but can also be weak. (One might easily, e.g., overcome
mild contempt.) And a cold emotion can be violent, as hatred typically is,
but it can also be calm. Hume describes friendship, on the other hand, as
both warm and calm.

.. Calm over Violent?

Part of the reason why we believe in Silas as a character is that his avarice
has no competition. Because he has no one to love, his greed almost


Eliot, Silas Marner, .

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 Composing 
consumes him. But how can calm passions dominate when they must
compete with violent ones? How do we explain strength of mind? Hume’s
answer appeals to the power of custom (or habit). A passion becomes a
“settled principle of action” once “repeated custom and its own force have
made every thing yield to it,” so that “it directs the actions and conduct
without that opposition and emotion which so naturally attend every
momentary gust of passion” (T ...).
Here, “emotion” suggests movement of the spirits or the physical
disturbance that comes with overwhelming distress or joy. This phenom-
enology alone makes more plausible the distinction between violent and
strong passions. Under such disturbance, particularly carried to its
extremes, we may be incapable of action. If I am violently angry, I may
strike some convenient person (not really), but I am (far) more likely to
stand sputtering and fuming, paralyzed by ire. Opposition from other
violent passions may explain some cases of such paralysis, but not all.
Sometimes anger or sadness alone keep us from moving.
Yet agitation can motivate, as Hume notes. What explains the triumph
of calmness over violence in these cases? It appears here that repetition
generates that strength: “repeated custom and its own force have made
everything yield to it.” Jane McIntyre notes the importance of custom or
habit in strengthening passions, adding the intriguing suggestion that
strength of mind is peculiarly relevant to forming habits, because Hume
also describes strength of mind as the ability “to persevere in a steady
adherence to a general and distant interest” (EPM .). This trait therefore
“involves the intentional shaping of character – the intentional creation of
a pattern of action over time – since the actions chosen . . . are oriented
toward a future good that we see our actions as realizing.” Yet something
puzzling remains, as McIntyre acknowledges. Whence the original force,
which overcomes violent passions in the first and second instance? Are the
initial passions calm at all, or must they be violent, only made calm once
habit has removed the opposition they met with earlier? Are some people


In the next section, Hume connects the power of custom to his theory of motivation, by positing a
pleasure produced by “moderate facility,” which he says consists “not so much . . . in any ferment of
the spirits, as in their orderly motion; which will sometimes be so powerful as even to convert pain
into pleasure, and give us a relish in time for what at first was most harsh and disagreeable”
(T ...). See also T .... He had previously claimed that pain and pleasure are the “chief
spring and moving principle” of human actions (T ...).

“Strength of Mind,” .

Baier suggests something like this possibility, observing that it seems that Hume’s view implies that
the “most that could be expected to occur would be that a typically calm passion counteracts a
typically violent one, by becoming briefly violent during the time of opposition” (A Progress of

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
simply gifted with strong but calm passions? If we need strength of mind
to cultivate habits, do we need strength of mind to develop strength of
mind itself?
Ultimately, Hume seems to despair of answering all these questions.
He concludes Treatise .. by remarking that, in the struggle between
“reason” (calm passion) and passion, philosophy “must leave all the smaller
and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and
minute for her comprehension” (T ...). He does give us a hint,
however, noting that although violent passions are usually stronger, “’tis
often found, that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and
seconded by resolution, are able to controul them in their most furious
movements.” We can explain how such reflection and resolution could
work, in accordance with Humean principles. Reflection enables us to
bring the evils of a violent passion, as well as the goods of a calm one, closer
to our imagination. The more vivid the conception of these goods and evils
in our imagination, the more likely they are to generate corresponding
passions. Resolution could evolve out of disapproval of oneself, as Hume
describes in his discussion of the artificial virtues, saying that “a person
who feels his heart devoid of [a virtuous principle], may hate himself
upon that account, and may perform the action without the motive, from
a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire by practice, that virtuous
principle, or at least, to disguise to himself, as much as possible, his want
of it” (T ...). Self-disgust may only motivate us to self-deception. But
it may also serve as a motive to avoid the disgusting action in the future,
eventually developing the habit of doing so.
It is important not to mistake the sense of duty for strength of mind
itself, given the common association of duty with character strength.
Elizabeth Radcliffe points out that although strength of mind might
involve the sense of duty, numerous calm passions besides moral senti-
ments could overcome violent passions. These triumphs would still be
instances of strength of mind. And these calm passions may be virtuous
in themselves, because Hume does not believe that virtuous action requires
being motivated by the moral sentiment. Indeed, motives that are not
explicitly moral typically motivate the natural virtues. The Humean Good

Sentiments, ). For criticism of this view, see Wright, “Butler and Hume on Habit and Moral
Character,” –.

See T ..., where Hume writes that the “imagination has a set of passions belonging to it.”

“Strength of Mind,” .

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 Composing 
Samaritan acts from concern for his fellow human being, not from the
moral sentiment.
But do we yet have a compelling explanation for how one might develop
strength of mind? Hume’s Sceptic offers an incisive statement of the
problem. He acknowledges the value of strength of mind, saying that
“Nothing contributes more to happiness” (..). But though applica-
tion and habit may improve character, such efforts require antecedent
blessing with a certain temper:
Where one is thoroughly convinced that the virtuous course of life is
preferable; if he have but resolution enough, for some time, to impose a
violence on himself; his reformation needs not be despaired of. The
misfortune is, that this conviction and this resolution never can have place,
unless a man be, before-hand, tolerably virtuous. (..)

The good may become better, the Sceptic argues, but the bad can only
hope to remain where they are. The problem is that the Sceptic’s position
seems all too reasonable, especially given Hume’s vagueness in describing
the possibility of reforming the temper and acquiring strength of mind.

.. A Passion for Beauty

The Treatise does not provide sufficient resources for understanding
how we might develop habits of warm, calm emotions. In this and the
following two sections, I argue that the Essays help fill the gap by showing
how aesthetic experience can aid this development. First, developing taste
can reorient our perspective toward other people. Second, experiencing
art provides an independent source of benign emotions: aesthetic delight
itself. Finally, art’s communal nature enables us to experience these emo-
tions publicly, which strengthens calm emotions that might otherwise be
weak. In encouraging emotions that are warm and strong, art ameliorates
both aggression and melancholy.
The Essays begin with this theme, in “Of the Delicacy of Taste and
Passion.” Delicacy of passion, again, makes people unusually vulnerable
to life’s vicissitudes. It allows great pleasure in small joys but also leaves
people at the mercy of life’s more frequent disappointments. It would be
difficult to cure delicacy of passion through resolution and repetition, even
for those aware that such practice could form an opposing habit. For those
with this trait, habit has always been on the side of passionate extremes.
Perhaps we can imagine such a person successfully resolving to improve, if
the ill effects of delicacy of passion became manifest in a striking way.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Marianne Dashwood undergoes such a transformation in Sense and
Sensibility, but only after the betrayal of her lover, public humiliation,
and a near-fatal illness. Regardless, it stretches the imagination too far
to ask her to serve as an example for most people with delicacy of passion.
She possesses uncommon talents, intellectual ability, and an influential,
prudent elder sister.
Hume’s recommended cure for delicacy of passion does not require
dashing, villainous suitors or wasting illnesses. It does, however, draw on
one of Marianne’s other resources, more widely available and less danger-
ous. He recommends attempting to transform the delicacy into its sister
trait, delicacy of taste. The aim is not to exterminate emotion but to
change its objects. After all, delicacy of passion offers significant satisfac-
tion to its possessors: they experience “more lively enjoyments, as well as
more pungent sorrows, than men of cool and sedate tempers” (..). In
needing to feel, those with delicacy of passion are no different from the rest
of us. “Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as on the
contrary, what weakens and infeebles them is uneasy” (T ...). They
differ only in continually experiencing intense passions, which have been
satisfying often enough to make their absence a difficult evil. Philosophical
sedation can be no cure. The only hope is to learn to feel differently, to
respond to objects whose availability depends less on the whims of fortune.
What are these objects? Hume tells us that delicacy of taste produces
“sensibility to beauty and deformity of every kind” (..). The range of
beauties is broad: he mentions poems, paintings, conversation, interper-
sonal manners, books, pieces of reasoning, music, and “the characters of
men” (..–). These varied objects have in common that they can
inspire passionate responses, cost relatively little money, and are to a large
degree subject to the agent’s control.
This last claim seems strange. How can the characters of others be under
our control, when even our own proves recalcitrant? Isn’t Marianne a
victim of her lover’s vice? But Hume claims not that others’ characters are
under our control, but only whether or not we associate with them: “we
are pretty much masters [of] what books we shall read, what diversions
we shall partake of, and what company we shall keep” (..). But this
response is not enough. It fails to illuminate how we might become the
kind of people who choose company wisely, and it fails to acknowledge
that we have people in our lives from whom it would be difficult to
disassociate but who contribute to our unhappiness.
A fuller response requires thinking about different stances that we can
have toward the people in our lives. Delicacy of passion responds to others

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 Composing 
as sources of potential good or evil. Their behavior is of interest insofar as it
might promote happiness (one’s own or others) or cause trouble. From the
perspective of delicacy of passion, in other words, other people form part
of fortune’s chain of causes. Delicacy of taste, on the other hand, con-
templates others’ behavior to reach an aesthetic judgment. This requires
prescinding from the behavior’s immediate effects, inferring what character
traits explain it, and correcting for the bias that interest introduces into
the situation.
Readers of the Treatise and second Enquiry will recognize this descrip-
tion as part of the imaginative exercise that Hume calls taking up a general
or common point of view. Although moral judgment depends on oper-
ations of sympathy that vary widely, when we are using that judgment, we
correct for variability by considering not only how someone’s character
trait affects us and our loved ones but also how it affects other people
related to its possessor. In explaining this correction, Hume compares
moral with physical beauty, noting that in “like manner, external beauty is
determin’d merely by pleasure; and ’tis evident, a beautiful countenance
cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at the distance of twenty paces, as
when it is brought nearer to us. We say not, however, that it appears to us
less beautiful: Because we know what effect it will have in such a position,
and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance” (T ...).
Moral beauty shares with external beauty a tendency to redirect the
gaze of the person appreciating it, away from her nearer interests and
toward the beautiful object itself and its effects. In judging the virtue of my
enemy’s bravery, I must let go of the thought that her bravery endangers
me. Likewise, “when any work is addressed to the public, though I should
have a friendship or enmity with the author, I must depart from this
situation; and considering myself as a man in general, forget, if possible,
my individual being and peculiar circumstances” (..). In his dis-
cussions of moral beauty in the Treatise and aesthetic beauty in “Of the
Standard of Taste,” Hume acknowledges the difficulty of letting go of
the interested perspective. Language and passion may not follow where


See T ... and EPM . and .. The variability of sympathy causes problems for
understanding how the correction works, given that the same factors that make our sympathy
vary for the object of our judgment would affect our sympathy with those affected by her traits. For
some important discussion of this problem and related issues, see Geoffrey Sayre-McCord, “On
Why Hume’s ‘General Point of View’ Isn’t Ideal”; Abramson, “Correcting ‘Our’ Sentiments”; and
Jacqueline Taylor, “Hume on the Standard of Virtue” and Reflecting Subjects, –. Taylor argues
that the Treatise fails to adequately address these problems and that the Enquiry improves Hume’s
account of moral judgment by, among other things, emphasizing the virtues needed for discerning
judges.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
reflection and fairness lead. And we may not want them to. It is passion’s
nature to interest its bearer in its continuance: “all the passions avoid as
much as possible” suffering a diminution (T ...).
The general topic of this Treatise passage is love and hatred. Hume
initially observes: “One that has a real design of harming us, proceeding
not from hatred and ill-will, but from justice and equity, draws not upon
him our anger, if we be in any degree reasonable; notwithstanding he is
both the cause, and the knowing cause of our sufferings” (T ...). But
then he acknowledges the idealism of this pronouncement. How many
criminals fairly assess their accusers and judges? And even we law-abiding
citizens see our competitors as enemies, “tho’ we must acknowledge, if we
wou’d but reflect a moment, that their motive is entirely as justifiable as
our own” (T ...). Hume then moves to a much darker assessment.
Not only do we conceive of people who justly punish us as enemies; we
tend to criminalize their behavior in our minds. Here is clear evidence of
how recalcitrant our passions can be: “any harm or uneasiness has a natural
tendency to excite our hatred, and . . . afterwards we seek for reasons upon
which we may justify and establish the passion” (T ...).
This description could be an analysis of emotion’s progression in
someone with delicacy of passion. Rousseau suffers harm from D’Alembert
and redirects his pain to its cause. This redirection generates the resem-
bling impression of hatred. Even if D’Alembert caused the pain unin-
tentionally, or with good reasons, Rousseau blames D’Alembert, tying him
more closely to the suffering, obfuscating other causes, such as the oper-
ations of chance or Rousseau’s own foolish behavior. The hatred thus
intensifies, along with its corresponding suffering.
Again, Hume thinks that we are all prone to these transformative
exercises of passion and imagination. But for those with delicacy of
passion, the operation proceeds more quickly, more violently, and without
the checks of calmer passions. The resulting indignation may make one
feel justified, but none of the passions involved here is pleasant. Indigna-
tion serves a need at the expense of happier passions, like humanity and
kindness. Unfortunately, as Hume observes, it is likely to prove tenacious.
Once in the grip of the interested perspective, then, we find it difficult
to extricate ourselves. This is the quotidian condition of someone with


Le Jallé argues that Hume borrows this idea from Malebranche (“Hume Malebranche, and the Self-
Justification of the Passions,” –).

This is an example of the “double relation of impressions and ideas,” which Hume argues is the
source of the indirect passions. See T ..– and Section ., below.

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 Composing 
delicacy of passion. Again, the disposition has its rewards: it produces
happy social passions as well as the darker ones. Vehemence of gratitude
may be as common as vehemence of resentment. But Hume does not
think that this is likely, because “great pleasures are much less frequent
than great pains” (..). I doubt that there is much cause for disagree-
ment with this judgment, but regardless, an asymmetry recommends
delicacy of taste over delicacy of passion. To see this, we need to return
to the former stance, which we might call contemplative – appreciation of
others’ characters as potential objects of beauty. From this stance, we can
regard even our friends as something other than part of the productive
chain of good and evil. I have in mind the perspective that Aristotle
mentions in the Nicomachean Ethics, from which observing a friend’s
worthy activities and character is pleasant in itself, since “in simultaneously
perceiving what is good in itself, [virtuous people] feel pleasure” and the
happiest person “chooses to contemplate actions that are decent.” This
description may sound cold, but the perspective itself need not be. Con-
sider George Eliot’s description of Will Ladislaw’s “unspeakable content
in . . . feeling that he was in the presence of a creature worthy to be
perfectly loved.” The narrator adds, “I think his own feelings at that
moment were perfect, for we mortals have our divine moments, when
love is satisfied in the completeness of the beloved object.” At this point
in Middlemarch, Ladislaw has no hope of Dorothea’s constituting the
happiness of his own life, or even her returning his love. He simply wants
to be in her presence, to appreciate her internal and external beauty.
This sublime sentiment is pleasant in itself, as are all sentiments of
beauty. The asymmetry between delicacy of passion and delicacy of taste
appears when we consider more painful impressions. Not all contempla-
tion of character leads to sublime, happy sentiments. For every Dorothea,
there is a Rosamond Vincy, and I fear that in real life we are more likely
to encounter a Mrs. Bennet than one of her two eldest daughters. Again,


Timothy Costelloe suggests something like this conception of Humean aesthetic judgment by
invoking Iris Murdoch to explicate his idea that Hume’s models of taste are ideals. He cites
Murdoch’s claim that art “transcends selfish and obsessive limitations of personality and can
enlarge the sensibility of its consumer” (Aesthetics and Morals in the Philosophy of David Hume,
). One could accept this function of the models without accepting that they are “visions of
perfection” that “represent standards that can never be realized,” as Costelloe characterizes them
(). Given his analysis of the relation between Hume’s true judges and a specific kind of
philosophical rule, it may be that these judges would have to be unrealizable ideals (see –).
But an “ideal” can draw people toward it, even if they believe it can be obtained; indeed, at least
some people would require this belief to find the ideal motivating.
 
Nicomachean Ethics, b and a–,  and . Middlemarch, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Hume acknowledges that delicacy of taste, like delicacy of passion, sensi-
tizes us to pains as well as pleasures. But the displeasure from observing an
insipid or vicious character from the perspective of taste is less poignant
than the displeasure from considering that same character from the per-
spective of “passion.” So we laugh at Mrs. Bennet when we read about her
outbursts but do not find her traits so amusing if they are present in
our own mothers. In the latter case, however, we might learn something
from Mr. Bennet’s own consolation. Having discovered that he married
a contemptible woman, he takes refuge in the amusing study of human
folly, for which she provides ample material. “This is not the sort of
happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife,” Austen
remarks, “but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.” Insofar as the
“true philosopher” can consider a negative character from a distance, as an
object of critical judgment, she acquires a corresponding distance from
painful consideration of the evil done by such a character. If adept at such
contemplation, she may even derive a new kind of pleasure (like satirical
amusement) from it.
Therefore, while someone with delicacy of passion experiences a broad
range of violent pleasures and sharp pains, someone with delicacy of taste
experiences an equally broad range of calm pleasures and calm pains, with
the possibility of transforming the pains into pleasures. This asymmetry
means that taste provides the possibility of a refuge, even when we must be
in the company of less than admirable people.
Two caveats are indispensable: first, I have characterized the stance of
delicacy of passion as one from which we see other people as potential
sources of good and evil. I have also followed Hume in referring to this as
an interested perspective. But this need not be a self-interested perspective.
“Interested,” in eighteenth-century English, can mean self-centered or
even selfish. But Hume recognizes that we are interested in good or harm
done to others, especially those we love. It is clear that he sometimes
viewed others with such passion, even when their traits could not possibly
harm anyone near to him, or indeed any live person at all. Recall his
remark in “Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations” about those respon-
sible for ancient Rome’s “amphitheatrical entertainments”: “A man could
almost be pleased, by a single blow, to put an end to such a race of
monsters” (..). This is violent disgust, not calm distaste, arising


Pride and Prejudice, . Austen clearly does not mean to commend Mr. Bennet’s course of action,
especially as it includes withdrawing from rearing his children.

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 Composing 
from the thought of a long-abandoned practice of a long-dead people.
Reflection on any character with the propensity to do great good or great
harm can arouse violent passions; the self need not be the beneficiary or
the victim.
Hume’s reaction to gladiatorial contests shows the need for the second
caveat. He does not consider violent passion to be necessarily bad. To
sometimes feel violent passions is not the same as having the disposition
of delicacy of passion. Delicacy of passion interferes with the well-being of
its possessor and those related to her. It is an extreme tendency to feel
violent passions to a stronger degree and in reaction to a broader range of
occasions than is normal. Always taking the contemplative stance would
arguably be a worse psychological fault than delicacy of passion; it implies
distance from the object of contemplation that, if maintained constantly,
would be incompatible with genuine friendship or love. Hume is not
envisioning such a frosty character; he even claims that delicacy of taste
is more conducive to friendship than delicacy of passion. Someone with
delicate taste loves deeply rather than broadly: “his affections being thus
confined within a narrow circle, no wonder he carries them further, than if
they were more general and undistinguished” (..–).
Though it is sometimes appropriate to take the interested perspective, it
is still the primary perspective from which aggression and cruelty arise. The
dominance of this perspective, Hume argues, is part of what leads to the
high levels of aggression in pre-civilized societies. In the second Enquiry, he
claims that “a rude, untaught savage regulates chiefly his love and hatred
by the ideas of private utility and injury, and has but faint conceptions of a
general rule or system of behaviour” (EPM .n). He thus hates his enemy
in battle forever and is not “satisfied without the most extreme punishment
and vengeance.”
Is there anything we can do if we discover the savage within? Perhaps all
Hume has accomplished is the detail of two irreconcilable dispositions,
which are either the gift or punishment of nature. But he offers delicacy of
taste as a cure for delicacy of passion (..). Though natural gifts help, we
can cultivate taste, and excellent taste requires cultivation.
How might we begin? In “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion,” Hume
summarizes the qualities that good aesthetic judgment requires, but he
specifies these in more detail in “Of the Standard of Taste.” They include
delicacy of sentiment sufficient for sensitivity to hidden beauty, strong


Radcliffe also argues that violent motives can be virtuous; see “Strength of Mind and the Calm and
Violent Passions,” .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
powers of causal reasoning, and the ability to enter into the perspective of
an artist’s intended audience. In addition, one must spend considerable
time getting to know some genre of art, and repeatedly observe a particular
work before judging it. Such cultivation requires extensive and dedicated
study, with no guarantee of success. But success promises significant benefits.
“Our judgment,” he says, “will strengthen by this exercise: We shall form
juster notions of life: Many things, which please or afflict others, will appear
to us too frivolous to engage our attention: And we shall lose by degrees that
sensibility and delicacy of passion, which is so incommodious” (..).
The notion that an unstable character, disposed to emotional extremes,
might be substantially improved by aesthetic training may seem absurd.
I do not think it is. Hume is describing the development of what we
might call an intellectual passion. We readily believe that other passions
have the capacity to transfigure the self; why not this one? In detailing
the ill effects of delicacy of passion, Hume is showing us how miserable it
is to be jerked around by our emotions. If we could feel that misery – if we
might have felt it yet been unable to name its source before – and if we had
some hope that we might overcome it, would we all be too lazy or
despairing to try?
It is true that someone truly barbaric – deaf to civilization’s advantages
and enslaved to her need for excitement – is not going to find the life of
taste attractive. But neither is such a person going to read Hume’s Essays in
the first place. The world is not peopled by characters pure in either
barbarity or civility. To someone with violent passions, Hume’s proposal
has the advantage of promising a life with changed, not absent, passions: “a
cultivated taste for the polite arts . . . improves our sensibility for all the
tender and agreeable passions; at the same time that it renders the mind
incapable of the rougher and more boisterous emotions” (..). The
person with delicacy of taste is not without passion. But her passionate life
differs in both affect and dominant objects from those with delicacy of
passion. It is a life with a stronger promise for steady pleasure, and some


I have argued more extensively for the claim that delicate taste can improve character in “Delicate
Magnanimity.”

As George Eliot observes in Middlemarch, “We are not afraid of telling over and over again how a
man comes to fall in love with a woman and be wedded to her, or else be fatally parted from her. Is
it due to excess of poetry or of stupidity that we are never weary of describing what King James
called a woman’s ‘makdom and her fairnesse,’ never weary of listening to the twanging of the old
Troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested in that other kind of ‘makdom and
fairnesse’ which must be wooed with industrious thought and patient renunciation of small
desires?” (Middlemarch, ).

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 Composing 
degree of freedom from the tyranny of the emotions, even when we find
ourselves living in situations apt to activate the aggressive sides of our nature.

.. Taste as Cure for Anhedonia

Melancholy seems on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum from
aggression, although some forms of these might share a common root. But
the Essays suggest that at least some versions of melancholy, particularly
those that produce an inability to feel pleasure (anhedonia) might also
respond to the therapy of aesthetic experience.
Anhedonia is now considered a symptom of major depressive disorder
but may take less severe forms. Both Hume and Madame de Boufflers
experienced periods of this malady. In a letter to her from July of ,
Hume expresses gratitude for her friendship, which, he says, has saved him
from descent into “a total indifference towards every thing in human life,”
which he “was falling very fast into” and “is perhaps worse than even the
inquietudes of the most unfortunate passion” (Letters :). Two years
later, Madame de Boufflers writes, “I desire nothing and everything bores
me.” Despite maintaining an active, hospitable life, “never have I had more
serenity because never have I had more indifference. I do not know if this is
a symptom of healing or of excess dejection.” As painful as sorrow and
fear can be, they can make people aware of being alive. The deadness and
lack of motivation associated with anhedonia, by contrast, can prove
insufferable. Melancholy tortures with languor and ennui as well as with
sadness, anxiety, and fear.
To show how aesthetic experience could ameliorate these states, I will
turn to Hume’s consideration in “Of Tragedy” of our odd propensity to
enjoy feeling certain kinds of pain. He asks why people seek experiences
that mimic the most painful ones we might witness, satisfied more with
more accurate mimicry of suffering. The essay begins by assuming that
whatever we seek in tragedy is some pleasure, albeit one that seems
“unaccountable,” as it arises out of “sorrow, terror, anxiety, and other
passions, that are in themselves disagreeable and uneasy” (..). The
notion that we seek pain for its own sake deserves no hearing, as it conflicts


See also his remark in a letter a couple of years later: “Age and a natural equability of temper were in
danger of reducing my heart to too great indifference about every thing: it was enlivened by the
charms of your conversations, and the vivacity of your character” (Hume to the Comtesse de
Boufflers, April , in Letters :).

This is my translation of the passage footnoted in Letters :.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
with common experience and with Hume’s account of motivation in the
Treatise. “’Tis obvious,” he says, “that when we have the prospect of pain
and pleasure from any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or
propensity, and are carry’d to avoid or embrace what will give us this
uneasiness or satisfaction” (T ...). These sensations, whether they
arise immediately from our perception of objects or through passions that
confer them on objects, lead to our denominating agreeable objects as
good and disagreeable objects as evil. We then pursue or rejoice in the
good and avoid or feel sorrow over the evil. We may recognize an object as
painful, yet seek it to achieve an overriding good. But we do not see an
object as painful and seek it out for the sake of that pain. If we arrive at
pleasure by way of pain, this requires explanation.
In “Of Tragedy,” Hume uses two French men of letters, Jean-Baptiste
Dubos and Bernard de Fontenelle, as interlocutors – critics who, he says,
“have some tincture of philosophy.” As Hume portrays them, both argue
that tragic performances serve our need to feel, but they disagree about the
nature of that feeling. Dubos argues that we enjoy tragedy because in a
state of “languid, listless . . . indolence,” any feeling will do. “No matter
what the passion is: Let it be disagreeable, afflicting, melancholy, dis-
ordered; it is still better than that insipid languor, which arises from perfect
tranquillity and repose” (..). But all the better if the passions are
high and the opportunities for engagement numerous.
Despite his claim in “Of Refinement in the Arts” that no “gratification,
however sensual, can of itself be esteemed vicious,” in this section Hume
focuses on examples (at least some of which Dubos uses as well) that
suggest a desperate and distasteful search for passion (..). Among the
pursuits that Hume lists as possible “amusements” are executions; we
know his opinion of gladiatorial entertainment. He seizes on a gaming
example, describing spectators surrounding high-rolling players likely to
win big or lose everything. He mentions common liars’ talents for embel-
lishing fables with severe oppressions and magnificent joys. These people
are hardly sages worthy of emulation.


In the Dissertation on the Passions, he backs away from the language of pleasure, instead referring to
“agreeable” and “disagreeable” or “painful” sensations (DP .–).

For a concise presentation of the influence of Hume’s contemporaries and near predecessors on his
aesthetics, see Costelloe, “Hume’s Aesthetics,” –.

For our purposes, it is probably best to think of this Dubos as a character that Hume constructs for
a dialogue. Amyas Merivale argues convincingly that Hume’s treatment of Dubos is so selective as
to significantly distort the subtlety of Dubos’s position (“Enquiry Concerning the Passions,”
–).

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 Composing 
On the other hand, Hume acknowledges both the importance of
occupation and the pain of lassitude and inactivity. Moreover, he believes
that beautiful and fecund things can arise out of ugliness and cruelty.
Consider the combination of his attacks against hallowed origin theories of
the constitution with his respect for the complex systems of law that arose
from bloodshed and ignorance. The same principles of human nature may
produce both the gladiators and Racine; that does not mean that the
products are on a level.
Nonetheless, the darker notes of Hume’s exposition – the disordered
passions, the “absurd secret” of the liar, the executions – suggest a corres-
pondingly darker moral. Hume goes on to say that Dubos’s theory is insuf-
ficient, because “the same object of distress, which pleases in a tragedy, were
it really set before us, would give the most unfeigned uneasiness; though
it be then the most effectual cure to languor and indolence” (..).
Some spectators, on the other hand, might enjoy watching the events
portrayed in tragedy unfold in real life. But the amusements of such people
cannot explain virtuous appreciation of the dramatic arts. The theory
that tragedy’s pleasure comes from stoking such passions is either false or
frightening.
As a corrective, Hume introduces Fontenelle’s proposal that trag-
edy’s fictionality weakens the relevant emotions, transforming pain into
pleasure. As tickling might cause pleasure or pain at varying intensities,
an event might produce painful sorrow in reality but agreeable sorrow
when softened by the idea of falsehood. This account also depends on the
notion that we enjoy being moved as such. Fontenelle seems to envision
vacillation between sympathetic pain while watching the characters suffer
and the comfort of “reflecting, that it is nothing but a fiction” (..).
The resulting admixture is sorrowful enough to be moving but soft enough
to be pleasing, though the relative strength of the sorrow ensures its domi-
nance in both our affect and the external manifestations of feeling. The
audience should not appear consoled at the end of King Lear.


Such enjoyment would be malicious, perhaps caused by comparison, as I discussed in Chapter .
The occasional experience of malice does not make a person vicious, but generally taking delight in
others’ suffering does. Other theories of tragedy countenance such delight in a more amiable guise.
Burke argues that we delight in others’ suffering because it activates sociable pity: “as our Creator
has designed we should be united by a bond of sympathy, he has strengthened that bond by a
proportionable delight; and there most where our sympathy is most wanted, in the distresses of
others” (Philosophical Enquiry into the Sublime and Beautiful, ).

Merivale notes that Dubos also makes this point (“Enquiry Concerning the Passions,” ).

See ...

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
To some extent, this account coheres with Hume’s own principles. In
his discussion of belief’s influence in the Treatise, he also accounts for
tragedy’s pleasure by appealing to the distancing effect of acknowledged
fictions. Poetry can excite any passion, but “the feelings of the passions are
very different when excited by poetical fictions, from what they are when
they arise from belief and reality.” A passion raised by tragedy “feels less
firm and solid: And has no other than the agreeable effect of exciting the
spirits, and rouzing the attention” (T ...). He then claims, in
keeping with his theory of the passions, that the agitation accompanying
a passion need not be proportional to its strength. We may become more
animated watching a fictional epic than reading an accurate historical
account of similar events. Yet the latter experience, which shares the con-
viction of belief as opposed to the flights of fancy, may prove more solid
and forceful.
Like Fontenelle, Hume describes the distancing effects of fiction as
resulting from reflection. The difference in affect between poetical enthusi-
asm and serious conviction “proceeds in some measure from reflection and
general rules.” Knowing that poetic fictions are not real, we “only lend
ourselves, so to speak, to the fiction” (T ...). Our ideas of an event
differ when arising from fiction rather than real occurrences; the corres-
ponding impressions must therefore differ also. But why a fictional idea
should produce an impression of an opposite quality to a similar real idea
remains unexplained. Why should the impression be enjoyment rather
than fainter displeasure?
By the time Hume was composing “Of Tragedy,” he was no longer
satisfied with this account, if he ever was. He objects that we feel the
same pleasure listening to beautiful descriptions of real horrors, where no
falsehood can soften the passion. Cicero’s audiences were delighted by
his speeches, even when they described profound cruelties, although “the
audience were convinced of the reality of every circumstance” (..).
The experience of Cicero’s contemporary audience is essential, since a
proponent of the softened passions theory could object that modern
readers take pleasure in Cicero’s speeches only because the great distance
between them and the historical events he narrates has a softening effect
analogous to that of fictions.


Mossner suggests that Hume probably wrote the text between  and  in between his service
to General St. Clair and his beginning work on the History (“Hume’s Four Dissertations,” ). The
essay was first published as part of Four Dissertations in .

See T ....

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 Composing 
Hume now rejects the notion that unpleasant passions, when softened,
become pleasant. “You may by degrees weaken a real sorrow, till it totally
disappears; yet in none of its gradations will it ever give pleasure; except,
perhaps, by accident, to a man sunk under lethargic indolence, whom it
rouzes from that languid state” (..). He thus retains the idea that
someone desperate to feel anything may derive some pleasure from nega-
tive passions, but this pleasure would not be that offered by the aesthetic
experience. An anhedonic spectator may feel more alive because of the
suffering, and that feeling may be pleasant. But she would be taking plea-
sure not in the play but, on a second-order level, in her experience of the
play. This, in itself, is not aesthetic delight (though a similar feeling could
result from such delight.) A very bad play could produce the same result.
Another problem with Fontenelle’s theory, going beyond Hume’s own
criticism, comes from the appeal to the spectator’s reflection. Reflection
enables distance from the composition. But to the extent that we only
“lend ourselves to the performance,” something else is lost – namely, our
immersion in the performance itself. Arguably, this doubling of experience
would diminish our enjoyment of the art.
Hume implies as much in his second Enquiry discussion of sympathy’s
power in the theater. If the poet be skillful, we weep with characters who
weep and rejoice with those who rejoice. But if she introduces characters
extraneous to the events of the play, our lack of interest in them might
check the “progress of the passions” (EPM .). Likewise, in “Of Simpli-
city and Refinement in Writing,” Hume warns authors against asking so
much of their readers’ imagination that the authors’ wit interferes with the
movement of the readers’ affections. The most excellent performances
conceal rather than emphasize their pretense: “It is the business of poetry
to bring every affection near to us by lively imagery and representation,
and make it look like truth and reality” (EPM .). The better the
performance, the more readers of taste will give themselves, rather than
lend themselves, over to it. It would be odd, then, if distance from reality
were the source of the pleasure.
Finally, Alex Neill points out that the “weakening passions” account
clashes with an aspect of our experience of tragedy that Hume foregrounds
in the essay on tragedy but not in the Treatise. This point also relates to the


See ...

See also T ...– and EHU, p. , where Hume discusses the importance of unity of action
in compositions, “in order to preserve the concern or sympathy entire and undiverted.” (This
passage was removed after the  edition. It originally appeared after ..)

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
audience’s immersion in the performance. The first paragraph of the essay
stresses that our pleasure is proportionate to our affliction, that the
spectators “never are so happy as when they employ tears, sobs, and cries
to give vent to their sorrow” (..). If what the audience wants in its
sympathetic suffering really is this intensity of experience, a theory that
depends on softening that intensity must be inadequate.
What is Hume’s solution? Weakening painful passions never produces
pleasure; pleasure requires a positive contribution. Beauty itself – an
inherently emotional experience – provides that contribution. If a tragedy
portrays its events with sufficient beauty, then the vehemence of our
sympathetic pain with the characters fuels the sentiment of beauty itself.
As a result, “the soul, being, at the same time, rouzed by passion, and
charmed by eloquence, feels on the whole a strong movement, which is
altogether delightful” (..).
Hume had laid the groundwork for this account in the Treatise, in his
discussion of the causes of the violent passions. Two passions that “are
both present in the mind . . . readily mingle and unite . . . The predomin-
ant passion swallows up the inferior, and converts it into itself. The spirits,
when once excited, easily receive a change in their direction; and ’tis
natural to imagine this change will come from the prevailing affection”
(T ...). He then gives examples, many of which also appear in “Of
Tragedy,” including the power of artfully delaying a revelation so that
impatience adds to a passion’s force, and jealousy’s or absence’s encourage-
ment of love. The contrariety of passions can have a similar effect, as the
conflict agitates the spirits. “This new emotion is easily converted into
the predominant passion, and encreases its violence, beyond the pitch it
wou’d have arriv’d at had it met with no opposition” (T ...). Tragic
performances produce such a conflict by raising painful sorrow and pleas-
ant sentiments of beauty. In both these ways, tragedy can transform the
normally calm sentiment of beauty into a violent passion.
Many commentators have criticized Hume’s solution in “Of Tragedy,”
particularly its appeal to an alleged “conversion principle,” whereby the
sorrow the audience feels on behalf of the tragedy’s characters either dis-
appears altogether or becomes a strange pleasure-sorrow or pain-delight.
The first option does not capture any audience’s true experience, and the

  
Neill, “Unaccountable Pleasure,” . See also DP .. See also DP ..

For a summary of this debate with references, see Costelloe, “Hume’s Aesthetics,” –.
Significant treatments of the problem that appeared after Costelloe’s article include Eva Dadlez,
“Humean Approach to the Problem of Disgust and Aesthetic Appreciation,” and Merivale, “Mixed
Feelings, Mixed Metaphors.”

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 Composing 
second runs up against Hume’s own depiction of sorrow as inherently
painful. Both options also make the essay sloppy, since Hume depicts the
audience as grieving along with the characters, and explicitly says that
sorrow will never give pleasure “in any of its gradations.”
Robert Yanal responds that all of these criticisms misrepresent Hume’s
view in “Of Tragedy,” which does not in fact depend on the problematic
conversion principle. Yanal argues that “Hume’s view is . . . that our
experience of tragedy and kindred depictions is made pleasurable overall
through the infusion of pleasure from the aesthetic qualities of the work,”
despite the genuine pain we also feel. The sorrow neither disappears nor
becomes an incoherent pleasure-sorrow, but the gestalt is pleasant because
of the power of the sentiment of beauty.
I think Yanal is on the right track here: charity requires that we not
interpret Hume as committed to a version of the conversion principle that
conflicts with the rest of his theory, and Hume clearly thinks that the
overall experience of tragedy is pleasant. In itself, however, Yanal’s explan-
ation does not quite account for the conversion language that Yanal
himself says Hume “clobbers us over the head with.” Neill provides an
alternative interpretation, which is consistent with Yanal’s general pro-
posal, addresses the problems with the conversion principle, and does
justice to the text of “Of Tragedy.” This interpretation holds that what
is converted is not the sorrowful passions themselves but their emotion or
movement – the agitation that accompanies violent passions. Here we
confront the truth that Hume’s language can be looser than is ideal for
purposes of analysis. Sometimes “emotion” means something roughly
equivalent to current usage, which is roughly equivalent to his general
use of “passion.” It often refers, however, to the motion, sometimes rising
to the level of agitation, that goes along with some passions. Neill argues
that what “Hume has in mind in his talk of affective conversion is . . . the
appropriation by one passion of the emotions or movements produced by
another, a process that strengthens the first passion without extinguishing
or changing the hedonic character of the second.” We can thus make
sense of the physical resonance of Hume’s references to “impulse and
vehemence,” “strong movement,” “a large stock of spirit and vehemence,”
and even “an infusion of new feeling” (..–). The normally calm

 
“Hume and Others on the Paradox of Tragedy,” . “Still Unconverted,” .

Neill does not find Hume’s account of tragedy satisfactory overall, and he disagrees with Yanal’s
account in an earlier exchange. See Neill, “Hume’s ‘Singular Phenomenon’” and “Yanal and Others
on Hume and Tragedy.”

“Unaccountable Pleasure,” .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
sentiments of beauty take on the violence of the painful passions that
tragedy inspires, so that “the soul [is both] rouzed by passion, and charmed
by eloquence” (..). This view would also capture and explain
what is plausible about Fontanelle’s theory. As the subordinate passion
transfers its movement to the dominant sentiment of beauty, the passion
would become less violent. Perhaps this thought is behind Hume’s claim
late in the essay that a passion that would be quite painful if raised by real
events “is so smoothed, and softened, and mollified, when raised by the
finer arts, that it affords the highest entertainment” (..).
Understood in this way, Hume’s account of the appeal of tragic emo-
tions has at least four advantages. First, it does not rely on an occult
transformation at some vague point during the diminishment of the
passion. Second, it preserves the moral integrity of the aesthetic experience:
it does not require that the audience have sadistic or masochistic tenden-
cies. The spectator’s pleasure is in beauty, not suffering. Third, it has a
built-in theory of aesthetic failure. If we do not find the performance
sufficiently beautiful, then we feel no sublimity and come away disgusted,
angry, or even traumatized. The overall pleasure depends on the sentiment
of beauty being the predominant emotion. If the beauty is not strong
enough, or if the horrors are too horrible, then the performance fails.
Worse, instead of the sorrow contributing to beauty’s strength, scant art-
fulness increases the sorrow. Finally, it partially explains the importance
of aesthetic experience. Compositions are important not in spite of their
tendency to promote emotional experiences, but because of that tendency.
In the second Enquiry, Hume writes that “life, without passion, must
be altogether insipid and tiresome” (EPM .). Again, no advice that
recommends only suppressing, ignoring, or warring against the passions


At T ..., Hume does write that the “predominant passion swallows up the inferior, and
converts it into itself.” But as Neill notes, this passage is an outlier (“Unaccountable Pleasure,”
). And it is certainly possible that Hume’s views about this mechanism had become more precise
in between the compositions of the Treatise and “Of Tragedy.” Merivale’s objection to Neill’s claim,
on the grounds that Hume refers to the subordinate or inferior item as a “passion” many times,
misses the mark (“Mixed Feelings, Mixed Metaphors,” n). There is no doubt that the
subordinate item is a passion; the question concerns whether the whole of that passion, or only
its emotion, is converted through the experience of tragedy.

The last clause need not imply that the painful passion is itself entertaining, but only that it provides
the entertainment that we get from the vivified sentiment of beauty.

Cf. Montaigne’s claim about the appeal of tragedy: “Nothing tickles that does not pain” (“Of
Physiognomy,” in Essays, ). Postema notes that Hume’s account of tragedy, unlike other extant
ones, does not depend on a self-centered Lucretian comparison between spectators’ safety and the
characters’ distress (“Cemented with Diseased Qualities,” ).

See ...

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 Composing 
offers realistic hope of widespread, enduring success. Someone in the grip
of violent passions might succeed for a brief time in distancing herself
from these feelings or resisting their influence. But unless she cultivates
habits that fill her hours with happier passions, the cure might prove more
painful than the disease, and relapse is highly likely. For someone with
anhedonic tendencies, aesthetic experience could provide passionate feel-
ings not available in quotidian activities. I am not suggesting that a little
Othello could cure those with clinical conditions that prevent their taking
pleasure in anything. But any reasonable understanding of emotional
illness recognizes that such problems lie on a continuum, and for someone
not as far gone, one could offer plenty of advice worse than “Cultivate an
interest in the finer arts.”
Would “Cultivate an interest in tragic arts” be better advice? Perhaps, in
certain cases. Intensely passionate experiences may be more likely to be
sorrowful than joyful. As Hume says in “Of the Delicacy of Taste and
Passion,” sorrowful experience is simply more common. Moreover, for
someone needing to be “moved and affected,” it is unfortunately often
easier to stimulate pain than pleasure. (And many “easy” ways to get
pleasure cause more harm than good.) Perhaps because sorrowful experi-
ence is so common, the artistic task of arousing pain can be easier than
arousing pleasure. (This does not imply that the tragedian’s job is easier
than the comedian’s; it is one thing to raise emotion, and another to do so
beautifully, with restraint and taste.) Or perhaps sorrowful passions simply
tend to move us more deeply in general. Hume suggests something like
this view in the Treatise, arguing that sympathy operates with peculiar
force in cases of “affliction and sorrow,” since these passions “have always a
stronger and more lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment”
(T ...). One possible reason for this greater influence may be that
affliction interests us in the future concerns of sufferers. In a footnote to
“Of Tragedy,” Hume claims that the poet’s task, unlike the painter’s,
obliges the composer to portray melancholic subjects. The painter only
need capture an instant in time. “But nothing can furnish to the poet a
variety of scenes and incidents and sentiments, except distress, terror, or
anxiety. Compleat joy and satisfaction is attended with security, and leaves
no farther room for action” (..n).
Though tragic compositions may provide passionate experiences more
reliably than others, this general rule does not preclude the consoling


Cf. EHU, p. , where Hume writes that in comedy, “the Movements and Passions are not rais’d
to such a height as in Tragedy.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
effects of other forms of art. If we need elevation of spirit, then a beautiful
symphony in a major key may serve very well. In the second Enquiry,
Hume suggests that portrayals of admirable passions – both sublime ones
like magnanimity and tender ones like friendship – are peculiarly charming
in poetry, pleasing us “from more than one cause or principle” (EPM
.). These passions are inherently pleasing in addition to the pleasure
that arises from eloquence, and various forms of composition can express
them. No single genre has proprietary rights to the virtuous passions.
It is essential, however, that Hume holds that the dominant component
of experiencing a successful aesthetic performance is none of these pas-
sions, but the peculiar pleasure associated with beauty. This sentiment of
beauty is typically calm, but when other emotions accompany it, it can
become violent. The violence of aesthetic delight could draw spectators
back to the theater, and these revivals may cultivate a disposition to appre-
ciate beauty in other contexts as well. In short, an experience of initially
violent passions may begin the development of a propensity to experience
passions that are typically calm – a propensity that, just because it is a habit
rather than an isolated experience, includes strong passions. Herein lies
the hope for those afflicted with melancholy passions. Repeatedly seeking
aesthetic experiences should help train the taste, bringing the advantages of
delicacy of taste that we have already discussed but also enriching life with
a wellspring of strong, pleasant, even life-giving passions.

.. Publicity of Art as Strengthener of Passions

Here I want to return to the thought that virtuous character requires
emotions that are warm, narrowing the distance between persons. The
perspective of taste provides reason not to fear the violent emotions that
art can sometimes induce. Aesthetic experience teaches us to take up the
critical perspective that is less reactive to injuries from others, less likely
to encourage aggression and revenge. But there is also reason to believe
that aesthetic experience positively encourages warm emotions. Aesthetic
sentiments are quintessentially shared emotions. They thus encourage
awareness of our common humanity. Moreover, Hume’s view that social
reinforcement strengthens calm emotions suggests that these warm emo-
tions can develop into calm yet strong habits.
It is of course possible to have an aesthetic experience alone. But many
things about such experiences depend on and foster sociality. And in one
sense art is always a public endeavor, even if the artist or spectator is not
aware of this publicity in a particular case. To begin with the easiest cases,

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 Composing 
many genres of art include public performances, such as theater and
live music. Here, there is an obvious connection between artist and
audience, but Hume recognizes a significant connection between the
members of the audience also. Because sympathy can operate through
physical means as well as verbal communication, spectators’ emotions
reinforce one another. We respond to the “natural symptoms” of sorrow
and mourning, so that “tears and cries and groans never fail to infuse
compassion and uneasiness” (EPM .). In the theater, the size of the
crowd multiplies the effect. The “very aspect” of the audience disposes a
new member to share in its feelings and increases her susceptibility to the
emotions expressed in the performance (EPM .). The appearance of
so many spectators elevates the emotions of the performers. And if the
performance is good, the audience may “weep, tremble,” and otherwise
mirror the emotions of those within the drama (EPM .).
We get the sense of a vibration between the performer and the audience,
and among the audience members themselves, producing a resonance
of emotion that gathers force in the echo. The communal nature of the
experience thus vivifies whatever emotions the performance inspires, but
an effective performance can also promote a sense of connection with
one’s fellow spectators. I remember the first time I saw a Shakespeare film
adaptation with an audience who could appreciate it. It was a small art
theater, and the film was Kenneth Branagh’s farcical Much Ado about
Nothing. The audience laughed together in all the right places and were
on the edges of their seats as Hero suffers from the unjust accusation made
against her. This was an entirely different experience from enduring a poor
production in which the audience barely follows the plot, and I left the
theater with a euphoric, friendly feeling toward all of my fellow spectators.
But the communality of artistic pleasure is by no means limited to
public performances. From many points of view, there are reasons to see
art as a public endeavor. If we view it as a linguistic act of communication,
we may recognize with Wittgenstein that languages themselves are public.
If we believe that its function is to challenge and transcend contemporary
mores, we envision it as directed to a populace tempted by complacency.


Language is only one way in which we transmit the ideas of emotions so that they then can become
impressions for others. In his initial explanation of sympathy’s operation, Hume notes the
importance of facial expressions in conveying the requisite ideas. “A chearful countenance,” he
says, “infuses a sensible complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one
throws a sudden damp upon me” (T ...). The “external signs in the countenance” are often
our first indication that the other person is experiencing an emotion, and therefore our first source
of the idea of that emotion (T ...).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
If we see it as an attempt to express aspects of life common to the human
condition, then we need the judgment of the public to verify that the artist
has captured a true commonality. And one might argue with some
plausibility that a composition created with no intention to hand it over
to others, in however limited a circle, can only be mere amusement and
not art at all. A full consideration of these arguments would require a
work apart, but there are two pieces of evidence that Hume himself
conceived of art as public. The first has to do with his repeated claims
that, over time, the public’s judgment of a composition cannot be mis-
taken. The second concerns his claim that compositions must be judged
from the perspective of their intended audiences.
Hume’s strongest statement of the first claim is in “Of Eloquence.”
Although an inexperienced public may applaud inferior oratory, more
excellent speakers will always win over audiences who have the opportun-
ity to hear them. “The principles of every passion, and of every sentiment,
is in every man; and when touched properly, they rise to life, and warm the
heart, and convey that satisfaction, by which a work of genius is distin-
guished from the adulterate beauties of a capricious wit and fancy.” He
even expresses suspicion of “more refined judges” of oratory, since its pur-
pose is to appeal to the common public. In this case, reasonable people “must
submit to the public verdict, without reserve or limitation” (..).
Must the critic of other kinds of compositions be subservient to the
public? The answer is no, but not because Hume abandons the principle
that the public is a reliable judge of artistic greatness. In “Of the Standard
of Taste,” he does complicate that principle by admitting that individual
people may often be bad judges. Still, the “rules of composition” are
nothing “but general observations, concerning what has been universally
found to please in all countries and ages” (..). Proper judgment of
finer compositions requires a confluence of favorable external conditions,
natural delicacy, and extensive training. Yet the ultimate basis of such
judgment resides in the sentimental responses of our common human
nature. Hume still insists that if elements of a composition “are found to
please, they cannot be faults; let the pleasure, which they produce, be ever
so unexpected and unaccountable” (..).
Even excellent critics, however, may miss elements of a work or allow
themselves to be inappropriately swayed by prejudice on a particular
occasion. Some commentators have emphasized the idealism of Hume’s


I am indebted in this section to Collingwood’s The Principles of Art, especially chapter , “The
Artist and the Community.”

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 Composing 
depiction of true aesthetic judges. Costelloe’s interpretation has it, for
instance, that Hume’s “true judge is ideal, a personification of general
rules and a model which, if followed, would always lead to the correct
judgment.” Conceiving of the true judge in this way makes sense of
Hume’s references to the standard of taste as both a rule and the joint
verdict of good critics. But understanding the true judge to be an ideal
does not mean that judges will never fail. On the contrary, it suggests that
they often will, as an ideal sets a standard that our efforts may approach
only asymptotically. Even those who strive to live up to the ideal will
have bad days or miss important features; therefore, they need corrobor-
ation and sometimes correction from others similarly well qualified. In
“Of Simplicity and Refinement in Writing,” Hume claims that orators,
philosophers, and critics all lose by being “never blamed or censured”
(..).
The standard for judging art must therefore be public, either because
the public has the final word or because even the best judges rely on
conversation with their fellows. But does this need for a public standard
imply that art itself is essentially public? Perhaps it only suggests that art
criticism must be public. Great artists might never choose to subject their
work to such criticism in the first place.
I suspect that Hume would consider a purely solipsistic artist no artist at
all. He believes that the artist’s task is to produce something beautiful. To
remove all reference to the public from this task, we must presume that the
artist conceives of herself as producing the work either for herself alone or
for no one at all – perhaps for the sake of art itself. Insisting on “art for art’s
sake,” she conceives of the work as of strictly intrinsic value – not only
because it is not fungible in the marketplace but because its value does not
depend on its relation to other things, including people. The artist may
think of her work in this way, but such thinking rests on a mistake,
according to Hume. The art’s beauty consists in its being appreciated by
human observers, since there is no beauty in the object itself, but only in
the sentimental response that it engenders in human minds. So whether


Aesthetics and Morals in the Philosophy of David Hume, .

See ibid., –. This brief summary does not do justice to the subtle complexity of Costelloe’s
interpretation. He makes it clear that his ideal judge is not an ideal observer, construed as someone
with suprahuman sympathies or omniscience (). Moreover, the rules in question are not
propositions that anyone could follow in abstraction from the practice of criticism; they are more
like rules of excellent prose than instructions for assembling Ikea furniture. They are rules that
require knowing-how, which “cannot be separated from the activity in which they are
instantiated” ().

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
she is aware of it or not, the work’s value must come from its relation to
at least one person.
How, then, does she know the work to be beautiful? Suppose she
possesses the requisite delicacy and good sense of a competent judge.
While these characteristics may reside within a single person, one cannot
conceive of the other requirements for good judgment in this way. Hume
says that delicate sentiment must be “improved by practice, perfected
by comparison, and cleared of all prejudice” (..). Some of the
practice consists of looking at only the single work of art to be judged,
coming to know it better under different lights, literal or metaphorical.
But it also requires studying numerous instances of the same genre, both
to acquire experience in discerning their relevant particulars and to recog-
nize gradations between more and less excellent instances. Such practice
requires immersing oneself in an artistic community’s work, if only for a
limited time.
Freedom from prejudice, moreover, requires overcoming a narrow first-
person perspective. It does not require breathing the rarefied air of the view
from nowhere, but instead demands expansive sympathy with a work’s
intended audience. Imagine judging Greek tragedy with no understand-
ing that Athenians conceived of the gods as personifications of natural
forces. From this perspective, could we appreciate the profound realism of
these narratives? To imagine one’s life destroyed by a vindictive Aphrodite
is, for us, fantasy. But to imagine overpowering lust having the same effect
requires only sympathy and some experience of the world. These two
different imaginative exercises go with two radically different genres. We
cannot judge tragedy well as long as we are seeing it as fantasy – meaning as
long as we are failing to take up the intended audience’s perspective.
In short, the artist conserving her art for herself alone cannot know that
what she has produced is beautiful, without sympathizing with the judg-
ment of others. This is not to say that she could not experience the kind
of sentiments that produce judgments of beauty in looking at her work.
Such sentiments arise naturally in human beings, according to Hume, and
feeling them does not require cultivation. Nor does Hume insist that all
good critics possess the same sentiments on the way to or after passing
judgment on a work of art. As James Shelley argues, Hume leaves room for
true judges to differ in their preferences (though not in their judgments or
verdicts), because of the difference between “merely feeling and judging by
feeling.” Our feelings are indications of the excellence of art, and they are
 
See ... “Hume and the Joint Verdict of True Judges,” .

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 Composing 
responsible for the great pleasure that we take in art. But a judgment that
art is beautiful requires freeing oneself from prejudice, including the
predilections that come from our upbringing, age, or temperaments.
I may prefer Beethoven to Mozart, but I err if I take that preference by
itself to indicate that Beethoven is a superior artist to Mozart. It “belongs
to [beauty’s] essence,” Shelley contends, “that it is only from the general
point of view that we grasp it, and . . . it belongs to the essence of this point
of view that others – certain others – can occupy it.” It follows that if
“you care about beauty,” then “you have no choice but to care about what
others – certain others – find beautiful.” As long as we refuse to seek
confirmation of our feeling in a standard of taste, our feeling does not rise
to the level of a normative judgment. Whatever seems right to the artist
about her work is going to be right. “And that only means that here we
can’t talk about ‘right.’”
To see an experience as private in principle is to remove it from the
realm of aesthetic experience. It is to place it in the category of taste as
mere preference, about which it makes sense to say de gustibus non est
disputandum. To prohibit dispute about something, however, is to dimin-
ish its importance in real conversation and therefore in common life. So it
is natural, Hume writes, “to seek a Standard of Taste; a rule, by which the
various sentiments of men may be reconciled; at least, a decision, afforded,
confirming one sentiment, and condemning another” (..).
Aesthetic experiences, then, fortify connections between people in at
least two overlapping ways. First, by enjoying art with other people, we
establish a community of emotions, where each person undergoes a deeper
experience because it is seconded by others. The shared experience can
give rise to emotions that are warm. In the theater, the warmth may
be moderate – something akin to the “goodwill” that Aristotle says can
exist between people who have never met. In private settings, it can rein-
force and regenerate emotions of friendship and love. Suppose I drag my
husband into the room just to listen to Plácido Domingo sing a single
note, because I think it is the most beautiful sound ever produced by the


True Humean judges, Shelley emphasizes, do not expect a precise ranking of works of art or artists.
Instead, they agree on the general merits while acknowledging that “human sentiment is too
various . . . to establish boundaries sharp enough” to provide such a ranking (ibid., ). See also
Shelley, “Hume and the Nature of Taste,” ; and Ted Cohen, “Partial Enchantments of the
Quixote Story in Hume’s Essay on Taste,” –.

“Hume and the Joint Verdict of True Judges,” .

Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
human voice. He does not have to agree with me, but if he appreciates
what I hear, we will feel closer afterward.
Second, suppose he does not agree. Then we enter the realm of critical
discussion. Here, the endeavor to understand requires us to see ourselves as
engaged in a common project – to hear through each other’s ears, as it
were, and to sympathize with one another, with Domingo himself, and
with the many people whose joint efforts made possible the production
of that note. The conversation could devolve into snarky, self-serving
argumentation, producing cold rather than warm emotions. But this can
happen only if we lose sight of the critical aim, which includes shared and
communal goods.
Finally, because producing, enjoying, and judging art are communal
practices, they provide social support for the emotions that we feel while
engaging in them. And social support, Hume argues, can strengthen calm
emotions. Because we naturally seek a standard in art, as we do in morals,
aesthetic discourse drives us to find others who share our emotions and
even to adapt our sentiments in response to others’. In the second Enquiry,
to explain the influence of the moral sentiments, he writes that “as the
benevolent concern for others is diffused, in a greater or less degree, over
all men, and is the same in all, it occurs more frequently in discourse, is
cherished by society and conversation, and the blame and approbation,
consequent on it, are thereby rouzed from that lethargy, into which they
are probably lulled in solitary and uncultivated nature.” These “social and
public principles” therefore triumph over other emotions, which were
“perhaps originally stronger,” but “selfish and private” (EPM .). Theat-
rical experience can make emotions more violent and therefore increase
their strength. But social reinforcement can provide a calmer source of
strength as well, akin to the effects of habit.
The need for a common standard in aesthetics is not as pressing as it is
in morals, and again, Hume allows for differences in temperament and
conventional manners to cause corresponding differences in preferences.
Within the house of aesthetic achievement, there is room for comedy,
satire, romance, tragedy, cerebral reflection, and fervid display – and room
for those who might admit the virtues of other styles but keep returning to
the one that speaks most intimately to themselves. Our need for a standard
of taste does not override the other needs that art serves as well.
Yet the search for an aesthetic standard remains and inclines us to not
just passively receive compositions but to discuss them with others, to
rejoice when we find someone whose taste corresponds to our own, and to
feel some ire when others fail to see what we see. But if we fail to reach

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 Composing 
agreement, we need not construe our conversation partner as dangerous or
vicious, and we might still come away with warm feelings toward her.
Hume believes that emotions that are shared become stronger in the
sharing, even if they are calm. This effect reveals vulnerabilities of the
human condition: we need others to support our joys as well as commiser-
ate with our sorrows. Our propensity to echo emotions also has a dark side.
We may sometimes need, as Spinoza says, that “singular power of mind”
that enables one “to restrain oneself from imitating” certain affects.
McIntyre notes this problem but argues that Hume has resources for a
response in his view that we sympathize more with those whom we
esteem. If we are good aesthetic judges, these are the people whose
conversation and correction we will seek. And if we have delicacy of taste,
we will be better at picking them out of a crowd. In this light, Hume’s
claim in “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion” that one who “has well
digested his knowledge both of books and men, has little enjoyment but in
the company of a few select companions” sounds less like snobbish elitism
and more like wise self-protection (..).
Aesthetic experience can improve the emotions in numerous ways. Its
enlivening of calm emotions can encourage habits of innocent, pleasurable
emotions. The natural propensity to judge art and seek a standard of
approval for it prolongs the experience of calm emotions as we reflect
on and reimagine the sentiments of beauty (thus, to some degree, experi-
encing them again) and promotes conversation about those emotions.
Such conversations require our conceiving of ourselves as engaged with
common projects with others. These projects depend on and fortify the
cultivation of warm emotions, and the social support of such discourse
provides further support for the calm emotions. Finally, the habits of taste
promote reflective tranquility, because they require careful study and fine-
grained reasoning and transfer our concerns from the violent vicissitudes of
life to more stable and inexpensive goods.
I have distinguished two emotional failures – melancholy and an over-
abundance of aggressive emotions. The power of aesthetic experience
lies in its ability to ameliorate both these conditions. Neither the casual
reading of a poem nor intermittent trips to the theater will effect an
emotional sea-change, but the deliberate pursuit, study, and appreciation
of objects of taste just might. Aesthetic experience encourages calm emo-
tions or benign violent ones and transforms icy emotions into warm ones.

 
A Spinoza Reader, . “Strength of Mind,” .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
The habits associated with such emotions would benefit the imprudent,
the angry, and the depressive.
Readers may mistake Hume’s remark in the second Enquiry that “life,
without passion, must be altogether insipid and tiresome” for a celebration
of Dionysian pursuits. But Hume’s point is both more limited and more
profound. No moral advice that recommends only suppressing, ignoring,
or warring against the emotions offers realistic hope of enduring success.
Unless we cultivate habits that fill our hours with happier emotions,
the cure might prove more painful than the disease. We need habits of
calm, warm emotions to cure emotional defects. If so, then art’s ability to
promote such habits places it among the significant sources of human
good. Eloquence’s ability to raise the emotions, thus, makes it an import-
ant and significant source of such good, even though it can be misused.
Standard interpretations attribute to Plato the view that the poets’ ability
to arouse emotion makes their work dangerous, and to Aristotle the claim
that poetry is good because it purges us of emotion. Without embracing
Dionysius, Hume escapes this extreme Apollonianism. Art is important
because of, not despite, its tendency to promote emotional experiences –
the only experience out of which warm, calm habits can evolve.

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  

Self-Loving

Those with delicacy of taste, Hume contends, confine their friendship to a

narrow circle of select companions, who are most dear. But what of our
relationship to the dear self? Hume’s reflections on this relationship prove
quite complex: he recognizes various forms of what might be called self-
love, with correspondingly various effects. Some of those forms are virtu-
ous, and Hume even considers some egoisms to be benign. Others prove
more damaging, threatening efforts for personal and interpersonal pro-
gress. With the ancients, Hume proposes that we can counter these effects
by recognizing that the best self-lovers are also the best friends.

. Egoisms, Benign, and Malignant

It is rare to find a philosopher accused of egoism who deserves the label, or
at least the condemnation that accompanies it. Hobbes, Locke, Spinoza,
Nietzsche, and Hume himself have borne the accusation, yet all of them
celebrate the goods of friendship and acknowledge the possibility of love
of others. They also condemn the grasping, vicious behavior we associate
with “selfishness.” Nonetheless, many intelligent readers interpret them
as egoists.


I use this term for the sake of concision somewhat reluctantly, given its anachronism. As far as
I know, Hume never uses it, and it does not seem to have had its current meaning during his
lifetime. The OED’s first citation of the use of “egoism” to mean the “theory which regards self-
interest as the foundation of morality” or “systematic selfishness” comes from  (Oxford English
Dictionary Online, s.v. “egoism,” accessed November , , www.oed.com). (This citation refers
to the “new word Egoism” in French; Hume might have been familiar with the French usage.
A definition of “égoïsme” that includes this sense appears in the  edition of Le Dictionnaire de
L’Academie Française (from Dictionnaires d’autrefois, accessed October , , http://artflsrv
.uchicago.edu).)

See, for example, Stephen Darwall’s casual attribution of egoism to Hume, on the basis of Hume’s
hedonistic theory of action (British Moralists and the Internal “Ought,” ).



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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Hume’s predecessors and contemporaries often expressed fear that ego-
ism was gaining ground and taking more malignant forms. Shaftesbury
accuses “Modern Projectors” of trying to “new-frame the human Heart;
and . . . reduce all its Motions, Balances and Weights, to that one Principle
and Foundation of a cool and deliberate Selfishness.” Epicurus’ warning
against attachments that distract from the pursuit of self-interest is a sign of
his “fatherly Love of mankind.” But the Hobbesian self-lover is cunning,
selfish, and angry. Hutcheson emphasizes more the ancient origins but
also diagnoses an insidious modern resurgence. “Whatever Confusion the
Schoolmen introduced into Philosophy, some of their keenest Adversaries”
do worse by “making the most generous, kind and disinterested of [our
desires and affections], to proceed from Self-Love, by some subtle Trains of
Reasoning, to which honest Hearts are often wholly Strangers.” Joseph
Butler, like Hume, argues for moderation in disputes between old and
new, but supposes that “it may be spoken of as very much the distinction
of the present to profess a contracted spirit, and greater regards to self-
interest, than appears to have been done formerly.”
Hume, on the other hand, foregrounds the perennial nature of egoistic
hypotheses. In the second Enquiry, he refers to Epicurus, Atticus, Horace,
Hobbes, and Locke as proponents of the “selfish system of morals” (EPM
App .). In “Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature,” he says that
the dispute between those who elevate and those who demean humanity
“seems to have divided philosophers and poets, as well as divines, from the
beginning of the world to this day” (..). (He later identifies ascribing
selfish motives to all as the most serious way to demean humanity.) But
Hume refrains from mentioning some infamous alleged egoists, who are
witty, known for their cynicism, and very modern. I have in mind the early
Bernard Mandeville and François de La Rochefoucauld.
How are these enfants terribles relevant to discussions that they are not
mentioned in? I suspect they are lurking offstage, representing a position
that Hume finds more insidious than the anatomistic Hobbes or the

   
Characteristicks, Vol. I, . Ibid., . Essay, . Fifteen Sermons, .

Mikko Tolonen’s helpful study of the relation between Mandeville and Hume gives a sustained
argument against seeing the later Mandeville as a proponent of the “selfish theory.” Tolonen
argues that Mandeville’s later works exhibit a clear break with the Hobbism of the original Fable.
Tolonen acknowledges that Hume distances himself from the early Mandeville (Mandeville and
Hume, –). In what follows, I am only discussing the original Fable. Jennifer Welchman also
emphasizes the commonalities between Hume and Mandeville in “Who Rebutted Bernard
Mandeville?” See especially –.

For a discussion of “Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature” that assumes Mandeville to be
Hume’s interlocutor, see Andrea Branchi, “Vanity, Virtue and the Duel,” –.

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 Self-Loving 
paternalistic Epicurus. Hume associates the latter thinkers with the second
form of egoism that he identifies in the Enquiry. This egoism reduces care
of others to self-love but does not ascribe conscious awareness of the
underlying passion to people in general. We believe ourselves to be acting
for disinterested motives but are really pursuing the satisfaction of our own
desires “even unknown to ourselves,” “whatever affection one may feel, or
imagine he feels for others” (EPM App .).
After presenting this view, Hume quickly defends the character of its
proponents. Epicurus, Atticus, and Horace possessed and cultivated “gen-
erous and friendly dispositions.” Hobbes and Locke get the chillier but still
complimentary notice of having “lived irreproachable lives” (EPM App
.). The moral innocence of this egoism is not surprising from Hume’s
perspective, since he considers this “selfish system” to be impotent in
practice. Even if all friendship and virtue were reducible to self-love, that
self-love would take various directions – a variance wide enough to
accommodate all our language distinguishing virtue from vice. “I esteem
the man, whose self-love, by whatever means, is so directed as to give him a
concern for others, and render him serviceable to society: As I hate or
despise him, who has no regard to any thing beyond his own gratifications
and enjoyments.” The egoist’s insistence that these two characters are
the same at bottom cannot counteract our different experiences of inter-
actions with each, nor our tendency to approve of the first and disapprove
of the second. “I find not in this,” Hume concludes, “more than in other
subjects, that the natural sentiments, arising from the general appearances
of things, are easily destroyed by subtile reflections concerning the minute
origin of these appearances” (EPM App .).
Yet Hume concludes the appendix by asking “what a malignant phil-
osophy it must be, that will not allow, to humanity and friendship, the
same privileges, which are undisputably granted to the darker passions
of enmity and resentment?” (EPM App .). How can an inert idea be
malignant? He gives us a clue by claiming that this philosophy “may be
a good foundation for paradoxical wit and raillery, but is a very bad one
for any serious argument or reasoning.” He describes another form of
egoism at the beginning of the appendix, which holds that benevolence,
friendship, public spirit, and fidelity are all “fair disguises” that we wear
“to put others off their guard, and expose them the more to our wiles
and machinations.” In a single paragraph dense with ad hominem insinu-
ations, Hume dismisses this ascription of conscious, malevolent motives to
everyone. Such claims “can proceed from nothing but the most depraved
disposition”; it is easy to imagine what “heart one must be possessed of who

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
professes such principles” – viz., a “corrupted” one; the most complimen-
tary possibility is that its proponents are “superficial reasoners” engaging in
“the most careless and precipitate examination.” This view is pernicious:
“as it can proceed from nothing but the most depraved disposition, so in its
turn it tends still further to encourage that depravity” (EPM App .).
Though we cannot know which specific thinkers, if any, Hume had in
mind, the possibilities I am suggesting – La Rochefoucauld and Mande-
ville – were influential at the time and familiar to him. La Rochefoucauld
was among the moralistes of the ancien régime, a group of thinkers who
influenced Mandeville. Both are difficult to interpret, in part because their
literary styles resist straightforward reading. But though these styles inspire
caution in scholars, they appeal to common readers in ways that academic
treatises never will. La Rochefoucauld’s most famous work is in the form
of maxims; for these to endure, they must express ideas that speak to the
experience of their readers without sounding trite or commonplace. In
Two French Moralists, Odette de Mourgues reflects on the advantages and
disadvantages of the maxim for psychological investigation. The maxim’s
“brevity was attractive, the more so as it was a difficulty”; it “presupposed
nimbleness in the use of words, even wit.” On the other hand, it also had
a history of expressing “heavy moralising” or “practical advice in keeping
with a worldly wisdom which left no room for discovery.” The form in
some ways fit rigidity of thought better than La Rochefoucauld’s trenchant
but delicate insight. To overcome this problem required masterful rhet-
orical technique, relentless care in choosing words, and rigorous revision.
His unique success in this project produced, in de Mourgues’s judgment,
“a triumph of art.” She calls Maxim  “perfect communication, reality
forced on our consciousness and acknowledged by us . . . with a shock
of illumination.” (Maxim  reads, “Le soleil ni la mort ne se peuvent
regarder fixement.” [Neither the sun nor death can be looked at steadily.])
In others, the Maximes have inspired less admiring responses. After
perusing the collection, Madame de La Fayette (who became La Roche-
foucauld’s closest friend) wrote to Madam de Sablé: “We have read here
the Maxims of M. de La Rochefoucauld: Ah Madame! what corruption
one must have in mind and in heart, to be capable of imagining all that!”
De La Fayette’s language anticipates Hume’s own ascription of a “cor-
rupted heart” to proponents of the noxious “selfish system”; her reaction

  
See Odette de Mourgues, Two French Moralists, . Ibid., . Ibid.
 
Ibid., . Maxims, .

In Edouard Fournier, Variétés historiques et littéraires, “Lettres à Mme de Sablé,” accessed October
, , http://fr.wikisource.org.

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 Self-Loving 
anticipates that of the next few centuries. In his Introduction to the
Literature of Europe in the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries
(), Henry Hallam observes that few “books have been more highly
extolled or more severely blamed than the Thoughts or Maxims of the
Duke of Rochefoucauld.” The aphorisms are “without pedantry, without
method, without deductive reasonings, yet wearing an appearance at least
of profundity, they delight the intelligent though indolent man of the
world, and must be read with some admiration by the philosopher.”
Revulsion and admiration, popular success and elite appeal: some found
La Rochefoucauld’s unmasking of hypocrisy refreshing, some accused him
of blurring the lines between virtue and vice, and some even found in his
work an Augustinian portrayal of human nature without divine grace.
Voltaire comments on his influence:
One of the works that contributed the most to form the taste of the nation,
and give it a spirit of justness and precision, was the little collection of the
Maxims of François duc de La Rochefoucauld . . . This little collection was
read eagerly; he was accustomed to think and to enclose his thoughts in a
lively, precise, and delicate turn. This was a merit that no one had had
before him in Europe, since the rebirth of letters.
The vivacious, piquant style of the Maxims gave them an influence over
the popular mind that has lasted centuries. By contrast, Mandeville has
been relatively neglected, but he was not in the eighteenth century, though
much of the attention was negative. The germ of The Fable of the Bees is
the brief, often hilarious poem “The Grumbling Hive.” Before getting over
the insults he hurls at one set of people, readers find themselves laughing at
those given to another. Lawyers may be displeased to find themselves
described as:
The Lawyers, of whose Art the Basis
Was raising Feuds and splitting Cases.
but then tickled a couple of stanzas later:
Among the many Priests of Jove,
Hir’d to draw Blessings from Above,
Some few were Learn’d and Eloquent,
But thousands Hot and Ignorant.

 
Introduction to the Literature of Europe, –. See, e.g., Anthony Levi’s French Moralists.

My translation. Le Siècle de Louis XIV, chapter .

For an investigative study of Mandeville’s attempts to defend himself against attack, and their
relation to the Fable’s publication history, see Tolonen, Mandeville and Hume, –.
 
Mandeville, Fable of the Bees, . Ibid., .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
“The Grumbling Hive” is a small fraction of the Fable. In Mandeville’s
many additions, he uses numerous literary genres and rhetorical tech-
niques, including paradox, dialogue, fable, medical anatomy language,
and even the methods of the “emblem-book.” These techniques vivify
already striking ideas and engage readers. In his dissertation on Mande-
ville’s early works, Anthony Patrick Francis McKee shows how the para-
doxes that confront the reader from the subtitle onward (“Private Vices,
Publick Benefits”) demand active reflection. Hume’s psychology of the
passions recognizes the pleasure that paradox generates with its surprising
nature (T ...). In his introduction to the Fable, F. B. Kaye reflects on
the enduring power of Mandeville’s style, which he describes as “the most
idiomatic and homely vigour . . . combined with sophisticated control of
rhythm and tone – a style at once colloquial and rhetorical, retaining all
the easy flow of familiar speech and yet with a constant oratorical note, and
never failing to make even the most abstruse analysis so concrete as to
strike beyond the intellect to the sympathies.” As with the Maxims, the
many attacks on the Fable and its author speak to the work’s power.
Those, like Mandeville and La Rochefoucauld, whose rhetorical prowess
gives them a hook into readers’ minds may be the proponents of the
“malignant philosophies” Hume mentions in the Enquiry. Neither Hobbes
nor Locke provides such a hook; even patient readers find their prose
exhausting. Hume notes in the History that Hobbes is “much neglected”
by contemporary readers. All “reputations, founded on reasoning and
philosophy” are precarious relative to the more durable fame granted to
a “pleasant comedy, which paints the manners of the age, and exposes a
faithful picture of nature” (H :).

. Self-Love, Pride, and Vanity

La Rochefoucauld tells us, “Self-interest speaks all manner of tongues and
plays all manner of roles, even that of the disinterested.” His style attracts
a broader reading public, but is this attraction enough to overcome the
“natural sentiments” that Hume claims will withstand reflections about

 
McKee, Anatomy of Power, –. McKee, Anatomy of Power, –.

Mandeville, Fable of the Bees, xxxviii.

Hume also attributes to Hobbes “Clearness and propriety of style,” but Hume is not under the
illusion that this propriety will appeal to the masses of any age. Though Hobbes’s ethics are
“fitted . . . to encourage licentiousness,” Hume seems to think Hobbes’s style to have neutered
the bulk of the threat.

Maxims, .

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 Self-Loving 
the “minute origin” of our motives and allow people to continue distin-
guishing virtue from vice? I doubt it, and I doubt that Hume’s concern in
speaking of “malignant philosophy” is that we might lose our capacity
to make moral judgments. It is instead that the dim view of humanity
advanced by these more rhetorical egoisms will deflate our capacity to live
up to our moral ideals.
Hume discusses “selfish systems” at length in “Of the Dignity or Mean-
ness of Human Nature.” The essay’s frame is intellectual factionalism:
there are “certain sects, which secretly form themselves in the learned
world, as well as factions in the political” (..). The debate over
human nature’s stature is the “most remarkable” form of this factionalism.
Its partisans are extreme: admirers see humanity as a little lower than the
gods; detractors class us beneath the beasts. Hume first locates the dis-
agreement’s source in different stylistic talents: “If an author possess the
talent of rhetoric and declamation, he commonly takes part with the
[admirers]: If his turn lie towards irony and ridicule, he naturally throws
himself into the other extreme” (..).
But by what standard might we decide whether humans are great or
wretched? Are we high or low compared with what? If compared with
other animals, humanity emerges victorious. Unlike other animals, our
thoughts roam beyond our experienced space, and beyond the present to
learn from the past and wonder about the future. We can (though we often
do not) reason carefully about cause and effect, infer laws from individual
instances, and profit from our mistakes through reflection. Compared with
human possibility, animal nature appears imprisoned in whatever capaci-
ties environment and instinct provide.
Our expansive thoughts, however, make us vulnerable to detraction.
Imagining “beings of the most perfect wisdom,” we can see ourselves as
miserably and forever falling short (..). Hume dismisses this com-
parison as unreasonable; complaining that we are not gods is akin to
complaining that slugs are not humans.
Another error arises from forgetting that superlatives are in fact superla-
tive. We pick as our standard people whose uncommon wisdom or virtue
surprises us and then complain that others lack the same degree of wisdom
and virtue.


The essay appeared in the first collection, Essays, Moral and Political, in , but its title was only
“Of the Dignity of Human Nature” until the  edition of Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects.

See also EPM .n.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
The only comparison that Hume finds worth considering in detail is
that among our varying motives: “Were our selfish and vicious principles
so much predominant above our social and virtuous, as is asserted by some
philosophers, we ought undoubtedly to entertain a contemptible notion of
human nature” (..). This standard is not the same as the previous
one, which compares one person with others. Condemning human nature
based on the inability to find many exemplars of excellence is an elemen-
tary reasoning error. Those who are excellent, by definition, excel others in
the quality being judged. But an independent evaluation of human qual-
ities underlies the complaint about our selfishness. Although he does not
explain the basis of that evaluation here, we can infer that it is our moral
response to qualities. Our having this response does not essentially depend
on a certain number of people having the quality in question.
In contrast to the Enquiry’s lengthy and subtle critique of oversimplified
hedonism, the essay dismisses it in a couple of sentences: “The virtuous
sentiment or passion produces the pleasure, and does not arise from it.
I feel a pleasure in doing good to my friend, because I love him; but do not
love him for the sake of that pleasure” (..–). Hume spends more
time discussing the selfish system’s suspicion of vanity. He acknowledges
that virtuous people “are far from being indifferent to praise” but denies
that this susceptibility warrants reassessing them as vicious. Unlike avarice
or revenge, which we suspect of polluting any virtuous act they contribute
to, vanity is “closely allied to virtue.” Our “taste or disposition” determines
the objects of our vanity, inflecting the passion with widely different
characters. The object of Nero’s vanity was his chariot-driving, but the
object of Trajan’s vanity was “governing the empire with justice and
ability. To love the glory of virtuous deeds is a sure proof of the love of
virtue” (..).


Despite Hume’s reference to the “selfish and vicious” and “social and virtuous,” he does not equate
self-interested motives with vice, or altruistic motives with virtue. His catalog of the virtues includes
traits that we approve of only because they benefit their possessor, and those that are immediately
agreeable to others though their possessors do not exhibit them in order to please others.

Contingent factors may make such numbers important, but this effect actually would reduce our
expectations of virtue along with the number of people who possessed it. For instance, our approval
of justice requires that a critical mass of people follow the rules of justice. Were a virtuous man to
find himself in a society of lawless “ruffians,” with no regard to equity, order, or even prudential care
for their own future interests, then his only recourse, Hume says, would be “to arm himself, to
whomever the sword he seizes, or the buckler, may belong” (EPM .). Something analogous is true
for all of the artificial virtues, whose usefulness stems from social convention. And reasonable
expectations, founded on experience and observation, circumscribe even the natural virtues’
standards.

See EPM App .–.

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 Self-Loving 
This argument reiterates the claim that discovering ulterior motives
behind virtuous behavior cannot erase moral distinctions. If vanity lies
behind all pursuits, then the morally significant question is: what does a
person desire to be admired for? Some objects of vanity are low, but not all
are. Hume thus introduces a distinction that discussions of egoism often
neglect. In the second Enquiry, he notes that our language includes no
clear term for the pleasure of reflecting on our own character and finding it
virtuous. “Pride” seems most promising, but it has undeserved pejorative
connotations. French fails here too: “amour propre” can refer to “self-love
as well as vanity,” giving rise to “a great confusion in ,
and many of their moral writers” (EPM App .n). Hume resorts to
using three terms – self-love, vanity, and pride. What are the differences
between them, and how does each relate to the possibility of genuine
friendship and love?
The Treatise insists that “self-love” is, strictly speaking, a misnomer: love,
unlike pride, takes another person as object. Hume also identifies a phe-
nomenological difference between love and self-love, because “the sensation
[self-love] produces” has nothing “in common with that tender emotion,
which is excited by a friend or mistress” (T ...). In A Dissertation on the
Passions, he defines love as “complacency in another, on account of his
accomplishments or services” (DP ., emphasis added). But he eventually
acquiesces in using “self-love,” especially in the second Enquiry.
Hume is surely right about one aspect of the phenomenology: love
of self does not feel the same as love of others. We can more easily imag-
ine a violent (in Hume’s sense) love of others than love of self. (Again,
greater violence does not imply greater strength.) George Eliot provides an
example of violent self-love in Daniel Deronda’s heroine, Gwendolen
Harleth. As she considers her reflection, she finds herself kissing the
“cold glass which had looked so warm.” Few of us experience this kiss-
the-mirror passion, but Hume claims that all people have self-love. In the
introduction to The Natural History of Religion, he distinguishes religious
sentiments from dispositions in human nature that spring “from an origi-
nal instinct or primary impression of nature.” The latter “instincts” have
“been found absolutely universal in all nations and ages” (NHR Intro.).


See also EPM ., where Hume includes vanity in a list of “passions vulgarly, though improperly,
comprized under the denomination of self-love.”

Mikko Tolonen emphasizes that Hume and Mandeville both distinguish self-love from “self-liking”
(or pride) and argues that the distinction aimed to “discourage debate as to whether humans are
selfish or other-regarding by nature” (Mandeville and Hume, ).

Daniel Deronda, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
He includes self-love in the list of such instincts. Moreover, though
loving another person often involves pain, or even periods of indifference,
love originates in and standardly produces pleasure. We take pleasure in
seeing our beloved, thinking about her, and feeling the love itself. But we
love ourselves even before we can reflect on our own characters, and even if
such reflection engenders more pain than pleasure.
Humean self-love is not complacency in ourselves; pride comes closer to
that description. But then what is self-love? What is its affective quality,
and what object does it pursue? Hume does not give us a definition, but
his uses of the term refer to pursuing and caring for one’s private interest.
To this extent, Humean self-love corresponds to Butler’s understanding
of it as “a regard to our own interest, happiness, and private good.” It
therefore corresponds not to love of others but to benevolence. (Humean
benevolence is “a desire of the happiness of the person belov’d, and an
aversion to his misery” [T ...].)
The closest Hume comes to providing a definition of self-love is in the
second Enquiry. He refers to “self-love, or a regard to private interest” and
observes that because self-love is powerful and because individual and
community interest are bound together, we can understand why some
philosophers imagine that “all our concern for the public might be resolved
into a concern for our own happiness and preservation” (EPM .). He
also notes that vicious passions can conflict with self-love: “selfish and social
sentiments or dispositions . . . are really no more opposite than selfish and
ambitious, selfish and revengeful, selfish and vain” (EPM .). We can
contravene self-love by pursuing objects that might be called “selfish,” such
as revenge. Although self-love generates desires for our own satisfaction,
the contrariety between self-love and ambition, vengefulness, and vanity
implies that self-love is not the desire to have all of our other desires satis-
fied. Self-love pursues one’s genuine welfare, and particular desires may
frustrate that goal.
In the Treatise’s terms, then, “self-love” is to self what benevolence is to
others. Self-love seeks the self’s interest, as benevolence seeks another’s


See also EHU .n.

Hume recognizes that love of one’s children shares this characteristic of self-love; it too is among the
natural instincts. See T ..., NHR Intro., DP .n, and EPM ..

Butler, Fifteen Sermons, .

See also EPM .’s reference to “self-love, or a concern for our own individual happiness.”

Hume believes that passions like vengefulness can be truly disinterested, in the sense that the
vengeful person desires the object of revenge, not merely the satisfaction that results from that
revenge. Someone can thus be vengeful even if she recognizes that it is contrary to her own best
interest. See EPM App ..

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 Self-Loving 
well-being. Likewise, it seems that pride is complacency in self as love is
complacency in others. But there is an important difference. Love of
another is always “follow’d by, or rather conjoin’d with benevolence”
(T ...). This conjunction, however, “chiefly distinguishes” love from
pride. Pride is among the “pure emotions in the soul,” not necessarily
producing desire or motivating action. It is easy to overlook this difference
in light of the close analogy between pride and love. Christine Swanton
proposes that it “is plausible to think that for Hume [pride and self-love]
are connected, as are benevolence and love, as part of the ‘internal frame
of our constitution.’” Given Hume’s taking pains to distinguish pride
from love in precisely this respect – its not generating any desire as love
generates benevolence – this hypothesis is not plausible as a reading of
Hume. The misreading obscures something important about his under-
standing of self-love. Our desire for our own well-being does not require
the support of pride. According to Hume, we do not feel benevolence
in the presence of love’s opposite, hatred. Yet self-love can withstand
pride’s opposite, humility, although humility will distort its operations.
I will discuss these distortions in the next section.
Pride also differs from self-love in affect. Self-love not only lacks the
“tender” quality of love of others; it does not necessarily have any one
affective quality. In a letter to Hutcheson, Hume denies that self-love is
necessarily calm; it may “become impetuous & disturb’d, especially where
any great Pain or Pleasure approaches” (January , in Letters :). Its
universality suggests a widely varying phenomenology. Socrates’ self-love
does not feel like Alcibiades’; my self-love in the morning may not feel the
same in the evening. As a background propensity generating more particu-
lar desires, it may often feel like nothing at all. Humean pride, in contrast,
is by definition pleasant. The sensation that pride “excite[s] in the soul”
constitutes its “very being and essence” (T ...). Its object is the self,


See DP .: “it is essential to pride to turn our view on ourselves with complacency and
satisfaction.”

He argues that this conjunction is an original propensity of human nature for which there can be no
further explanation (T ...). See also DP ..

Virtue Ethics of Hume and Nietzsche, .

That desire, of course, may often miss its mark because of our own misapprehensions, when we fail
to recognize our true self-interest.

Hume claims that hatred, contrary to love, “produces a desire of the misery and an aversion to the
happiness of the person hated” (T ...).

Even if self-love is pleasant, it remains phenomenologically distinct from pride, according to Hume.
For a defense of the qualitative distinctness of Humean pleasures, see Gill, “Moral Phenomenology
in Hutcheson and Hume,” –. Gill criticizes aspects of Hume’s phenomenology in this paper.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
and it arises when we notice that we possess some quality that produces
an independent pleasure.
Finally, how is vanity distinct from pride? Hume uses “vanity” and
“vain” in multiple senses, sometimes as synonymous with pride. In his
Treatise discussion of pride’s causes, he skates between references to what
produces pride and what gratifies vanity. He also says that the power of
producing pleasure or uneasiness is “the very essence of true and false wit;
and consequently the cause of that pride or humility, which arises from
them” (T ...). The corresponding sentence in the Dissertation on the
Passions concludes that this power is “the cause of that vanity or mortifica-
tion, which arises from one or the other” (DP .).
Sometimes, “vanity” denotes a vice, as in the Enquiry’s reference to that
“, which is so justly regarded as a fault or imperfection” (EPM
.). In such places, vanity often refers to ostentatious conceit, particu-
larly about frivolous things.
In yet another usage, “vanity” connotes a positive feeling about oneself
that specifically originates from or requires the support of others’ good
opinion. Hume indicates in the Treatise that this sense of “vanity” is
distinct from but closely related to pride. People who “are satisfy’d with
their own character, or genius, or fortune” want to show “themselves to the
world” and acquire “the love and approbation of mankind” (T ...).
The causes of this vanity are “the very same qualities and circumstances”
that cause “pride, or self-esteem.”
Hume’s remarks at the end of “Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human
Nature,” which associate vanity with love of fame for virtue, employ this
last sense of the term. Vanity thus makes us vulnerable because of its
dependence on others’ opinion. But we are naturally prone to it, and it is
difficult to lose it without losing much of value as well. Hume includes
the “secondary” influence of the opinion of others as a final cause of
pride, without which the other causes “have little influence” (T ...).
Although we may correct this need by attending to the opinions of
others whose approbation is worth having, its roots in our sympathetic
tendency to adopt others’ sentiments and beliefs ensure that we cannot
escape it entirely. Nor should we want to. Breaking this tie is possible
only through perversion – or worse, extirpation – of sympathy itself, a


See T ...–.

See Jacqueline Taylor, Reflecting Subjects, section ., “Sympathetic Mirroring and the Sustaining of
the Passions,” –.

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 Self-Loving 
phenomenon Hume describes in his discussion of tyrants, inveterate
factionalists, and those gripped by superstition or enthusiasm.

. Close Allies to Virtue

Given all these ways of being concerned with ourselves – self-love, pride,
vanity – is there any space left in Hume’s psychology for loving others? In
fact, Hume holds that all three of these open that space in different ways.
Hume does say that self-love, “when it acts at its liberty, instead of
engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all injustice and violence”
(T ...). But this conflict is between self-love and public justice, not
self-love and love of particular others. The same conflict with justice arises
from love of particular others, which produces the same “opposition of
passions, and a consequent opposition of actions” as narrow self-interest
(T ...).
Hume recognizes that many people see their well-being as requiring the
well-being of their family and friends – and even their own active contri-
bution to the latter. Philosophically, he believes that we desire others’ good
for their own sake and not out of concern for ourselves. But practically,
the point has little relevance. These two motivating principles are not in
tension with one another. Nothing is more natural than loving one’s
children or, Hume thinks, a sexual partner. These tendencies persist not
in spite of self-love, but in harmony with it.
Pride is more delicate, because taking pleasure in our own qualities can
hurt relationships with others. It is difficult to love someone who expresses
her high opinion of herself, because of the dual effects of sympathy and
comparison. Sympathy ensures that we cannot entirely avoid adopting
her self-valuation, and as “no comparison is more obvious than that with
ourselves,” we inevitably compare her qualities with ours (T ...).
Suppose reflection seconds her self-appraisal: we believe in her excellent
qualities and, moreover, believe them superior to our own. We then
respect her, but it will be more difficult to love her. As Hume notes in
“Of the Middle Station of Life,” friendship prefers equality. Friends need
not be equal in every respect, but a preponderance of superiorities on one
side upsets the relationship’s balance.


Cf. Butler’s claim that “there is no peculiar contrariety between self-love and benevolence; no
greater competition between these, than between any other particular affections and self-love”
(Fifteen Sermons, ).
 
See ... See EWU ..

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Suppose, on the other hand, that we do not endorse a conceited person’s
self-valuation. Though we will not sympathize enough with his judgment
to produce a positive sentiment about his character, we will sympathize
enough to experience unpleasant cognitive dissonance. In his company,
“the firm perswasion he has of his own merit, takes hold of the imagin-
ation, and diminishes us in our own eyes” (T ...). We are unlikely to
love someone whose presence continuously occasions such unpleasant
feelings.
In the Enquiry, Hume identifies another displeasure such characters
produce. The vice of vanity, which “seems to consist chiefly in such an
intemperate display of our advantages, honours, and accomplishments”
and “an importunate and open demand of praise and admiration,” again
pains our own self-conceit. But it also raises our suspicions. Why “that
impatient desire of applause; as if you were not justly entitled to it, and
might not reasonably expect, that it would for ever attend you?” (EPM
.). The display is “a sure symptom of the want of true dignity and
elevation of mind.” It seems that we dislike people who make a show of
pride, because we suspect that it evinces a lack of pride. Our sentiments
about this passion are complicated.
I suspect that Hume is on to something here. Even if we are sure of
our superiority, anxious self-praise is obnoxious. By including this obser-
vation in his discussion of qualities immediately agreeable or disagreeable
to others, he signals that there is little to say about why this bothers us.
Maybe we feel that these people – outwardly arrogant but inwardly
insecure – are asking for reassurance that we cannot honestly provide.
Maybe we find their self-praise boring. But Hume’s thought is that we just
do not enjoy observing pusillanimity. We love people in spite of smallness
of soul, not because of it.
What we prefer, Hume claims, is that people have a fair degree of pride,
expressed by reticence rather than speech (EPM .). To remain quiet
about something is not the same as hiding that thing. Jacqueline Taylor
notes that Hume thinks that pride reveals itself in behavior, even though,
as a “pure emotion,” it need not be joined with motivating desire. The
“character” of the passion includes ways of seeing oneself that result in


Cf. EPM . on the “want of spirit and dignity of character, or a proper sense of what is due to
one’s self.” In footnote  to this paragraph, Hume writes, “Where we expect a beauty, the
disappointment gives an uneasy sensation, and produces a real deformity. An abjectness of
character, likewise, is disgustful and contemptible in another view. Where a man has no sense of
value in himself, we are not likely to have any higher esteem of him.”

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 Self-Loving 
physical manifestations. Some of these manifestations are ways of carry-
ing one’s body, akin to the posture of swans, peacocks, and turkeys (!)
that allow us to ascribe pride to nonhuman animals also (T ...).
The secure stride of pride has little in common with the shifting gait of
humility. Other manifestations reflect a certain quality that pride gives
to everything else that we do. It produces a feeling of elation and “invigor-
ates and exalts the mind” (T ..., ...). Taylor notes that these
effects mean that “sustained pride is particularly important for our sense of
agency,” as it “gives us the confidence to plan and carry out our projects, or
to stand by our convictions and not submit to tyranny or oppression.”
Pride is therefore a valuable quality in a friend: it is pleasant to behold
(when properly obscured), and a proud person is more capable of exerting
herself in the shared activities and good offices of mature friendship.
Humility (as opposed to modesty) might be charming at first; it is easy
to fall in love with a self-effacing character. Such a person does not threaten
our own sense of self-worth, and she brings out protective instincts. We
might enjoy encouraging such people and offering them the praise they
never offer themselves.
But if our encouragement and praise prove ineffective – if our humble
friends remain prone to dejected states of mind, how long will our pleasure
in their company endure? Once such a friendship has formed, the friend’s
self-disparagement is an attack on someone we love. That the attacker is
also the person we love mitigates but does not withdraw the offense. Of
course, the friend’s good qualities, or merely habit, may ensure that our
love endures despite this unpleasantness, but unpleasant it remains.
Furthermore, it may be unwise to trust someone prone to mortifying
humility as we need to trust our friends. We need friends to share
important endeavors and stand up for us when we are vulnerable. Such
activities require the proud spirit’s energy and courage. A disposition to
one positive passion becomes a wellspring of other positive and motivating
passions: “our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itself into
love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other resembling affections”
(T ...). This list reads like a catalog of the temperamental passions
needed in a good friend.


Reflecting Subjects, –.

Reflecting Subjects, –. Cf. Postema’s argument that pride “gathers together that which one most
admires and regards as worthy, not at a distance or impersonally, but as a proper focus of one’s
concern and energy – as that around which the various aspects of our lives have and can be seen to
have personal meaning” (“Cemented with Diseased Qualities,” ).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
In suggesting proper pride to be requisite for, rather than opposed to,
friendship, Hume sounds an ancient theme. Aristotle seems to associ-
ate virtuous friendship with magnanimity, which includes being aware
of one’s excellence as well as being willing to demand the honor that is
its proper reward. But despite this apparent concern with reputation,
the megalopsychos is an ideal of extreme self-sufficiency – an inability, as
Alasdair MacIntyre puts it, “to give due recognition to affliction and
dependence.” This self-sufficiency extends to the support of pride itself.
The great-souled man has “complete contempt” for honors from the
average person and “is not disposed even toward honor as though it were
a very great thing.” As a matter of justice, he requires that others see him
as great, and he is not so self-sufficient that he does not need friends. But
his deigning to care what his equals make of him seems a concession to
humanity that this other-worldly creature would rather not have to make.
Hume, on the other hand, recognizes that no one achieves a well-
grounded opinion of her own merit without evidence of others’ approval.
To want the respect and admiration of those whom one respects and
admires is both natural and reasonable. This is why vanity is “closely allied
to virtue”: proper pride is itself a virtue and supports the operation of
other virtues, and vanity supports proper pride. Again, the “love of fame”
is a secondary cause of pride, almost always needed to support the other
causes, including “virtue, beauty and riches” (T ...). Virtue remains
on the list: contra Aristotle, even virtuous people need others’ approval to
assure themselves of their virtue.
One side of Hume appreciates the Aristotelian model of self-sufficient
pride. He associates overdependence on others’ applause with weak-
mindedness: those with little cause for self-approval become obsessed
with comparative judgments and surround themselves with idiots to
ensure that the contest comes out right. “A man of sense and merit,” he
says, “is pleas’d with himself, independent of all foreign considerations:
But a fool must always find some person, that is more foolish, in order to


Several characteristics of Aristotle’s virtuous friends cohere with his depiction of the magnanimous
man. For instance, he describes both as assigning great things to themselves. See Nicomachean
Ethics, b– and a–.
 
Dependent Rational Animals, . Nicomachean Ethics, a– and –, .

Philip Reed argues that vanity supports virtue by strengthening the usually weak moral sentiments
(“Alliance of Virtue and Vanity in Hume’s Moral Theory”). Reed places more emphasis on the
moral sentiments as motives to virtuous action, and their combat with self-interested passions, than
I do. Because Humean virtues (especially natural virtues) typically produce action through motives
with no explicit reference to morality, Reed’s proposed alliance between virtue and vanity is not, by
my lights, very robust. Nonetheless, Humean vanity could support virtue in this way in some cases.

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 Self-Loving 
keep himself in good humour with his own parts and understanding”
(T ...). But another side of Hume recognizes that independent, wise
self-assurance is not so easy. We see this side in “Of Impudence and
Modesty” – a withdrawn essay that considers the odd relationship between
impudence, modesty, and virtue. In this case, the vice (impudence) can be
both more profitable and more difficult to obtain than the virtue. These
traits violate the usual pattern, as virtues tend to benefit those who have
them, and vices are maddeningly easy to encourage.
The aberration comes from the way that impudent and modest people
relate to other people’s reactions. Impudent people get ahead by fooling
most of the people most of the time. “Such indolence and incapacity is
there in the generality of mankind, that they are apt to receive a man for
whatever he has a mind to put himself off for; and admit his overbearing
airs as proofs of that merit which he assumes to himself” (EWU .).
Because the modest conceal their excellence, others fail to notice it and
pass them over.
Modest people might attempt to rectify this injustice by pretending to
feel confidence. But those same observers who are so gullible in interacting
with impudent people can smell fake confidence a mile away. Whereas
an impudent person might laugh at being caught acting a part, a modest
person will feel abashed, thus making repeat performances more diffi-
cult: “the remembrance of that failure will make him blush, and will
infallibly disconcert him: After which every blush is a cause for new
blushes” (EWU .).
Modest people are not going to win this game; their best hope is to stop
playing. If they are lucky, accidents of fortune might bolster their self-
confidence. Acquiring wealth might help: “Riches naturally gain a man a
favourable reception in the world, and give merit a double lustre, when
a person is endowed with it” (EWU .). Humean wealth, Taylor has
argued, is power, and felt power may be synonymous with confidence.
But properly directed and corrected vanity might help also. Because “good
sense and experience make [people of merit] diffident of their judgment,”
they look to others’ judgments to assess their own merit. If they choose
these judges wisely and are lucky enough to have some discerning fellows
who offer a positive assessment, they will find the support that their
fragile pride needs. Hume’s wry observation remains in force: “Nothing
carries a man through the world like a true genuine natural impudence”


Reflecting Subjects, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
(EWU .). But modest people would benefit from a cultivated pride’s
enlivening effects.
Hume’s various, sometimes paradoxical, remarks about pride, self-
esteem, conceit, and vanity reflect the frustrating, paradoxical ways that
we experience these attributes in ourselves and others. We have contempt
for servility but disgust for conceit. Pride feels wonderful, but the more we
deserve it, the more difficult it may be to obtain. We lament humility in
those we love but demand that those who love us endure our own self-
abasement. We should be suspicious of any philosopher who proposes a
finite set of abstract norms for relating to these passions and their associ-
ated tendencies.
Hume’s primary justification for concealing pride acknowledges its
value: we must not express a high opinion of ourselves, lest we humiliate
others. This prohibition extends only to the expression, not the feeling, of
pride (EPM .). Pride is both important and vulnerable. Hume writes
that people “have, in general, a much greater propensity to over-value than
under-value themselves” (EPM .). But a trait can be natural and
common yet still vulnerable. Postema notes that, unlike Mandeville, for
whom “a sense of self – indeed, an inordinate sense of one’s value – is the
presupposed source of pride,” Hume sees pride and humility as giving “the
self its determinate shape.” Likewise, Hume explains pride as arising
from more fundamental social principles of human nature. These differ-
ences with Mandeville shift pride from a given aspect of human nature, to
be shaped and manipulated in useful or pernicious ways, to a common
attribute that can nevertheless be lost under adverse conditions. The
commonality of a tendency to overvalue oneself increases the chances
that pride will be vulnerable, by increasing the odds that people’s self-
assessment will be challenged by comparison. I have clear self-knowledge
about my lack of athletic talent, so I am never mortified to find that
someone can run faster, lift more, or aim more accurately than myself.
I take no pleasure in these weaknesses, but comparing myself with others
does not exacerbate my humiliation. But if I suffered from the delusion


Hume contrasts his view with Aristotle’s, presumably thinking of Aristotle’s claim in the
Nicomachean Ethics that “smallness of soul is more opposed to greatness of soul than vanity is,
for it both occurs more often and is worse” (a–, ). Although Hume disagrees with the
claim that smallness of soul or humility is more common than unwarranted pride, he seems to agree
with Aristotle that the former is worse. See T ...: “’Tis requisite on all occasions to know our
own force; and were it allowable to err on either side, ’twou’d be more advantageous to over-rate our
merit, than to form ideas of it, below its just standard.”

“Cemented with Diseased Qualities,” .

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 Self-Loving 
that I were a fast runner, I would suffer new pain every time I went out for
a run and got lapped by an elderly man walking his dog.
Because lack of pride stultifies capacity for action, this vulnerability
constitutes a significant problem. With his positive assessment of certain
kinds of vanity, Hume suggests that in the problem we may find a solu-
tion. We judge our worth, at least in part, through perceiving how others
feel about us. We therefore have a motive to please others by cultivating
traits that they love or esteem. With some luck and discernment in judging
whose opinion we care about, that vanity can improve our character and
capacity for loving relationships. It makes sense to aim, then, for vanity
that consists in loving “the fame of laudable actions.”
I argued that Hume is not concerned about egoism’s effects as a
psychological theory but worries about the rhetorically powerful writings
of thinkers like Mandeville and La Rochefoucauld. But it was unclear why,
given Hume’s view of egoism’s practical irrelevance, even this rhetorical
power would be dangerous. We can now see the problem. Such satire does
not increase our propensity to self-love or nullify our ability to make moral
distinctions. It does, however, threaten our pride, and thus discourages us
from living up to a brighter view of human nature. Hume says at the
beginning of “Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature”: “When a
man is prepossessed with a high notion of his rank or character in the
creation, he will naturally endeavour to act up to it, and will scorn to do a
base or vicious action, which might sink him below that figure which he
makes in his own imagination” (..). To scorn humanity’s capacity
for genuine love and friendship withholds from that capacity this import-
ant nourishment.

. Beyond Egoisms

To see how different versions of Hume’s selfish systems might raise or sink
our image of ourselves, let us look a little more closely at Epicurus in
comparison with La Rochefoucauld and Mandeville. Some of Epicurus’
statements suggest an instrumental view of friendship, though complicated
by a sense of its inherent value: “All friendship is desirable in itself, though
it starts from the need of help.” But he portrays his hedonism as com-
patible with the highest human possibilities. “For the virtues,” he says,


For an argument that Hume manifests this positive sense of vanity himself in “My Own Life,” see
Aaron Garrett, “Hume’s Own Life,” .

Vatican Collection, The Extant Remains, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
“are by nature bound up with the pleasant life, and the pleasant life is
inseparable from them.” These possibilities include perfect sympathy
with friends: wise people find their friends’ torture just as painful as being
tortured themselves and will even die for their friends. On friendship’s
value and importance, he is most eloquent, calling it an “immortal” good:
“Friendship goes dancing round the world proclaiming to us all to awake
to the praises of a happy life.” Far from proclaiming humanity incapable
of “social and virtuous” principles or dominated by “selfish and vicious”
ones, Epicurus’ overriding message is that human nature is most in har-
mony with itself when it discovers its pleasures in love and companionship.
It may be that Epicurus’ devotion to the ideal of friendship outstrips his
own moral psychology. Julia Annas argues that Epicurus’ position requires
a two-level view: I pursue my friend’s good for its own sake in the context
of individual actions of the friendship, while recognizing on another level
that I pursue friendships as part of the grand end of my own pleasure. But
this kind of view, Annas argues, both seems to contradict some of Epi-
curus’ explicit statements and would regardless require a problematic moral
schizophrenia. If Annas is correct, reflective Epicureans would indeed
struggle to maintain their theory or to live in accordance with it. None-
theless, this theoretical tension is not going to infect the populace with a
generally dim view of human nature, even if all members of the conversible
world were reading Epicurus. While elevating the pursuit of pleasure,
Epicurus insists that virtue and friendship offer most excellent pleasures,
so that “nothing is presented on any side, but what is laudable and good”
(T ...). This selfish system, even if it deserves the name, will prove as
inert as Hobbesian analysis, though for quite different reasons.
Compare Epicurus’ tone to La Rochefoucauld’s: “All the passions make
us make mistakes, but love [l’amour] makes us make the most ridiculous
ones.” At times La Rochefoucauld seems to agree with Hume on vanity’s
positive effects: “The desire to merit the praises that we are given fortifies
our virtue.” But La Rochefoucauld suspects that such support rarely
produces genuine virtue, because of self-love’s sovereignty: “Virtues lose


“Letter to Menoeceus,” The Extant Remains, .

Vatican Collection, The Extant Remains, . Some translations include the claim that the wise
man will die for a friend in the fragment about shared torture. For Diogenes Laertius’ ascription of
this view to Epicurus, see “Life of Epicurus,” The Extant Remains, .

Ibid. Hume’s Epicurean is likewise eloquent in speaking of friendship. See ...
 
The Morality of Happiness, –. Maxims, –.

Maxims, . See also : “He is truly an honorable man who wants to be always exposed to the sight
of honorable people.”

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 Self-Loving 
themselves in self-interest, as rivers lose themselves in the sea.” Most
apparent virtues are false: sincerity is usually “only a subtle dissimulation in
order to win the trust of others”; the love of justice “only the fear of
suffering injustice”; fidelity “a means of elevating ourselves above others,
and of making ourselves trustees of the most important things”; and pity
“a sentiment of our own ills in the ills of others.” Friendship receives
particular abuse, as “only a reciprocal management of interests, and only
an exchange of good offices; it is, finally, only a relation in which self-love
always presents itself with something to gain.”
The Maxims portray society as a web of deceit and manipulation, where
everyone puts on a mask of virtue for the gratification of vanity and the
rewards of apparent virtue. Few people are capable of true virtue, and self-
deception aggravates their weakness by immunizing them from correction.
The Maxims do not encourage pride; they mortify it.
I am not suggesting that Hume thought the Maxims were worthless –
still less that they actually are so. They are brilliant, incisive, and funny as
hell. La Rochefoucauld deserves his place alongside Pascal and Montaigne
as French moralists who thought that human nature could benefit from
deflation. A judicious reader might take La Rochefoucauld’s advice, which
is to read the Maxims as if they applied to everyone else (in order to judge
their merit fairly, away from the angry whisperings of pride). She could
then reorient her vision to see how they might apply to herself, deriving
insight about self-deception, diffidence about expressing self-esteem, and
even amusement about the absurdity of ubiquitous posturing. All of these
would be happy effects, from Hume’s perspective.
What may benefit an individual, however, can still harm most people.
Common readers may derive from the Maxims despair over the possibility
of genuine virtue, love, and friendship. The Maxims could serve as excuses
for vicious cynicism: since society is a Hobbesian war of all against all,
necessity justifies rapacious coercion and manipulation. Hume’s remarks
in “Of the Dignity and Meanness of Human Nature” suggest that such
reactions to mean views of human nature would be quite damaging.
Satirical psychology may be bad public policy.

    
Ibid., . Ibid., . Ibid., . Ibid., . Ibid., .

Ibid., . See also : “Most friends leave one disgusted with friendship, and most devout people
leave one disgusted with devotion”; and : “However rare true love may be, it is still less rare than
true friendship.”

Hume was particularly fond of Maxim , which he quotes in the Treatise, the Dissertation on the
Passions, and in a May  letter to Adam Smith (T ...; DP .; Letters :).

See the “Note to the Reader,” Maxims, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Mandeville acknowledges that his work humiliates people: “every one
looks upon [the Fable] as an Affront done to himself, because it detracts
from the Dignity, and lessens the fine Notions he had conceiv’d of
Mankind, the most Worshipful Company he belongs to.” There might
be some consolation in Mandeville’s notion that humanity’s frailties, when
well manipulated by civil society, produce more good than attempts to
deny our impulses. But this notion can console only our desires for goods,
not our pride. And nothing guarantees that social pressures will lead to
more good than evil overall. He notes that respectable women are more
likely to murder their illegitimate children than “Common Whores, whom
all the World knows to be such,” since the latter’s self-love has inured itself
to shame. Mandeville’s language is less careful and more harsh than La
Rochefoucauld’s. He avoids neither generalizations nor demeaning lan-
guage, and while claiming to recommend virtue, he represents it as diffi-
cult, unpleasant, and generally unattainable:
Ashamed of the many Frailties they feel within, all Men endeavour to hide
themselves, their Ugly Nakedness, from each other, and wrapping up the
true Motives of their Hearts in the Specious Cloke of Sociableness, and
their Concern for the publick Good, they are in hopes of concealing their
filthy Appetites and the Deformity of their Desires; while they are conscious
within of the Fondness for their darling Lusts, and their Incapacity, bare-
fac’d, to tread the arduous, rugged path of virtue.
Ugliness, filthy appetites, deformed desires – this is a mean view of
human nature, to be sure. Although Hume points out human weakness
and occasionally makes fun of it, he never insults his readers like this. He is
aware of human frailty and sometimes loses his patience with it. He is also
aware that average people may be obnoxious or even repulsive. And he
repeatedly acknowledges the ubiquity of self-love and other partialities, as
well as their complex and problematic effects on communal living.
Hume does not believe, however, that demeaning human nature as such
is a promising strategy for overcoming these problems. Although pride
and humility are in one sense opposites for Hume, humiliation does not
cure pride, if by “cure” we mean a remedy that increases virtue. If we are
seeking revenge – wanting only to mortify the person whose pride has
mortified us – then inducing humility through criticism may work very
well. But since humility enervates and encourages a conception of oneself

  
Fable of the Bees, –. Ibid., –. Ibid., –.

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 Self-Loving 
as incapable of the good and the great, such criticism is unlikely to reform
a character in the direction of positive action.
A more effective remedy for selfish tendencies begins by recognizing,
as Hume does, the significance of variations in pride or vanity. Someone
who takes pride in her ability to deceive all comers has little in common
with someone who takes pride in her ability to listen closely and to con-
structively comfort those in need. Even less striking differences in pride’s
objects can constitute great differences in character: consider the differ-
ence between someone whose primary source of pride is her children’s
accomplishments and someone whose artistic productions play that role.
Virtuous people, Hume argues, are not those without pride. They are
those who take pride in virtue itself and its objects.
On pride, Hume thus sees beyond Aristotle, La Rochefoucauld, and
Mandeville. Against the modern thinkers who ridicule the pride they see
everywhere, Hume rehabilitates pride in virtue’s service. His view shares
something with Aristotle’s insistence that the best self-lovers make the best
friends. Hume transfers moral assessment from the question of whether or
not one has self-love or vanity to questions about which objects satisfy
one’s self-love or vanity. Likewise, Aristotle claims that the important
questions concern which goods a self-lover assigns to himself. The best
self-lover “does many things for the sake of both his friends and his
fatherland, and even dies for them if need be: he will give up money,
honors, and, in general, the goods that are fought over, thereby securing
for himself what is noble.” The wise want such people for their friends,
and even the unwise probably would not object to such generosity.
Similarly, Hume argues that people whose gratification requires a reputa-
tion for honor, benevolence, and humanity can possess a stable form of
pride and make excellent friends. He doubts that we make people better
for others by making them feel worse about themselves.
But even if we have been fortunate enough to learn to take pride in
our virtue, Hume recognizes that this pride requires ongoing support
from our fellows. Vanity, in a strict sense, is the desire for this support.


Modern suspicion of pride is, of course, related to its being considered the most capital of the capital
vices by some Christian thinkers. It is easy to oversimplify the relation between pride and
Christianity, however. Condemnation of hubris had deep roots in pre-Christian thought, and
anyone who thinks Christian thinkers to be united in a sweeping condemnation of pride should
read Aquinas’s treatment of magnanimity. These complexities do not vitiate the claim that Hume
himself saw his theory of pride as undermining Christian moralizing, which Stephen Buckle argues
for in “Hume on the Passions.” I doubt that Hume spent much time reading Aquinas.

Nicomachean Ethics, a–, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Unlike Aristotle, Hume’s conceptions of self-love and proper pride are
not bound up with unrealistic illusions of manly self-sufficiency. As Taylor
has argued, the development of Humean pride requires an education
in a social context. The objects people in different cultures take pride
in therefore vary. Some of this variance is insignificant: does it matter if
Pittsburghers take pride in their sports teams, whereas Austinians take
pride in their weirdness? Some variance, however, is both significant and
subject to moral luck: it does matter that some of my relatives taught me to
take pride in my “Southern heritage”; it also matters that some of my
teachers and other relatives countered this message.
It follows from Hume’s account of pride that someone reared under
conditions of constant humiliation will likely not develop a strong under-
standing of her place in the community, what she has to offer in relation-
ships, or perhaps much of a sense of herself at all. But even those reared in
better circumstances will discover vulnerabilities – holes in the self’s mosaic
that need patching by the loving care of friends, family, and lovers. For
Hume, this is a sign of humanity, not vice.


Reflecting Subjects, –.

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  

Loving

The intimacy of love and friendship has not shielded them from the
philosopher’s gaze. As Epicurus demonstrates, philosophical reflection on
friendship did not need to wait for what Charles Taylor calls the “affirm-
ation of ordinary life.” Much of that reflection, however, has examined
the connection between private and public relationships, between friend-
ship and the state. In the first two sections of this chapter, I consider how
the Essays illuminate this relation. I return to the political intervention
question and argue that Hume again provides grounds for thinking that
government is ill-equipped to forward progress. His views contradict the
ancient notion of a natural harmony between well-governed states and
virtuous friendships.
The last two sections consider what the Essays have to say about erotic
love and the related topic of friendship across gender lines. In most
respects, Hume’s treatment of these issues itself constitutes progress,
as he moves beyond the positions of both his predecessors and con-
temporaries. Nonetheless, I argue that in his treatment of homosexuality
and, to a lesser degree, gender equality, he retards rather than encourages
improvement.

. Friendship and the State

Aristotle calls humans political animals. Perhaps we are. But we are also
animals who love, bear children, cling to parents and offspring, sometimes
cherish siblings, and form some of our strongest bonds with those not
related to us at all. For Aristotle, there is no inherent tension here. The city
is not the family, but the master art of politics orders all subservient arts,
including those of friendships and the household. The administration of
the polis is analogous to that of the household, and the relation between
 
See Sources of the Self, Part III. See Politics, a.



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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
citizens is something like that between friends. Among the noblest activ-
ities of friendship is promoting the city’s welfare. Aristotle does not
imagine that things work so smoothly in Athens, but he strives for an
architectonic science to prescribe a better imposition of logos on communal
lives. Friendships of the highest type support rather than conflict with
polities of the highest type.
This is not the spirit of scepticism. From Hume’s perspective, although
well-run states and intimate relationships are both essential for happy
human lives, nothing guarantees symbiosis between them. Some older
treatments of the possible tension between friendship and the state assume
that such conflicts signal a failing in either the friendship or the polity,
or both. Hume’s Essays offer reasons for questioning this assumption –
perhaps even stronger reasons than he recognized.
In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle introduces the “political art” as
follows:
We . . . see that even the most honored capacities – . . . generalship,
household management, rhetoric – fall under the political art. Because it
makes use of the remaining sciences and, further, because it legislates what
one ought to do and what to abstain from, its end would encompass those
of the others, with the result that this would be the human good. For even if
this is the same thing for an individual and a city, to secure and preserve the
good of the city appears to be something greater and more complete: the
good of the individual by himself is certainly desirable enough, but that of a
nation and of cities is nobler and more divine.
Behind these lines lies a hope for knowledge of how to pursue the common
good, through the medium of institutions arranged as neatly as Russian
nesting dolls. When things go well, all subservient institutions contribute
to individuals’ flourishing within a state, whose good is inseparable from
the good of the whole community.
With this hope comes another: that virtuous friends might pursue local
goods together, contributing to and being supported by the city’s good.
Aristotle knows well the story of his philosophical grandfather, executed by
the state because of conversation with those he called friends, and called
by some friends to violate the state’s laws to save himself. We see a darker
note also in Aristotle’s insistence that among the most precious goods of
friendship is protection from slander. Slander in such a state is not only
humiliating; it is dangerous. Today’s slanders become tomorrow’s charges.

 
Nicomachean Ethics, b–, . Ibid., a–.

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 Loving 
But Socrates’ interlocutors were rarely true friends, and Athens was not
an ideal polity. It was a contentious, unstable city that Aristotle eventually
had to leave to protect his own life. Here lie two neat explanations for why
friendships often warred with the city, despite their joint aim of human
flourishing. First, few friendships are based on virtue; such people are
rare, and their finding one another is rarer still. Second, Athens careened
between forms of government, none of which mirrored Aristotle’s good
polities.
By the time Cicero writes his essay on friendship, De amicitia, the
tension between duties to state and love of friends is intimately present
to him. Where Aristotle mentions in passing that excellent friendships
form slowly, Cicero dwells on the need to test friends to be sure, among
other things, that they will not ask you to do treasonous things. These tests
are delicate; the only way to test what sort of friend someone will be is to
take her as a friend. Once we have done so, however, our feelings get the
better of us: “thus friendship outruns the judgement and takes away the
opportunity of a trial.” To find the rare friend who is “firm, steadfast and
constant,” we must “check the headlong rush of goodwill as we would that
of a chariot.” We need to know that friends will not ask us to do horrible
things, since common men often do ask such things and resent denial.
Moreover, since it is dishonorable to plead friendship in defense of sins
“against the State,” if friends band together to betray their country, then
we may conclude that both friends failed to that extent in virtue.
Cicero puts these warnings in the context of parallel warnings about
corruption in the state itself. The threat of treasonous friendship is grave,
because Roman “political practice has already swerved far from the track
and course marked out for us by our ancestors.” Civil order is in disarray,
and Laelius foresees a “people estranged from the Senate and the weightiest
affairs of state determined by the caprice of the mob.” This state’s struc-
ture provides no bulwark against corruption. But these are precisely the
conditions under which exceptional men may be tempted to act against
the State, believing their actions promote the greater good. Cicero’s sug-
gestion, however, is not that the conditions produce exceptions to duties of
allegiance. Rather, they provide reasons to be especially careful in forming
friends and in acceding to their requests.
This thought is not foreign to Hume. We saw that in “Of the Delicacy
of Taste and Passion,” he argues that delicacy of taste enables selectivity in

  
Ibid., b–. Cicero, De Senectute, De Amicitia, De Divinatione, . Ibid.
  
Ibid., . Ibid., –. Ibid., .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
choosing friends and protection against negative influence. Yet for Hume,
no amount of care can entirely prevent friendly associations that are
potentially threatening to the state. Tension between friendship and the
state is an ineliminable feature of social life.
Our constant propensity to factions is one source of this tension. Strong
factionalism threatens civic stability, and friendship often generates fac-
tionalism. In “Of Parties in General,” Hume initially divides factions into
personal and real, where the former are “founded on personal friendship or
animosity among such as compose the contending parties” (..).
Personal factions are special dangers in small republics, but the tendency
to form them is perennial and pervasive: Hume writes that “the smallest
appearance of real difference will produce them” (..–). Even if the
faction originated in genuine disagreements, personal considerations may
cause it to persist beyond the disagreements’ resolution. “When men are
once inlisted on opposite sides, they contract an affection to the persons
with whom they are united, and an animosity against their antagonists:
And these passions they often transmit to their posterity” (..).
Aristotle also claims that people who engage in common activities for a
cause bond with one another and that such activities reinforce already-
existing bonds. Hume’s point sounds darker, because he emphasizes that
love for some people can generate antagonism toward others. Are we
incapable of loving some without vilifying others? Surely, magnanimous
people love their friends without condemning everyone with whom those
friends disagree.
Unfortunately, the relevant question is not: are some people capable of
such nobility? Questions about political structures must consider common
tendencies, not the nobility of the rare. Hume makes this point in “Of the
Independency of Parliament,” noting that it is reasonable to design polit-
ical arrangements around the assumption that all people act only for self-
interest, with no regard for the public good. Though the assumption is
false, in a legislative system of majority rule, a selfish majority can impede
pursuit of the common good. And it is reasonable to presume that selfish
members will always be the majority.
The real problem, however, is not selfishness so much as our limited
social passions – what Pocock calls the “undisciplined sociability of man-
kind.” Hume claims “men are generally more honest in their private
than in their public capacity, and will go to greater lengths to serve a party,


Real factions are “founded on some real difference of sentiment or interest” (..).

“Hume and the American Revolution,” in Virtue, Commerce, and History, .

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 Loving 
than when their own private interest is alone concerned.” Party ties
undermine the generally strong fear of dishonor, since “where a consider-
able body of men act together, . . . a man is sure to be approved of by his
own party, for what promotes the common interest; and he soon learns to
despise the clamours of adversaries” (..). As we saw in the previous
chapter, our vanity and pride need the support of others’ approval. Public
disapproval, moreover, can have severe consequences. But factions provide
alternative sources of approval and protection against society’s disapproval.
What promotes the party’s interest garners its applause, even if this interest
crosses the larger public’s. When the applause takes the form of moral
approval, people feel not only useful but virtuous, as long as they serve the
party’s interest. Hence the apparently paradoxical character of factionalist
behavior that Hume observes in “Of the First Principles of Government”:
“When men act in a faction, they are apt, without shame or remorse, to
neglect all the ties of honour and morality, in order to serve their party;
and yet, when a faction is formed upon a point of right or principle,
there is no occasion, where men discover a greater obstinacy, and a more
determined sense of justice or equity” (..).
When people are most self-righteous – united by a noble cause, for
which they will sacrifice much – they also, to serve this same cause, prove
willing to stoop to the most ignoble means to defeat their opponents.
Our sociability leads to both results, because our sensibility to honor
and dishonor, like all moral categories, is social at various levels. Moral
language demands the social correction that the general point of view
provides, so moral reflection on the self requires taking the perspectives
not only of those close but also of any others affected by your behavior.
But for the partisan, another sociability intervenes. The strong passions
tying her to her fellows block her ability to sympathize with the extended
group. The contracted group of her party becomes her social world, so she
believes them, even when they praise sliminess as resourcefulness. Should
she express any reservations about the sliminess, her party friends will
dismiss her objections and may even question her loyalty. Passions not


See EPM .: “Popular sedition, party zeal, a devoted obedience to factious leaders; these are some
of the most visible, though less laudable effects of this social sympathy in human nature.” Hume
applies this analysis to William Russell’s case in the History: “By many passages in his speech he
seems to the last to have lain under the influence of party zeal; a passion, which, being nourished by
a social temper, and cloathing itself under the appearance of principle, it is almost impossible for a
virtuous man, who has acted in public life, ever thoroughly to eradicate” (H :).

See EPM ..

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
seconded by others are difficult to sustain. How long can her scruples
endure when starved of reinforcement?
Under the sway of faction, it becomes difficult to resist becoming a
knave in the service of one’s party. We are familiar with the blame Hume
places on religious factions and speculative principles in general for such
knavery. As Jennifer Herdt puts it, “Members of religious factions perceive
actions in defense of their party as selfless and principled, but this simply
licenses them to do greater harm with a clean conscience.” There is no
gainsaying Herdt’s emphasis on the peculiar threat that Hume ascribes to
religious factionalism. But his remarks about our ineliminable tendency
to form personal factions, which also threaten stability and retard public
spirit, suggest that no attempts to overcome the various forms of supersti-
tion will extirpate these threats.
Nor would an attempt to do so be wise. Again, we cannot avoid the
problem by eliminating parties, which arise from a strong, natural human
propensity. To condemn the tendency to cleave to those near in relation
and interest would even be somewhat perverse. Our disposition to love a
few intensely is not a fault to be lamented, but a feature of humanity that
enables some of its most beautiful and honorable activities.
The common root of destructive factionalism and loving intimacy
suggests that conflicts between friendship and citizenship will likely arise
even in well-structured polities, among people who are not exceptionally
vicious. Hume indicates, however, that developing certain virtues may
mitigate such conflicts. He includes “your country” among those things
to which we feel close because of their relations to ourselves. Elsewhere, he
claims that cultivating this feeling may help overcome factionalism’s
divisive effects. In “That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science,” he recom-
mends moderation in response to Britain’s party divisions but notes
that “perhaps the surest way of producing moderation in every party is
to increase our zeal for the public” (..). He also writes that “a man,
who is only susceptible of friendship, without public spirit, or a regard to
the community, is deficient in the most material part of virtue.” So Hume
envisions a virtuous person who loves his family, his friends, his party, and
the public as a whole without conflict among these loves. But even here,
his language suggests how difficult it would be to produce such people and
maintain their happy balance of passions. After commending “zeal for the
public,” he asks his readers to “try, if it be possible, . . . to draw a lesson of
moderation with regard to the parties, into which our country is at present

Religion and Faction in Hume’s Moral Philosophy, .

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 Loving 
divided; at the same time, that we allow not this moderation to abate the
industry and passion, with which every individual is bound to pursue the
good of his country” (.., emphasis added). It may not be possible, and
not only because people embroiled in controversy rarely listen to calls
for moderation. Again, the Sceptic’s pessimism seems wise, when he notes
that it is difficult to “diminish or extinguish our vicious passions, without
diminishing or extinguishing such as are virtuous” (..). Zealots who
lose the animating passion of their causes may land on apathy or despair
rather than zeal for the public good. And again, on a systemic scale, it
matters little if a few honorable people achieve this delicate balance, if the
vast majority must choose between angry factionalism or indolent apathy.
Is there any real conflict here with Aristotle’s view that private relations
conflict with public ones only when there is vice on one side or another?
Since Aristotelian virtue is rare, the rarity of those zealous for both private
interests and public good is expected. But though Aristotle acknowledges
virtue’s scarcity, he believes that it would be less scarce among the citizens
of a good state for two reasons. First, the ideal state excludes from citizen-
ship those whose form of life is “ignoble and contrary to virtue” – that is,
the entire merchant and artisan classes – as well as those without leisure to
develop virtue, such as people who work the land, who will preferably be
slaves. Second, such a state promotes virtue’s cultivation in its citizens,
taking special care to promote civic friendship and “drive out discord.”
Aristotle’s ideal city is ideal in part because of its freedom from such
discord, resulting from a confluence of virtue, external conditions, and
good legislation. He recognizes that such an ideal would be rarely, if ever,
actualized. His study of less-than-ideal constitutions warns against the
causes of factionalizing instability. But that study is nonetheless informed
by the hope that wise legislators in fortuitous circumstances could promote
civic friendship, thereby reducing the inequality and vice that generate
discord.
Robertson notes that Hume shares some hope that wise legislators can
palliate discord. “In the early Essays,” Robertson writes, “Hume’s response . . .
to the problem of faction reveals a clear commitment to identifying the
institutional framework which would ensure a harmony of interest between
government and society.” Robertson’s insight reflects Hume’s concern


Politics, b, . For the claim that it is best if farmers are slaves, see a–.

In Greek, στασις (stasis), which can also be translated as “faction” (Nicomachean Ethics,
a–, ).

“Scottish Enlightenment at the Limits of the Civic Tradition,” –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
for political structures that do not require extraordinary virtue on the part
of rulers to protect the well-being of subjects. But from Hume’s premises,
there is really no ensuring the harmony of interests. We can erect many
bulwarks against destructive factionalism, but the malleability of how we
conceive our own interests outstrips even the wisest legislators’ predicative
capacities. The human capacity to subjugate self-interest to the interest
of a party will inevitably elude the political art. Robertson adds that the
problems of factions from “principle and affection as well as interest” made
Hume emphasize “also that government must exercise a general responsi-
bility for the manners and character of society at large.” As I have argued,
although Hume believes that a constitution can alter a people’s habits,
he is not very optimistic about the results. Wise legislators can take steps
to avoid corrupting their people, but efforts to positively reform them are
as likely to fail as succeed. Attempts to habituate people against personal
factionalism would be particularly dangerous, given that the tendencies
that give rise to it are the same tendencies that promote the bonds of
friendship that are so important for human well-being.
From Hume’s sceptical perspective, we have no reason to believe that
well-designed states can prevent conflicts between public and private
goods. The opposing view requires an architectonic vision of the good life
in which Hume has no reason to hope. Ties of friendship will become ties
of faction – and sometimes destructive ones. Only rare noble souls will
escape these tendencies, abiding by Hume’s counsel in the advertisement
to the Essays “to love the Public, and to bear an equal Affection to all our
Country-Men” rather than hating “one Half of them, under Colour of
loving the Whole.”

. Delicate Taste versus Love of the Public

Even on the individual level, there are problems with combining the
virtues of private friendship with public spirit. In Chapter , I argued that
cultivating delicacy of taste can improve the tendency to violent, cold
passions. These are the passions of factionalism; might this cultivation,
then, also help cultivate virtuous public spirit? Overcoming destructive
factionalism requires the contemplative, critical stance: party members
must come to see other citizens less as those whose actions threaten evil
or promise good and more as intricate complexes of traits, desires, and
experiences. Yet since delicacy of taste promotes close friendships, we need

Ibid., .

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 Loving 
not fear that adopting this stance will create someone so publicly bound
that she is no private good.
Though I find this suggestion promising, I fear that the project would
be futile. In his portraits of the party zealot and the delicate, tasteful friend,
Hume offers two quite recognizable characters. But when I try to imagine
what is good in both combined into one model of public spirit, my imagi-
nation fails me. It does not seem a realistic personality type.
Delicate taste comes with unusual sensitivity, not to life’s daily vicissi-
tudes but to beauties and deformities. The latter include natural, aesthetic,
and moral qualities, and sensitivity to these gives our excellent friend
impatience for vulgar conversation and rudeness, as well as deep appreci-
ation for her friend’s excellence. In other words, the quality that enables
her to value an excellent character’s unique beauty also causes her to find
most conversation insipid. Hume says that “delicacy of taste is favourable
to love and friendship, by confining our choice to few people, and making
us indifferent to the company and conversation of the greater part of men.”
Unlike “mere men of the world” – gregarious types who find pleasure in
most people’s conversation – those with delicate taste have “little enjoy-
ment but in the company of a few select companions.” They “feel too
sensibly” the failures of the rest of the world (..). Because they love few,
they love deeply.
Consider the difference between those with delicate taste and “mere
men of the world.” Hume does not choose the latter type as the opposition
because he believes them to be the worst sort; on the contrary, he seems to
think they are the next best thing. Neither pole is a misanthrope. And the
man of the world has this consolation: because he can enjoy anyone’s
company, few particular persons are indispensable to his happiness.
People with delicate taste, on the other hand, share with those with
delicate passion an enlarged sphere of pains as well as pleasures, relative to
the average person. Some of these pains arise from experiencing others’
failings. Can someone with this range of pains also possess zeal for the
public? In the Essays, Hume associates public spirit with love for the public


Note that Hume contrasts delicacy of taste with both delicacy of passion and the sensibility of the
sociable “man of the world.” We should not infer that the latter two dispositions are the same. The
world is not made up only of those with one or another form of delicacy. The man of the world
seems unlikely to have delicacy of passion, since this trait makes one highly sensitive to perceived
affronts. He seems too easygoing to be delicate of passion. To give a literary example, Mr. Weston
in Jane Austen’s Emma fits the description of a man of the world, and his passions are very resilient.
He is the last person to take offense, perhaps even when he should. Marianne Dashwood, however,
who has delicacy of passion, would be the last person to be suspected of being a woman of the world
in Hume’s sense. She finds most people’s company insufferable.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
(the Advertisement), “regard to the community” (..), “affection to a
country or community” (..), and even “amor patriae” (..).
But it is difficult to explain such love in accordance with Hume’s prin-
ciples, and even more difficult to imagine someone with delicate taste
achieving it.
To see why, we must turn to Hume’s account of the origins of love and
hatred. The generation of these indirect passions requires a double relation
of impressions and ideas. The object of these passions, Hume says, is
always another person “of whose thoughts, actions, and sensations we are
not conscious” (T ...). When we conceive of another possessing
some quality that produces pleasure (like beauty), these relations produce
love, which is affectively similar to pleasure. Conversely, if the quality
produces pain, we hate the object. (Hume uses both “love” and “hatred”
broadly; they need not indicate extreme feelings.) This account seems
unable to explain why we might love our fellow citizens as such, given
that we cannot know all of them well enough to perceive their pleasing
qualities. Hume’s discussion of love of relations gives some response. In
certain cases, love appears to arise from a single relation: we feel affection
for relatives, people who remind us of ourselves, and even those whose
only recommendation is long acquaintance. These affections proceed
independently of our recognizing others’ pleasing qualities and can even
survive recognizing painful qualities. Why?
Hume’s answer appeals to the principle that human minds crave stimu-
lation, and nothing is so stimulating as another human. Alone, we become
bored, restless, and melancholy. We seek objects of thought to escape these
pains, and when we find one that answers, the “blood flows with a new
tide: The heart is elevated: And the whole man acquires a vigour, which he
cannot command in his solitary and calm moments.” Nothing answers
so well as human company, “as presenting the liveliest of objects, viz. a
rational and thinking being like ourselves.” Crudely put, we enjoy com-
pany because other people give our minds something to do. Therefore,
anyone whose company we share repeatedly, all else being equal, becomes
a source of pleasure. Repetition gives the person’s effect a “more durable
influence.” Any relation between two people, moreover, enhances their


Arguing against Livingston’s ascription of the civic tradition to Hume, Christopher Finlay claims
that Hume uses “public spirit” to mean “an attachment to those structures which best protect the
interests of society,” even if these structures do not promote civic humanist ideals (Hume’s Social
Philosophy, ). Hume does want to promote the moderate attitudes that would support such
structures, but his language implies that public spirit also requires affection to fellow citizens.

See also DP ..

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 Loving 
enlivening effects on each other’s spirits. “Whatever is related to us is
conceiv’d in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the
related object” (T ...).
Because such people are sources of pleasure, we have all the materials for
producing the indirect passion of love, even if we can identify no pleasing
quality in the other person. That person, by virtue of entertaining the
mind, does produce an independent pleasure, and this impression can
generate the resembling impression of love. Hence, we love our relations
(again, all else being equal) in proportion to the closeness of our relation.
Parental love is strongest, but we “love our countrymen, our neighbours,
those of the same trade, profession, and even name with ourselves”
(T ...).
Perhaps people with delicate taste would be more sensitive to these
passional transitions. Trained to perceive delicate connections, they are
more alive to their connections to fellow citizens. On the other hand,
they are also more alive to those citizens’ qualities that tend to produce
hatred or contempt. They confine their affection to a few people, Hume
says, because they feel “too sensibly how much all the rest of mankind fall
short” (..).
Hume lists the following as potential causes of love: virtue, knowledge,
wit, good sense, good humor, bodily accomplishments, and “the external
advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, cloaths, nation and
climate” (T ...). With this list in mind, we can see that delicate taste
produces two effects favorable to love. First, it makes people better at
perceiving the positive qualities near the beginning of the list, where others
might mistake virtue for pretension or wit for foolishness. Second, it leads
them to deemphasize the qualities at the bottom of the list, as delicate
taste knows that much pleasure can be had without many worldly goods.
“When a man is possessed of that talent, he is more happy by what pleases
his taste, than by what gratifies his appetites, and receives more enjoyment
from a poem or a piece of reasoning than the most expensive luxury can
afford” (..).


Hume summarizes this thesis more succinctly in the Dissertation on the Passions: “A person, who is
related to us, or connected with us, by blood, by similitude of fortune, of adventures, profession, or
country, soon becomes an agreeable companion to us; because we enter easily and familiarly into his
sentiments and conceptions: Nothing is strange or new to us: Our imagination, passing from self,
which is ever intimately present to us, runs smoothly along the relation or connexion, and conceives
with a full sympathy the person, who is nearly related to self. He renders himself immediately
agreeable, and is at once on an easy footing with us: No distance, no reserve has place, where the
person introduced is supposed so closely connected with us” (DP .). Hume also claims that love
of children is a natural instinct. See Chapter , note .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Nonetheless, delicate taste still seems more likely to engender hatred
than love for one’s fellow citizens in general. Hume says that the tasteful
are dissatisfied with the conversation of most people: it reveals their
crudeness, ignorance, dullness, silliness, or ill-temper. Tasteful people love
more deeply but also more narrowly. Being free from the tendency to
proportion love to material success is a real advantage. But it also increases
the distance between those with delicate taste and the general population,
who do possess this tendency.
Hume’s paragon of intimate friendship, in other words, is unlikely to
also be a paragon of civic friendship. She is not misanthropic; she may
approach each person she meets with optimism that here may be a rare
fellow qualified for the highest kind of friendship. Usually, however, she
will be disappointed. Such repeated disappointment is not conducive to
love of the people.
Note that this issue is related to, but distinct from, the question of
whether love of humankind as such is among the principles of human
nature. In the Treatise, Hume explicitly denies that there is such a passion,
in his discussion of the origin of justice (at T ...). His denial rests on
the absence of evidence that we have any “kind affection to men, inde-
pendent of their merit, and every other circumstance.” The diffuseness of
its object appears to be an obstacle to public spirit, as it would be to a
general love of humankind. But the question I am raising is not whether or
not people can love humankind in general, independently of merit and
circumstances. It is rather whether a person with delicate taste can love
others bound to her by the circumstance of common citizenship while
recognizing their lack of merit.
Can the mechanisms that produce love of relations, which Hume says
cause us to love our fellow countrymen, come to the rescue? The notion
that we repeatedly share compatriots’ company seems a nonstarter, even


I would not go so far as to say that delicate taste alone is sufficient to make someone excel in virtue
in general. Interestingly, it is difficult to find any ascription of public spirit to Hume’s paragon of
virtue in section  of the Enquiry, Cleanthes (EPM .).

John Kekes argues that supplementing Aristotle’s account of civic friendship with Humean
sympathy and custom will produce an understanding of civility suitable for modern societies
(“Civility and Society”). Kekes’s civility is not the same as public spirit, but it is a closely related
concept, and it would be interesting to explore what role civility might play in addressing the
problems I raise in this section.

For a helpful discussion of Hume’s denial of the love of mankind and its relation to our ability to
feel benevolence toward a broad range of people, see Rico Vitz, “Hume and the Limits of
Benevolence.” Gill points out that, in the Treatise passage, Hume is siding with Mandeville
against Shaftesbury and even echoing Mandeville’s examples (British Moralists on Human
Nature, ).

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 Loving 
for a country as small as eighteenth-century Scotland or England. Yet
Hume suggests in “Of National Characters” that members of the same
nation will frequently interact with each other. He proposes that a national
character might arise among citizens of the same nation by sympathy, as
“like passions and inclinations . . . run, as it were, by contagion” through
the populace. “Where a number of men are united into one political body,
the occasions of their intercourse must be . . . frequent, for defence,
commerce, and government” (..).
If we interpret this passage as saying that each citizen of a nation
interacts frequently with every other citizen, its plausibility suffers dramat-
ically. The contagion metaphor suggests a better interpretation. As a virus
carrier need not have contact with a hundred people to be the source of
infection to those hundred, individual citizens need not interact with an
entire populace to exert influence over its character. One group of people
share traits; some subset of them mingle with another set, who adopt some
of those propensities, and so on. Because character traits require more
reinforcement than viruses in order to spread, the analogy is weak. None-
theless, the influence does not require person-to-person contact amid the
whole citizenry. Yet in the absence of this contact, we do not have the
familiarity needed to breed love among fellow citizens.
We are left with the idea that the relation of shared citizenry itself
greases the mechanisms of sympathy to such a degree that we find our
countrymen “immediately agreeable.” This commonality vivifies the tran-
sition from self to other, so that we take pleasure in the idea of another
citizen as we do the idea of family member. The problem with this sug-
gestion is that our ties with fellow citizens are extremely weak. Later in the
Treatise, Hume writes, “An Englishman in Italy is a friend: A European
in China; and perhaps a man wou’d be belov’d as such, were we to meet
him in the moon. But this proceeds only from the relation to ourselves;
which in these cases gathers force by being confin’d to a few persons”
(T ...). The more people who have a claim to our affections, the
weaker those affections will be. To love every Englishman is only a little
easier than loving everyone in the world.
Again, this problem will be worse for someone with delicate taste. She
loves a few deeply and is unlikely to diffuse love over large groups of
people, of whose defects she must be all too aware. Moreover, she will not
get help from similarity of temper with many people. That which gives
delicate taste its advantages – its propensity to cultivate passions that are
more fine, calm, and careful than what is common – exacerbates the
problem.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Delicate taste shares something with the traveler’s vanity that Hume
identifies in the Treatise. Some people, he writes:
depreciate their own country, in comparison of those, to which they have
travell’d. These persons find, when they are at home, and surrounded with
their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them and their own
nation is shar’d with so many, that ’tis in a manner lost to them; whereas
their distant relation to a foreign country, which is form’d by their having
seen it and liv’d in it, is augmented by their considering how few there are
who have done the same. For this reason they always admire the beauty,
utility and rarity of what is abroad, above what is at home. (T ...)
Delicate taste enables people to roam widely, if figuratively, among the
world’s ideas, arts, and experiences. A person who has done this will feel
how rare her experience is. It is reasonable to expect that she may feel, like
the traveler, closer to others like her (from whatever country) than to her
fellow citizens. Delicate taste, in other words, may make one feel like a
foreigner in one’s own land.
Cultivating delicate taste is therefore unlikely to ameliorate the tension
between public spirit and private friendship. But the case is not hopeless.
Someone with delicate taste may recognize the importance of love of
public and strive to overcome her tendency to disdain the members of
that public. She might try to think of them as fellows engaged in a
common enterprise and make a concerted effort to recognize the noble
hopes and virtues present in any sector of humanity. She might even
endeavor to protect her sensibility by avoiding interactions with people
that bring out their lowest side, as some of us do by not reading anonym-
ous online comments.
It remains true, however, that one of the best dispositions in Hume’s
catalog – delicacy of taste – is by nature in tension with another one – love
for the public. For people with delicate taste, cultivating what Hume calls
the “most material part of virtue” will be an uphill struggle. Moreover,
everyone possesses to some degree one of the tendencies that create an
obstacle to public spirit, so many people will experience such a struggle.
We all feel relations more weakly as they become looser ties.
The tension between public and private will be perennial, and perenni-
ally complicated. Social passions that generate the warmest, noblest aspects
of our nature also incline us to factionalism. Furthermore, we have no
reason to expect that those who make the best private friends will also
incline to civic friendship. But there is also no reason for Hume to deny
these tensions; accepting them coheres with a moderately sceptical view of
human relations. We can and must continually search for solutions, but we
must do so without unfounded assurance. Some resources for this search

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 Loving 
might be provided by Hume’s claim in the second Enquiry that “it is
always found, that a warm concern for the interests of our species is
attended with a delicate feeling of all moral distinctions” (EPM .).
I have raised the concern that delicacy can produce contempt for others;
this sentence suggests that concern for others can produce a kind of
delicacy. If the latter claim is right, then we might draw a lesson about
the order of education. If we cultivate love for others first, before concen-
trating our energy on developing delicacy of taste, then perhaps a signifi-
cant portion of that delicacy can be channeled into warm concern for
others. Regardless, the task of balancing public and private love will be
ongoing and often frustrating – yet too important to abandon.

. The Amorous Affection

There is something charming, but unsatisfying, about Hume’s writing on
sex. His description of erotic passion in “The Epicurean” is eloquent. His
retelling of Aristophanes’ Symposium speech in “Of Love and Marriage” is
a delightful little burlesque. But his adherence to standards of refinement,
exhibited in a parade of euphemisms for sexual desire (“the amorous
passion,” “gallantry,” and even (gasp!) “the appetite between the sexes”)
can be tiresome. Despite his acquaintance with diverse sexual practices, he
sometimes appears uncomfortable with human bodies. Compare, for
example, the different ways that Hume and Montaigne handle an earthy
passage from Plutarch about ire between brothers. Montaigne makes the
line even more crude than in the original: “And that other, whom Plutarch
wanted to reconcile with his brother, said: ‘I don’t think any more of him
for having come out of the same hole.’” Hume, in “Of Moral Preju-
dices,” reports that the brother “was too much a Philosopher to think, that
the Connexion of having sprung from the same Parent, ought to have any
Influence on a reasonable Mind, and exprest his Sentiment after such a
Manner as I think not proper to repeat” (EWU .).


Jacqueline Taylor cites this Enquiry passage in the context of discussing varieties of the sentiment of
humanity; superior people cultivate humanity as a “warm concern” (Reflecting Subjects, ). For a
discussion of the possible tension between the Enquiry’s emphasis on humanity and the Treatise’s
denial of a universal love of mankind, see Remy Debes, “Humanity, Sympathy, and the Puzzle of
Hume’s Second Enquiry.”

Montaigne, “Of Friendship,” in Essays, . The Loeb translation of Plutarch’s “On Brotherly
Love” has the brother saying, “I account it no momentous or important matter to have sprung from
the same loins” (Moralia, ).

Potkay suggests that Hume became aware of the anecdote through reading Montaigne (Fate of
Eloquence, ).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Hume writes within the standards of politeness expected by his con-
temporary readers, and unlike Montaigne, gives little indication of finding
these standards constraining. But Hume was no prude. A closer look
reveals, underneath their polite coverings, healthy views of sexual relation-
ships. I will consider three aspects of his treatment of sexual relationships
in the Essays: sex’s value for the individual and society, Hume’s under-
standing of the relationship between sexual customs and nature, and sex
and marriage.

.. The Value of Sex

Because sex is pleasant, it is, for Hume, presumptively good. Recall his
claim in “Of Refinement in the Arts” that no “gratification, however
sensual, can of itself be esteemed vicious” (..). We naturally pursue
gratification of sensual desires; we naturally approve of others who do so
also; and only the perversion of “the frenzies of enthusiasm” would claim
otherwise (..). Although Hume’s topic in “Of Refinement in the
Arts” is more commercial than bodily indulgence, we can presume that
what he says about the former applies to the latter. Such indulgence
becomes vicious only when it interferes with satisfying obligations of
virtues like justice, generosity, and humanity. Sexual violence, callousness,
and carelessness are vicious not because they are sexual, but because they
are harmful and painful for self and others.
They also, on Hume’s view, reveal that something has distorted the
natural course of human passions – indeed, the natural course of animal
passions in general. Although instinctual desire may motivate sexual acts,
these desires naturally accompany caring and friendly passions. Hume’s
view, as expressed in “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,”
is too strong to be credible. “Nature has implanted in all living creatures,”
he says, “an affection between the sexes, which, even in the fiercest and
most rapacious animals, is not merely confined to the satisfaction of the
bodily appetite, but begets a friendship and mutual sympathy, which runs


See T ... and DP .–.

Compare Spinoza’s claim in the Ethics: “Nothing forbids our pleasure except a savage and sad
superstition” (A Spinoza Reader, ).

The original title of the essay, “Of Luxury,” could have had a sexual connotation for Hume’s
readers. The term’s original meaning in English was “lasciviousness” or “lust,” and this usage
survived into the nineteenth century (Oxford English Dictionary Online, s.v. “luxury,” accessed
February , , http://oed.com). See Chapter , note .

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 Loving 
through the whole tenor of their lives” (..). (We must assume
that Hume was either unaware of or preferred not to think about the
prevalence of postcoital cannibalism among insects.)
A softened version of this claim, however, is more plausible: it is normal
for affection and sexual desire to generate and reinforce one another. All
else being equal, we tend to like and have benevolent feelings toward
people who are willing to have sex with us, especially when the feeling is
mutual. These feelings do not require the intention to have sex; erotic
frisson may be enough. If so, then sexual desire’s value goes beyond
mere physical pleasure. It promotes tenderness and affection – sometimes
leading to profound friendships: “The happiest marriages, to be sure, are
found where love, by long acquaintance, is consolidated into friendship”
(..). The friendship that allows marriages to flourish subsists on
an affection that “never rises to such a height, as when any strong interest
or necessity binds two persons together, and gives them some common
object of pursuit” (..). Sex itself, done well, is an activity where
mutual interest binds people together in a common pursuit. Over time,
partners can carry this sensibility into other enduring and profound
pursuits.
Hume resists, however, the cult of sensibility’s insistence on the singu-
larity of erotic attachment. The propensity of sexual encounters to pro-
mote loving feelings does not imply that they promote singular, immortal
devotion. Directly after the strong claim from “Of the Rise and Progress
of the Arts and Sciences” quoted above, he writes that in humans, “the
confinement of the appetite” to a single object “is not natural; but either
is derived accidentally from some strong charm of love, or arises from
reflections on duty and convenience” (..). In other words, humans
naturally feel sexual desire for multiple people. Hume sees the dispersion


Hume’s discussion of “the amorous passion” in the Treatise, while consistent with this claim, is
more nuanced and recognizes the fragility of the relevant “friendship and mutual sympathy.” He
analyzes eros as composed of the sensation of beauty, sexual desire, and “a generous kindness or
good-will” (T ...). But he acknowledges that the passion may begin from any one of these
elements (though it most commonly begins from seeing its object as beautiful). “Kindness or
esteem,” he says, “and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite easily together. The one is,
perhaps, the most refin’d passion of the soul; the other the most gross and vulgar” (T ...).
Beauty aids the transition because of its intermediary position between these extremes. Kindness
and esteem are therefore vulnerable inasmuch as beauty, or one’s sense of it, can change and fade.

Hume removed this passage, which goes on to scorn the possibility of “raptures and extasies beyond
the honey-month” for the  edition. (It is still relevant to friendship between lovers, however,
since he presumably never meant to imply that married couples only have sex for a month.) I rather
like that Hume, in his old age, took out such a cynical note about the possibility of enduring erotic
pleasure in marriage.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
of sexual interest as a further advantage: the tenderness associated with
sexual companions diffuses itself, generating the passions and practices
of gallantry. Far from a silly and superficial practice, this promotion of
goodwill between the sexes is an important restraint to men’s ability to
tyrannize physically over women.
Moreover, eros performs a foundational social function. Because
humans are “born in a family,” we are “compelled to maintain society,
from necessity, from natural inclination, and from habit” (..). But we
are only born in families because of antecedent sexual attraction, which
brings men and women together and, as Hume says in the Treatise,
“preserves their union, till a new tye takes place in their concern for their
common offspring” (T ...). Sexual desire is “the first and original
principle of human society.”
Sex is valuable because it is pleasant, because it promotes intimate
friendship and tenderness between the sexes, and because it makes human
society possible. This is high praise, but if we are tempted to overestimate
sex’s importance, Hume provides several correctives. First, he characterizes
sexual desire as a common, low-minded passion, not part of the elevating
sublime. In “Of National Characters,” he argues that the only plausi-
ble character differences ascribable to climate would be the northern
preference for liquor and the southern for sex. (Women “ripen sooner in
the southern regions” [..].) But these differences being caused by
climate would only show that “climate may affect the grosser and more
bodily organs of our frame” (..). This language echoes the Treatise’s
assessment of sexual desire as “the most gross and vulgar” passion of the
soul (T ...).
In one of the few philosophical treatments of Hume’s views of sexual
desire, Dan O’Brien cites this last passage as evidence for a puzzle. Hume’s
calling sexual desire “gross and vulgar” is “seemingly contradictory” to his
rejection of the monkish virtues. The latter, O’Brien says, might lead us to
“expect Hume not to have moral qualms concerning sexual attraction.”
O’Brien responds to the puzzle by appealing to the condemnation of vici-
ous indulgence in sexual passions and the negative consequences thereof.
But this explanation requires narrowing the referent of the Treatise passage
to only vicious lust, in a way not supported by the text. Fortunately, no
explanation is actually necessary. Hume does not have moral qualms with
sexual attraction in general. The language of grossness and vulgarity may

 
See also T .... “Hume on Sexual Attraction,” –.

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 Loving 
seem to reflect a very unhealthy attitude toward sex, but the present
sense of “gross” as meaning repulsive or disgusting is late American slang.
Neither “gross” nor “vulgar” is a compliment coming from Hume’s pen,
but the insult is mild. He only means that sexual desire is a common
passion, requiring no advanced discernment of mind or perfection of taste.
Hume’s second corrective to overestimating sexual importance is his low
assessment of how much pleasure sex itself actually produces. He goes
so far as to claim that most of sex’s pleasure does not come from actual
sex. Again, he speculates implausibly about animals, claiming that “even
among brute-creatures, . . . their play and dalliance, and other expressions
of fondness, form the greatest part of the entertainment.” Mental pleasures
are even more important for rational beings: “Were we to rob the feast
of all its garniture of reason, discourse, sympathy, friendship, and gaiety,
what remains would scarcely be worth acceptance, in the judgment of the
truly elegant and luxurious” (..).
To accept the claim about brute creatures’ preference for fore- and after-
play, we would have to put aside the many species of animals for whom sex
is always more rape than romp. But is less elegant sex “scarcely worth
acceptance”? Before laughing, notice the actual condition that Hume
describes – sex with no discourse, sympathy, friendship, or gaiety. Would
such sex be worth acceptance – with someone you have no wish or ability
to converse with, whom you do not like, whom you cannot play with, or
even share the feelings of? This is sex from the prostitute’s position, and
now Hume seems to speak weakly in saying that it is scarcely worth
acceptance. Sex’s value is part of the complex human condition, in which
all activities can be integrated into our inner lives and our relations with
others.
This integration relates to a further indication of Hume’s moderate
view of sex’s importance – his insistence that, although personal freedom
promotes erotic experience, such experience is less important than the
friendship that can result from marriage’s curtailment of that freedom.
These friendships may originate with sex, but Hume believes that they
become the more important aspect of the relationship. In “Of Polygamy
and Divorces,” he takes seriously the suggestion that the freedom to
divorce might preserve marriages, because such freedom may be “the only
secret for keeping alive that love, which first united the married couple”
(..). We do not want what we are forced to have. “In vain you tell
me,” says the proponent of this view, “that I had my choice of the person,
with whom I would conjoin myself. I had my choice, it is true, of my
prison; but this is but a small comfort, since it must still be a prison”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
(..). Although Hume concedes that passionate love “requires
liberty above all things,” friendship “thrives under constraint” (..,
..). The necessity of staying together and marriage’s common
projects will therefore promote friendship, and “the marriage-knot . . .
chiefly subsists by friendship” (..).
Hume is not at his most insightful here, particularly when he argues that
people who cannot escape one another will overlook small annoyances
and frivolous disputes for harmony’s sake. His notional interlocutor is
more persuasive in asking, “How often does disgust and aversion arise after
marriage, from the most trivial accidents, or from an incompatibility of
humour; where time, instead of curing the wounds, proceeding from
mutual injuries, festers them every day the more, by new quarrels and
reproaches?” (..). But my point here is that Hume does not con-
sider preserving erotic desire worth the sacrifice of the friendship that
can develop in a prolonged marriage. If legal divorce would promote the
former yet discourage the latter, he infers that divorce should not be legal.
We need not accept this reasoning to accept the wisdom of prizing
friendship over sex. If Hume is right, these two forms of love naturally go
together. And “Of Polygamy and Divorces” does suggest that enduring
marriages might include periods of waxing and waning eros over time. Not
all spouses forever lose their desire for one another shortly after the vows.
Though friendship’s gentle warmth and calmness may be in tension with
erotic desire’s fire and intensity, such contrary principles need not “always
destroy each other; but the one or the other may predominate on any
particular occasion, according as circumstances are more or less favorable
to it” (..). Nonetheless, Hume is clear that he believes the rewards
of friendship to exceed those of sexual passion. Solomon, with his hun-
dreds of wives and concubines, presumably had inexhaustible means of
satisfying the latter. But Hume understands how such a man could have
written the Hebrew Bible’s most eloquent treatise on the vanity of human


Cf. Montaigne: “As for marriage, it is a bargain to which only the entrance is free – its continuance
being constrained and forced, depending otherwise than on our will – and a bargain ordinarily made
for other ends” (Essays, ).

Baier notes that the asymmetrical chastity standard Hume describes in the Treatise “accords badly
with Hume’s proper evaluation of the importance of friendship in marriage, and its incompatibility
with male sovereignty. That ‘entire and total union’ which he takes as the telos of marriage would
seem to be possible only if whatever restrictions there are on sexual freedom be mutual” (“Good
Men’s Women,” –).

Hume’s retelling of Aristophanes’ myth at the end of “Of Love and Marriage” also supports this
possibility. Its recipe for happy marriages requires that love be the foundation of marriage, but with
a view toward satisfying the practical requirements of “care” and the erotic needs of “pleasure.”

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 Loving 
existence. “Had he tried the secret of one wife or mistress, a few friends,
and a great many companions, he might have found life somewhat more
agreeable. Destroy love and friendship; what remains in the world worth
accepting?” (..).

.. Sex Free from Superstition

Hume’s recommendations for a happier life than Solomon’s suggest either
one wife or one mistress. This is one of many places in which Hume
expresses openness to unorthodox sexual arrangements. He does not
consider all such arrangements equally good; “Of Polygamy and Divorces”
recommends monogamous marriage without legal divorce. But his open-
ness to other possibilities indicates some freedom from the superstitious
notions about sex that have disproportionately damaged women over
millennia. His attitude about the relevant relations between custom and
nature is reasonable. He leaves open the possibility that our judgments
about sexual virtue and vice may progress as customs change. Finally, he
avoids associating virginity or chastity with purity, and, with one import-
ant exception, he does not condemn those who transgress current sexual
norms as “unnatural.”
Consider Hume’s assessment of the relative viciousness of overindul-
gence in alcohol or sex. In “Of National Characters,” he claims that “the
passion for liquor [is] more brutal and debasing than love” (..).
“Love” refers here to sexual love; this is part of his discussion of the
prevalence of the “amorous disposition” in southern climates. He does
go on to say that the passion for love is still dangerous, because it leads to
extreme jealousy and other disadvantages when it “goes beyond a certain
pitch.” But he does not take back his claim that the passion for liquor is
worse, and he says here that sexual love “when properly managed, is the
source of all politeness and refinement.” “Of Refinement in the Arts”
makes the more extreme claim that drunkenness is “more pernicious both
to mind and body” than “libertine love, or even infidelity” (..).


Solomon was long held to be the author of Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth).

In the History, Hume reports Sir John Lambe’s reported remark about the Puritans: “That to the
world they seemed to be such as would not swear, whore, or be drunk; but they would lye, cozen,
and deceive: That they would frequently hear two sermons a-day, and repeat them too, and that
sometimes they would fast all day long.” Hume’s comment seems to count both drinking and lust
as lesser vices: “This character must be conceived to be satirical; yet, it may be allowed, that that sect
was more averse to such irregularities as proceed from the excess of gaiety and pleasure, than to
those enormities, which are the most destructive of society” (H :).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
This view is not unique; Dante, after all, puts drunkards in a deeper
circle of hell than the lustful. But it is a view that has long been at odds
with common moral judgments: men, at least, who drink too much are
winked at as engaging in boyish indiscretion, whereas women who have
sex outside marriage have been excoriated as damaged goods, who can
never be clean again. Compare Richard Allestree’s treatment of intemper-
ance with that of lust (in The Whole Duty of Man). Both are wicked, but
alcohol is evil only when one drinks to excess, and because of its harmful
effects. Chastity “or Purity,” on the other hand, is the only bulwark against
moral filth. It “consists in abstaining from all Sorts of Uncleanness,”
pollutes both body and soul, and bars the doors of heaven, “where no
unclean Person or Whoremonger hath ever enter’d.” Adultery “is the most
irreparable Injury that can be, and brings GOD’S Wrath down in the most
severest Judgment: Adulterers GOD will Judge.”
Hume does not celebrate sexual promiscuity; chastity remains among
the virtues. But the problem with failures of chastity is not that they
pollute women with a stain no time can remove. In a letter to John Home,
written from Vienna in , Hume seems to condemn pimps more
harshly than prostitutes. “A Court of Chastity is lately erected here,” he
reports, “who send all loose Women to the Frontiers of Hungary, where
they can only debauch Turks & Infidels: All Whore-masters are punishd as
they deserve, that is, very severely” (Letters :).
What is the problem, then, with being unchaste? In the Treatise, chastity
is an artificial virtue, which serves to convince men that their progeny is
truly theirs and therefore deserves their care and protection. The Enquiry
appeals to the need for a “combination of parents” for the “long and helpless
infancy of man.” If chastity did not promote this combination, “such a
virtue would never have been thought of” (EPM .). The influence of
general rules accounts for the extension of chastity rules to women beyond
child-bearing age and for society’s virulence in condemning transgressions.
But he acknowledges that a “speculative philosopher” might think that
“they are more excusable [than all other injustices], upon account of the
greatness of the temptation” (T ...).
By tracing chastity’s value to the needs of child-rearing, Hume grounds
the artificial virtue in humankind’s natural conditions. But the opening of

 
Whole Duty of Man, –. Ibid., .

Most treatments of Hume’s views on sexuality focus on his account of chastity. See, e.g., Baier,
“Good Men’s Women”; Ann Levey, “Under Constraint”; Berry, “Lusty Women and Loose
Imagination”; and Catherine Villanueva Gardner, “Chastity and the Practice of the World in
Hume’s Treatise.”

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 Loving 
“Of Polygamy and Divorces” makes it clear that he does not see these
natural conditions as dictating a single set of marriage rules to protect the
utility of chastity. Although Hume claims marriage’s purpose is “propa-
gation of the species,” he first calls it “an engagement entered into by
mutual consent” and infers that it is therefore “susceptible to all the variety
of conditions, which consent establishes,” as long as they serve this end
(..). Without positive law, marriages would vary with circum-
stances and needs. He then details several arrangements that have served
unusual needs – sailors who marry for a single season while docked on
land, one man joined to multiple wives, one wife joined to multiple men,
wives and children held in common. “All regulations . . . on this head,” he
writes, “are equally lawful, and equally conformable to the principles of
nature; though they are not all equally convenient, or equally useful to
society” (..).
Hume’s arguments in favor of his society’s established conventions
of marriage do not rely on circumstances unique to eighteenth-century
Europe. He contends that polygamy and divorce are likely to produce ill
effects for any people, and have done so when implemented. He criticizes
the tyrannical practices encouraged by “eastern” marriage institutions and
the dim view of marriage among the Romans when divorce was common.
Nonetheless, these arguments are striking by virtue of what they do not say
about the relation between custom and nature. In contrast to those who
argue that biological nature determines humans to mate for life with one
member of the opposite sex, Hume insists that we naturally have desires for
multiple sexual partners. He does not appeal to any moral law inscribed
on our souls, prohibiting violations of traditional chastity norms.
He thus severs the discussion of sexual practices from the appeals to
nature that have caused so much suffering and oppression, as various forms
of sexual activities have been deemed unnatural or “against nature.” As
Jonathan Dollimore has argued, the “natural/unnatural opposition has
been one of the most fundamental of all binaries, and one of the most
violent of all hierarchies.” It raises the specter of monsters, of interfering
with the most basic conditions of existence – and thus inspires both fear


It is possible that when Hume says in “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences” that
“confinement of the appetite is not natural,” he has in mind what we would now call serial
monogamy. But the weight of evidence tells against this interpretation. He infers from his claims
here that the mutual goodwill that goes along with erotic attraction is naturally widespread among
human beings at any one point in time, not that it is natural for us to have a series of partners in
flirtation, one after the other.

Baier emphasizes the unnaturalness of chastity rules in “Good Men’s Women.”

Sexual Dissidence, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
and disgust. The list of sexual activities to which these epithets have been
applied includes not only polygamy and incest but also homosexuality and
the dangerous practice of women enjoying sex.
Hume’s theory allows for strong condemnation of certain sexual prac-
tices, such as rape, as horrifically unjust and inhumane. But we do not
strengthen this condemnation by adding that such behavior is unnatural.
Behavior that would be rape if the participants were human is quite com-
mon in nature. Pretending otherwise only weakens the case against human
rape, by suggesting that we have only weak resources for its censure.
It may be that our contemporary norms about sex and marriage incline
us to misunderstand Hume’s views about the relation between marriage
and chastity. Falkenstein argues that by the time Hume publishes “Of
Polygamy and Divorces,” he has concluded that “male promiscuity cannot
be reconciled with female chastity” and that the “best policy is to place
equal obligations to chastity on both sexes.” Falkenstein then claims
that this is “the stated conclusion” of the essay. Though I am generally
sympathetic to Falkenstein’s hypothesis that Hume’s views on these
matters evolved, this inference is unwarranted. The stated conclusion
of the essay is: “The exclusion of polygamy and divorces sufficiently
recommends our present  practice with regard to marriage”
(..). Insofar as there was a single European practice, it prohibited
divorce (unless one had some special connection to the reigning powers)
and marrying more than one person at a time. Monogamy does not imply
sexual exclusivity. We now often use “monogamy” to refer primarily to a
sexual arrangement, which may or may not be instantiated in marriage.
But this is an extended usage from the original meaning of the restriction
of marriage to one other person, more or less regardless of sexual behavior.
Marriage practices could be monogamous even if no one expected sexual
fidelity on the part of the husband, as has often been the case, as Hume
often notes.
I say “on the part of the husband,” of course, because requiring fidelity
of women but not men has been so common. Hume’s explanation of
chastity as an artificial virtue assumes an asymmetry of expectations, about
which commentators have raised compelling complaints. But what


See T ... for Hume’s argument that “nothing can be more unphilosophical than those
systems, which assert, that virtue is the same with what is natural, and vice with what is
unnatural.”

“Without Gallantry and without Jealousy,” .

See especially Baier’s argument that this asymmetry produces the need for a double standard
between different classes of women, as men will depend on unchaste women to satisfy their less-
condemned desires. See “Good Men’s Women,” –.

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 Loving 
matters for my point here is that Hume would not have assumed that the
norms that apply to marriage necessarily apply to sex, though they are
obviously related. So when he claims that reproduction is the purpose of
marriage, it does not follow that he believes reproduction to be the purpose
of sex. He can thus avoid the many distasteful implications of the latter
view. He also avoids the need for rhetorical cartwheels to explain why it is
not vicious to have sex more times than is necessary to produce a finite
number of children.
Hume’s treatment of marriage leaves open two interesting possibilities.
First, in extraordinary circumstances, alternative practices may prove more
beneficial and therefore would be justifiable. The system that Hume says
the Sevarambian captain contrives may be the best solution to an unusual
problem. The inhabitants of a wrecked ship in a deserted place are dis-
proportionately male, so women pair with multiple men. Such accommo-
dations are in keeping with his suggestion in “Of Some Remarkable
Customs” that “irregular and extraordinary appearances are frequently
discovered in the moral, as well as in the physical world” and that such
appearances can justify practices contrary to cherished rules (..).
Second, Hume’s view implies that, should human circumstances signifi-
cantly change, our judgments of sexuality and marriage institutions could
evolve. If wives and children became less dependent on a father’s financial
support and protection (as they now are), women would not need to live in
fear of their husbands doubting their chastity. These changed circum-
stances remove one justification for the asymmetrical burden placed on
women to protect their sexual reputation. They also encourage us to think
more profoundly about the nature of fidelity in marriage and the genuine
goods it serves.
In these respects, Hume is progressive, but this assessment requires two
important qualifications. One concerns his treatment of homosexuality,
and the other his report of a radical woman who dares to separate repro-
duction from marriage.
Hume’s general method of dealing with homosexuality is to ignore it as
much as possible. One might think that ancient homoerotic practices


Potkay discusses this silence about homosexual behavior as part of the development of stricter
“polite codes” during the eighteenth century; these codes “comprehended a growing list of what
could not be said (and perhaps not thought) about the body in general” (Fate of Eloquence, ). It is
true, as I indicated above, that Hume is reticent about all sexual matters.

I recognize the legitimate objection, most famously made by Foucault, to calling these practices
homosexual. They were part of a form of life foreign to the one in which our sense of homosexuality
has its home. The same is true of all of the homoerotic activity Hume would have been aware of.
Moreover, there is no reason to think that most of the men and boys engaged in pederasty were
uniquely attracted to men. Nonetheless, as they did include homoerotic activity, they are relevant to

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
would be relevant to the issues he discusses in “Of the Populousness of
Ancient Nations,” given that these practices were associated with later
marriage for men and may have affected reproductive rates. But he rele-
gates them to one sentence in a footnote about the aversion to marriage in
Plutarch’s Rome. In retelling Aristophanes’ myth from the Symposium,
he omits the primal humans who become homosexual pairs and says that
“each individual person was a compound of both sexes” (EWU .).
This averting of the eyes is consistent with his other writings: he seems
unwilling to believe kings capable of homoerotic desires and has his
speaker in “A Dialogue” say that he does not “care to examine more
particularly” the “ loves” (EPM Dia.).
In the little that he does say about homosexuality, Hume uses the
damaging language of purity and unnaturalness. In the footnote in “Of
the Populousness of Ancient Nations,” he refers to “the unnatural lusts of
the ancients” (..). In a letter to Gilbert Elliot, Hume explains his
acceptance of the amusing hypothesis that the practice of men exercising
naked together led to pederasty. Contrasting these practices with those of
Homer’s age, he writes that the “Friendship betwixt Achilles & Patroclus
was pure” and that “Homer takes Care to lay them apart, & gives each of
them a Wench in his Arms” (February , in Letters :, emphasis
added). In the History, he describes the “buggery” charge that got Titus

this discussion. For subtle critiques of Foucault’s claim that homosexual behavior became associated
with an identity only in the nineteenth century, see Dollimore, Sexual Dissidence, and Jordan,
Invention of Sodomy.

He calls it “P’ account of the origin of love and marriage.”

For instance, Hume describes James I’s affection for Robert Carre in the most romantic terms, as
arising out of “the king’s passion for youth, and beauty, and exterior appearance” and characterized
by “unlimited fondness” (H :, ). One would be forgiven for thinking Hume is making a
rather lewd joke in saying that the king, “laying aside the sceptre, took the birch into his royal hand,
and instructed [Carre] in the principles of grammar” (H: :). Yet a few sentences later, Hume
says that “such incidents, are the more ridiculous, though the less odious, as the passion of James
seems not to have contained in it any thing criminal or flagitious.” That is to say, it does not seem to
Hume that James’s love for Carre was erotic.

The interlocutor refers to one who engages in homosexual behavior as “something else too
abominable to be named” (EPM Dia.). These remarks are especially striking in light of the
second Enquiry’s general lenience with respect to sexual issues, which is among the charges raised
against Hume in the effort to excommunicate him from the Scottish Kirk. For John Bonar’s charge
that Hume defends the proposition that “adultery is very lawful, but sometimes not expedient,” see
Fieser, Early Responses to Hume’s Life and Reputation, –. On Bonar’s role in Hume’s
prosecution, see Harris, Hume, –.

Cf. Hume’s description of the exaggerated reports gathered by Cromwell about activities at
convents and monasteries, including tales of “abortions procured, of infants murdered, of
unnatural lusts between persons of the same sex” (H :).

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 Loving 
Oates removed from his ship chaplaincy as a “complaint of some unnatural
practices, not fit to be named” (H :).
It is unsurprising that Hume fails to extend his principles about the
inherent permissibility of all pleasures and the customary nature of sexual
unions to homoerotic desires. He is expressing a view that his readers and
peers would be unlikely to challenge. Expressing an opposing view, more-
over, would have been dangerous, and Hume is much gentler on homo-
erotic practice than many of his contemporaries. On the other hand, he
is not just silent on the point; he uses what amount to slurs in both print
and correspondence. As with his racism, we should hesitate to assume that
the fault is mere ignorance. It is even less likely that Hume never encoun-
tered homosexuals than it is that he never had contact with intelligent
people of other races, although the former may have had an easier time
hiding themselves.
In this case, Hume seems incapable of sympathizing with passions so
different from his own. It is no wonder that he resorts to the language
of naturalness and purity, given that he has turned his eyes away from
the consideration of consequences that he applies to feminine chastity.
No analogous argument could have explained homosexuality’s condemna-
tion anyway, since such unions did not produce children who needed a
father’s care.
In another case, however, Hume expresses sympathy with someone
engaged in radical sexual practice. In “Of Moral Prejudices,” he relates
the story of a wealthy, independent Frenchwoman who resolves never to
marry and subject herself to a man’s rule. Since she wishes to rear a son,
she finds a man, whose person and mind please her, to father her child.


I am grateful to Andrew Sabl for pressing me on these issues in both conversation and
correspondence. Sabl believes that Hume’s condemnatory remarks about homosexuality are
tongue-in-cheek, cases of “praising with faint damns.” I am willing to accept that Hume may
have had a light-hearted attitude toward homoerotic behavior, and maybe that birch-in-hand
remark is an instance of it. But humor cannot explain away the language of impurity and
unnaturalness that I identify here.

He also could not have been ignorant of the cruelties perpetrated against homosexuals. He reports
in the History that Edward II was murdered by having a hot iron “thrust into his fundament . . .,
which they inserted through a horn” (H :). Although Hume does not accuse Edward II of
having homoerotic relations, it stretches the imagination too far to suggest that he would not have
connected this abuse to the king’s reputation for liaisons with men. See Ormrod, “The Sexualities of
Edward II.” Ormrod notes that there are rumors of Edward’s alleged sodomy from the fourteenth
century onward; moreover, this charge was considered politically important and therefore of interest
to the History.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Although she would happily remain his friend, he wants marriage and
ultimately sues for custody of their son.
Hume leaves us wondering about the case’s outcome, but he describes
the woman sympathetically. She possesses strength of mind and is motiv-
ated by a sense of her own independence combined with the evidence of
friends whose husbands are controlling, unfaithful, jealous, or indifferent.
She does not settle for the first eligible lover she meets, but searches long
for a suitable mate and then puts him through a trial of discourse before
inviting him into her bed. She intends no cruelty to the young man but is
unwilling to let his violent passion overtake her calm resolution.
Yet Hume introduces the story as a warning against a too “Philosophic
Spirit” – “an Example . . . not to depart too far from the receiv’d Maxims
of Conduct and Behaviour, by a refin’d Search after Happiness or Perfec-
tion” (EWU .). In one sense, this woman has “reason” on her side,
and the man has been misled by passion. But this asymmetry does not
decide the dilemma in her favor: here Hume reminds us that sexual mores
are always bound up with political customs. Interestingly, the woman’s
defense in court appeals to a contract, whereas the man’s case relies on
convention. He claims “a Right to educate [his son] as he pleas’d,
according to the usual Maxims of the Law in such Cases”; she “pleads,
on the other Hand, their express Agreement before their Commerce”
(EWU .). Recall that Hume begins “Of Polygamy and Divorces”
by claiming that marriage is a contract that could take many forms, were it
not true that “human laws restrain the natural liberty of men” (..).
This woman has attempted to fashion her own contract, ignoring conven-
tional laws governing sexual relations that produce children. Such laws do
restrain natural liberty, and Hume’s political philosophy warns that con-
tracts without convention’s backing always prove unstable.
Marriage is a political institution, in two senses. First, the state recog-
nizes and regulates marriage, as it must, since spouses share property and
produce children who need the law’s protection. Second, spousal relations
inevitably involve power dynamics analogous to those of a state. But
marriage is also home for two of human life’s most intimate activities –
sexual relations and, ideally, close friendship. These activities are as delicate
and particular as human life gets, whereas the political aspects are as crude


Harris’s summary of this story is misleading: “She in effect seduced a man, got herself a child by
him, and then offered him money to leave her and the child alone” (Hume, ). Hume writes that
the woman communicated “her whole Intention” to the man before having sex with him. The man
seems more manipulative. He enters into the relationship knowing her desires for its limitations but
then refuses to accept them.

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 Loving 
and general as other institutions that the state must manage. The necessary
intrusion of the public into the private in this case means that there may
again be irresolvable tension within this aspect of human life. Perhaps this
is why Hume leaves us in suspense about the outcome of the French-
woman’s case, “which puzzles all the Lawyers, as much as it does the
Philosophers” (EWU .).

. Gallant Men and Rare Women

It would be remiss to end this chapter on love without a word about
Hume’s mitigated defense of gender equality. If we are to take seriously,
as he suggests, the possibility of friendship between men and women, then
we must also consider how equal such a friendship might be. How close
does Hume think such friendships can come to the ideal, which requires
equality of mind and character?
It is difficult to read Hume’s remarks on this point without a wistful
desire that he had taken his somewhat radical views a step further. Though
retaining this desire, I want to explain why he might have been unable to
take that step. Blocking his path was a specific vision of progress in virtue,
which combines the humanity of the modern ideal with the proper pride
and sublime spirit of the ancient. It was hard enough to find examples of
such men and, for reasons compatible with Hume’s psychology, nearly
impossible to find examples of such women.
The withdrawn essays include two gallant epistles to women, “Of Essay-
Writing” and “Of Love and Marriage.” Looking past their saccharine tone,
we find some radical statements about women’s equality. “Of Love and
Marriage” contains the subversive suggestion that marriages should involve
“no pretensions to authority on either side”; he would wish “that every
thing was carried on with perfect equality, as between two equal members


Baier suggests that Hume’s ambiguity here intentionally leaves “the court of the reader’s judgment
to give the verdict on just what his own intentions were” in portraying such a strong woman and
enslaved man. Her own opinion is that “Hume is challenging the accepted gender stereotypes under
the guise of a recommendation that we not let our philosophic spirit move us to ‘depart too far from
the receiv’d Maxims of Conduct and Behaviour’” (Moral Prejudices, x).

There is a rich literature on Hume’s views of women. For readers interested in these issues, Anne
Jaap Jacobson’s anthology, Feminist Interpretations of David Hume, is indispensable. In addition to
the pieces mentioned below and elsewhere, see Baier, “Hume on Women’s Complexion”; Livia
Guimarães, “The Gallant and the Philosopher”; Jane Duran, “Hume on the Gentler Sex”; and
Jacqueline Taylor’s Reflecting Subjects, sections . and .–..

For a spirited defense of the philosophical merit of the essays that seem written to appeal specifically
to women, see Vicki J. Sapp, “The Philosopher’s Seduction.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
of the same body” (EWU .). “Of Essay-Writing” even ascribes some
superiority to well-educated women, calling them “the Sovereigns of the
Empire of Conversation,” who are “better Judges of all polite Writing than
Men of the same Degree of Understanding” (EWU ., ). Here he
grants women dominance only in the “conversible world,” which requires
only the easier and less rigorous operations of the mind. But he speaks
favorably of the French salons, where women in a manner led the learned
world as well, and the essay’s overarching aim is to encourage the union of
these two worlds. These compliments do not come with the familiar
insults, such as Malebranche’s assertion that “everything abstract is incom-
prehensible” to women or Rousseau’s that women do not “have sufficient
precision and attention to succeed at the exact sciences.”
Furthermore, as we have seen, Hume associates increasing equality for
women with civilization’s advancement. He criticizes the ancients for
confining women to the domestic sphere and credits increased interaction
between the sexes with improved humanity in men. There is also a striking
remark in the History, in which Hume says that during “the first race of the
monarchy, the Franks were so rude and barbarous a people, that they were
incapable of submitting to a female reign” (H :).
These considerations are promising, but Hume also repeatedly acqui-
esces in and reinforces the notion that women are naturally inferior to
men. His approval of gallantry depends on the claim that men should treat
women generously, since “nature has given man the superiority above
woman, by endowing him with greater strength both of mind and body”
(..). In “Of the Immortality of the Soul,” he cites as a disadvantage
of “the religious theory” of immortality that it cannot account for “the
inferiority of women’s capacity” (EWU .). He ascribes negative
traits to women, such as a disposition to vengefulness (..n) and
“love of dominion” or tyranny over men (EWU .). As I discuss below,
Hume softens these ascriptions with charitable explanations of what might


For a reading of “Of Love and Marriage” that takes Hume’s retelling of the androgyne myth as
having serious implications for the possibilities of equality between the sexes, see Sheridan Hough,
“Humean Androgynes and the Nature of ‘Nature.’”

Malebranche, The Search after Truth, ; Rousseau, Emile, .

On the alternative view, which accepts human mortality, women are inferior because their
“domestic life requires no higher faculties either of mind or body” (EWU .). This passage
is ambiguous. One might read Hume as employing a subtle elenchic technique – showing that
traditional religious views, which subordinate women to men, are not compatible with themselves.
Because Hume criticizes the ancients for confining women to the domestic sphere, it is possible to
read him as leaving open the possibility that women might improve as they are more allowed to
move beyond this sphere. Given his remarks elsewhere, however, this interpretation seems
implausible, and there is insufficient evidence to accept it rather than the straightforward reading.

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 Loving 
produce these traits. Nonetheless, here he does not see beyond the domi-
nant ethos of his age.
Hume does, however, defend women in two important respects. Des-
pite believing women to be inferior to men, he renounces the cruelty that
often accompanies this belief. He also admits that there are many excep-
tions to the general rule: particular women are often superior to particular
men. His most powerful statement against cruelty to women is in “Of
Polygamy and Divorces,” where he argues against strong male sovereignty.
By nature, he says, men and women share a “nearness of rank,” so that
they should be friends and lovers. “Would we willingly exchange such
endearing appellations,” he asks, “for the barbarous title of master and
tyrant?” (..). He calls these practices “inhuman”; they are sure to
destroy any love wives may have had for their husbands. And in discussing
gallantry in “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,” he scorns
men (again, as barbarous) who abuse women as a show of superiority, such
as the “ancient Muscovites,” who “wedded their wives with a whip, instead
of a ring” (..).
We can add to all of Hume’s remarks about the inferiority of women a
similar caution to the one he gives about national stereotypes at the
beginning of “Of National Characters.” To infer that any individual
woman must be inferior to any individual man (or to men in general)
would be to make the same kind of “undistinguishing” judgment as that of
refusing to admit that a Brit may be an excellent cook, or a Swiss a good
lover (..). In his story in “Of Moral Prejudices,” the French-
woman’s superiority to most men makes it hard for her to find a worthy
man to father her child. Even the man she finds may be inferior to herself,
as his violent passions lead him to extreme and aggressive behavior. The
History is also telling here: Hume admires Elizabeth I as a ruler above most
of the men who came before and after her, and warns against letting
“prejudice . . . founded on the consideration of her sex” influence our
judgment on this point (H :). Finally, in a section of the Treatise
that assumes men’s general superiority, Hume still notes that it “often
happens” that a mother is “possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the
father” (T ...).


Again, he is careful to add here, “not to say equality.”

For a study of Hume’s treatment of Queen Elizabeth as a “rational being,” see Wade Robison,
“Hume the Moral Historian.” Robison argues that Hume’s impartiality with respect to Elizabeth’s
sex calls into question accusations that the Hume of the Histories is a party man.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Falkenstein links Hume’s recognition of these exceptional cases to the
justification for gallantry, arguing that the pains men take not to treat
women as inferiors avoids the uneasiness that would occur should a man
find himself presuming superiority to women who are in fact superior to
him. The practice also forestalls nasty contests that would ensue from the
clash of opinions about who the superior truly is. But these are not the
considerations that Hume appeals to. He refers to gallantry as a “generous”
effort to “alleviate that superiority” of mind and body that men have over
women (..). We might in fact accuse Hume of failing to observe
polite gallantry in the conversational space of this essay, as his discussion
does nothing to alleviate the discerning female reader’s sense that Hume
believes in her inferiority.
In truth, there is little indication in the text that polite, gallant men
worry much about encountering exceptions to the rule of male superiority.
Hume’s admitting the numerous exceptions to the alleged rule highlights
the harm of his own nonchalance in this regard, including his several
remarks about women’s inferiority. During a time when women’s educa-
tion was so limited, it is not surprising that women seemed generally
inferior. Jacqueline Taylor adds to Hume’s insight that polygamy harms
men by depriving them of friendship, that the associated “need to tyran-
nize women also has the epistemic cost of not seeing women for who they
really are, the capacities they really possess, and their (near) equality with
men.” We can add that a similar, if less severe, epistemic cost comes with
complacent pride in male superiority. Hume can never quite get beyond
that “near.”
Relative to the domestic tyrant, this is a gentle failing, and Hume does
emphasize the exceptions. But propagating the stereotype, especially in
works for the general reading public, increases the hardship of the already


“Without Gallantry and without Jealousy,” –. Falkenstein is careful to point out that the
system of gallantry “does not impose moral obligations or serve as a foundation for rights” (). It
is only a step on the road to more substantial reforms in gender relations.

The possibility that Elizabeth I might have affected sorrow at the death of Mary Queen of Scots in
order to appear more womanly and gain the affections of her subjects presents an interesting foil to
male gallantry. It suggests how a woman who does know herself superior to men might be similarly
“generous.” On Elizabeth’s “excellent hypocrisy,” see Baier, Death and Character, –.

Cf. Mary Wollstonecraft: “But avoiding, as I have hitherto done, any direct comparison of the two
sexes collectively, or frankly acknowledging the inferiority of woman, according to the present
appearance of things, I shall only insist that men have increased that inferiority till women are
almost sunk below the standard of rational creatures. Let their faculties have room to unfold, and
their virtues to gain strength, and then determine where the whole sex must stand in the intellectual
scale” (Vindication of the Rights of Woman, ).

Reflecting Subjects, .

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 Loving 
difficult position of women who were exceptions to the rule. Public
reassertion of the generalization decreases the chances of extraordinary
women being taken seriously as intellectual and moral peers, thus muf-
fling potential counterexamples. Hume’s account of pride implies that
when others fail to reinforce a person’s sense of her positive qualities, the
results include enervation of spirit and an undermining of positive self-
assessment. Extraordinary women, then, may despair of opportunities for
exercising their talent. Even if they do not, their accomplishments cannot
acquire public significance if the dominant culture dismisses them as
female trifling. The consequent silencing of superior women makes it less
likely that they will inspire other women to attain greater excellence of
mind and character, and more difficult to discover that the stereotype is
ill-grounded.
Having accused Hume of this much, it is only fair to admit that there
are mitigating circumstances. His practical philosophy portrays an ideal
character who shares the noble pride admired by the ancients and the
commitment to humanity admired by the moderns. To inspire that “noble
emulation” that he says “is the source of every excellence,” one must have
traits of both the good and the great (..). One may possess much
personal merit without the more sublime virtues. But those virtues seize
the public’s attention in ways that inspire esteem and imitation. For such
purposes, we need power without tyranny and strength without cruelty.
However rare this combination may be in general, the situation of women
for most of human history would make it even rarer among members of
the “fair sex.”
Consider the ancient examples of powerful women, some of whom
Hume cites in various places: Clytemnestra, Medea, Hera. Consider
the real-life examples of Elizabeth I and Isabella, wife of Edward II. All
these powerful women were also known for vindictiveness, cruelty, and
aggression. This is precisely what Hume would predict, given the enduring
oppression of women. In his ascriptions of negative qualities to women, he
sometimes attributes those qualities to circumstantial causes rather than
innate gender differences. When he says in “Of National Characters” that
the passion of revenge “seems to reign with the greatest force in priests and
women,” he gives this mollifying explanation: “Because, being deprived of
the immediate exertion of anger, in violence and combat, they are apt to
fancy themselves despised on that account; and their pride supports their


Hume mentions Clytemnestra in “A Dialogue” at EPM Dia.. Corneille’s portrayal of Medea
appears at EPM .; Timomachus’s painting of Medea at ...

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
vindictive disposition” (..n). Likewise, after accusing women of
violent love of dominion in “Of Love and Marriage,” he blames the
situation on men’s abuse of their authority. “Tyrants, we know, produce
rebels; and all history informs us, that rebels when they prevail, are apt to
become tyrants in their turn” (EWU .).
These explanations leave open the possibility that treating women better
may prevent their developing such vicious traits. They also help explain
why so few women exemplified the ideal of strength without cruelty.
Having been long oppressed by men, women were unlikely to gain power
without exertions of cruelty. (“Of Love and Marriage” also includes a story
of Scythian women who rebel against their male enslavers, overpowering
the men by stabbing out their eyes.) Even if women were, through lucky
accident, able to gently acquire power, the natural course of human
passions would run toward a desire for revenge against those who had
previously tyrannized them. It is significant that Hume ascribes this train
of sentiments to priests as well as women: women react to such frustration
just as analogously confined men do.
Despite Hume’s experience and study of outstanding women, he fails to
seriously question the age-old belief in women’s inferiority. Despite hold-
ing a theory of the passions that acknowledges humiliation’s powers to
stifle efforts toward self-improvement, he allows himself to judge feminine
capacity on the basis of a sample corrupted by centuries of humiliation.
On the other hand, Hume’s critical gaze notices the damage done by
tyranny over women, and he provides grounds for experiments in gender
equality – the very experiments that in some places now make it possible
for women to be both strong and humane. At the end of the day, despite
his occasional condescension, one senses that Hume simply liked women
and, especially as he grew older, respected them as well. He enjoyed their
company and wanted them as friends. Since he recognized that true friend-
ships require equality, he had every reason to promote as much equality
between the sexes as was feasible. Though we may wish he had seen that
more was feasible than eighteenth-century Europe acknowledged, we can
admire the worthiness of the aim and the amiability of its motive.


Unfortunately, Hume’s saying that this is the reason why he would have perfect equality in marriage
suggests that his support for such equality is more a matter of policy than persuasion of actual
equality between men and women.

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  

Thinking

. On the Use and Abuse of “Philosophy” in the Essays

Did the mature Hume abandon philosophy – or “real philosophy”? Some
of those who think so place the dividing line after the Treatise, some after
the first Enquiry, and some after the second Enquiry. We are told that he
abandoned philosophy for history, for literature, or for journalistic prose.
Or the story may go that he abandoned one type of philosophy – meta-
physics or moral philosophy, for instance – for another, such as practical
ethics or politics.
These debates too often assume conceptions of “philosophy” that would
have been foreign to Hume, without considering his own use of the term.
He distinguishes between types of philosophy at the end of the Treatise
and the beginning of the first Enquiry. But how does Hume use the term
“philosophy” in the Essays? If he had rejected philosophy as a suitable
occupation for a man of letters, we would expect him to characterize it as
useless or worse. Does he?
He does, but only occasionally – far less and in a more qualified way
than one would expect of someone who had dismissed the enterprise
altogether. Of course, he might have abandoned philosophy himself yet
held it an estimable activity for others. But this is not Hume’s position
in the Essays. We find instead a remarkable continuity with his attitude
toward philosophy in earlier works, particularly the first Enquiry.
We can divide Hume’s negative remarks about philosophy into two
broad, sometimes overlapping, categories: those that accuse philosophers
of overreaching and those that warn against philosophy contributing to
factionalism. Overreaching philosophy can be amusing, like watching an


For a summary of the history of these debates, see the introduction to Harris’s Hume.

See Introduction, Section ..

For a review of the scholarly confusion surrounding Hume’s distinction between philosophical
anatomy and painting, see Abramson, “Philosophical Anatomy and Painting.”



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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
adolescent boy trying to carry something whose weight he cannot bear.
Or it can be dangerous, as when the weight becomes precarious rather than
awkward.
For example, philosophers – particularly of a Stoic bent – sometimes
fancy that they can free humans from the human condition and that study-
ing their precepts will “render happiness entirely independent of everything
external” (..). Here, in “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion,” this
effort appears as a worthy aim, pushed a little too far. The wise person
knows that she cannot be sufficient unto herself, but she endeavors to
come as close as is compatible with physical and social nourishment. In
“Of Moral Prejudices,” however, the related “grave philosophical Endeav-
our after Perfection” hardens the heart, enervates the spirit of virtue, and
produces contempt for fellow human beings. This pretended wisdom is
“the most egregious Folly of all Others” (EWU .).
Likewise, ambitious philosophers sometimes think that they can replace
the work of politicians, with laughable or lamentable results. If even the
best governments can do little to improve the moral character of their
people, efforts to do so by disseminating “the most refined precepts of
philosophy” must prove impotent (..). The “wise magistrate” does
not develop a plan of state on the basis of any “supposed argument and
philosophy” but respects people’s predilection for established practices and
institutions (..).
Last, philosophy in its speculative guise can confound the practitioner
and, if it somehow gains popular ascendancy, damage the public sense
of duty. Hume recommends the study of history as an antidote to what
happens when “a philosopher contemplates characters and manners in his
closet,” so that “the general abstract view of the objects leaves the mind so
cold and unmoved, that the sentiments of nature have no room to play,
and he scarce feels the difference between vice and virtue” (EWU .).
And both “Of the Original Contract” and “Of Passive Obedience” warn
against the pernicious consequences of philosophical theories invented to
support political parties. “Of the Original Contract” ascribes these dangers
to false philosophy that refines away virtues and duties by “sifting and
scrutinizing [them], by every captious rule of logic, in every light or posi-
tion, in which [they] may be placed” (..). “Of Passive Obedience,”


Related usages contrast philosophical schemes with those that are politically feasible. See, for
example, Hume’s suggestion that were it not for the strength of historical testimony, Sparta would
seem “a mere philosophical whim or fiction, and impossible ever to be reduced to practice”
(..). “Of the Original Contract” often refers to philosophical ideas in this way.

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 Thinking 
on the other hand, acknowledges that real philosophy may identify cir-
cumstances that warrant suspending the rules of justice, but Hume warns
that detailing these circumstances would be an irresponsible gift to those
looking for reasons to act like knaves (..).
So philosophers are prone to conceit, which should be no surprise.
Hume seems especially concerned, however, with the danger of philosophy
itself becoming sectarian or attaching itself to other forms of sectarianism.
Hume claims that “sects of philosophy, in the ancient world, were more
zealous than parties of religion” (..). The underlying tendency, how-
ever, did not die with Chrysippus or Speusippus. Accidental factors have
held philosophy in check, such as the proximity of nations with varying
prejudices. The resulting intellectual competition prevents a single philo-
sophical sect from becoming dominant, as Hume says happened when the
“Peripatetic philosophy was alone admitted into all the schools.” Modern
Europe thus escapes the hegemony of “the Cartesian philosophy, to which
the French nation shewed such a strong propensity towards the end of the
last century” (..).
A worse evil can arise when philosophy attaches itself to a religious sect.
Hume argues that this union has promoted violent wars and stultified
genuine inquiry. Ancient religious followers defined themselves by narra-
tives, but “as philosophy was widely spread over the world, at the time
when Christianity arose,” Christian teachers had to place their views
within the confines of a speculative system. The resulting sect allied the
agonistic character of philosophy with the political motives of priests,
who had their own reasons for seeking victory rather than dialectic. The
dominance of late medieval Aristotelianism led to “the utter depravation
of every kind of learning” (..). The “keenness in dispute” charac-
teristic of philosophy exacerbated the violence when this dominance
fractured during the Reformation (..).
This is the worst of what Hume has to say about philosophy in the
Essays. It can exacerbate violence and become an accessory to pusillanim-
ous power plays, in addition to overreaching and thinking it can conquer
or retool nature. These are serious evils. But Hume thinks that they are
evils associated with philosophy gone awry and that another mode of


For years, I have been reading this word as “deprivation”; Hume chooses the much stronger
depravation. Learning is corrupted, perverted, depraved, not merely stifled.

Philosophy only gets some of the blame here: Hume first mentions the conflict between early
Christians and civil authorities, which concentrated power in priests who would not submit to the
state’s authority. See ..–.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
philosophy offers important compensatory goods. Let us now consider
what Hume says in the Essays about the benefits of philosophy.
First, Hume refers to philosophy as a search for wisdom and personal
moral improvement, not always with an ironic wink at the pretensions of
the Stoic sage. The most striking instance is Hume’s footnote correction to
the Sceptic’s pessimism, where he lists twelve “philosophical topics and
reflections” that can improve the passions:
Philosophy greedily seizes these, studies them, weighs them, commits them
to the memory, and familiarizes them to the mind: And their influence on
tempers, which are thoughtful, gentle, and moderate, may be considerable.
But what is their influence, you will say, if the temper be antecedently
disposed after the same manner as that to which they pretend to form it?
They may, at least, fortify that temper, and furnish it with views, by which
it may entertain and nourish itself. (..n)
This is restrained, but not insignificant, praise of philosophy. Hume
knows – perhaps from personal experience – that even thoughtful, gentle,
and moderate tempers need nourishment. This temperament cannot
protect anyone from all the vicissitudes of life or from the violent, unpleas-
ant passions that arise in response to attacks from within and without. The
Stoic’s promise is overstated. But one can store up resources for such pains,
both by “frequent perusal of the entertaining moralists” and by “habit and
study” to encourage “that philosophical temper which both gives force to
reflection, and by rendering a great part of your happiness independent,
takes off the edge from all disorderly passions, and tranquillizes the mind”
(..n). In short, there is a multiform continuum between being
even-tempered and serene, on the one hand, and reactive and wretched,
on the other. Those closer to serene still need fortification to maintain a
satisfied relationship with the human condition. For such fortification, it is
reasonable to turn to philosophy, which allows us some perspective on
present sufferings. We know Hume as the mitigated sceptic; here, it seems,
we have Hume the mitigated sage.


For other positive uses of “philosophy” in this sense, see “Of the Standard of Taste,” where Hume
writes that an older man may take “pleasure in wise, philosophical reflections concerning the
conduct of life and moderation of the passions” (..), and “Of the Middle Station of Life,”
in which Hume says that those in this station “form the most numerous Rank of Men, that can be
suppos’d susceptible of Philosophy” (EWU .).

For a nuanced discussion of Hume’s view of philosophy’s role as a therapy of desire for those with
philosophical temperaments, see Lemmens, “Melancholy of the Philosopher.”

For a recent helpful discussion of Hume’s relation to his characters, the Stoic and Sceptic, see
Walker, “Reconciling the Stoic and the Sceptic.”

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 Thinking 
Moreover, Hume argues that philosophy can effect one personal
improvement of special importance, beyond these general resources for
the passions and temper. Philosophy is uniquely qualified to oppose the
vices of false religion, particularly in its superstitious form. In “Of Super-
stition and Enthusiasm,” he writes that there is “nothing but philosophy
able entirely to conquer [the] unaccountable terrors” that give rise to
superstition (..). In “Of Suicide,” he employs a medical rather than
martial metaphor: philosophy provides a “sovereign antidote” to supersti-
tion’s “pestilent distemper” (EWU .). No other remedy is as reliable:
even those with good sense, experience, and happy temperaments can find
themselves slaves of “so virulent a poison” that they “feel many of their joys
blasted by this importunate intruder” (EWU ., .).
The efficacy of the cure depends on the germ of the disease: “Love or
anger, ambition or avarice, have their root in the temper and affections,
which the soundest reason is scarce ever able fully to correct. But super-
stition, being founded on false opinion, must immediately vanish, when
true philosophy has inspired juster sentiments of superior powers” (EWU
.). The cure fails only, Hume goes on to say, when philosophy is
“false and sophisticated.”
This passage is, at best, misleading. I will return later to the objection
that such confidence in philosophy’s powers is naïve, or at least unsceptical
and un-Humean. The more specific problem is that these remarks seem
contrary to Hume’s own earlier account of superstition’s origin. “Of Super-
stition and Enthusiasm” locates the source of superstition in a combination
of factors, including “weakness, fear, melancholy, [and] ignorance” (..).
To call superstition “founded on false opinion,” therefore, makes the phe-
nomenon less psychologically complex than Hume acknowledges it to be.
This oversimplification, in turn, calls into question the optimism about
philosophy as an immediate cure.
We can find some help in the claim that not fear alone, but fear
combined with our propensity to invent threats to justify it, produces
superstition. When “real objects of terror are wanting, the soul . . . finds
imaginary ones, to whose power and malevolence it sets no limits”
(..–). Belief in these malevolent fictions looks like a candidate for


Cf. H :: “neither is there any instance that argument has ever been able to free the people from
that enormous load of absurdity, with which superstition has every where overwhelmed them.”
Jennifer Herdt discusses the apparent tension between such remarks and Hume’s claims in
“Of Suicide” in Religion and Faction in Hume’s Moral Philosophy, –.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
false opinion grounding superstition. By providing guidance to an unruly
imagination, philosophy may indeed provide a check on such beliefs.
On the other hand, philosophy might yoke itself to such fancies and
exacerbate superstition’s negative effects, as in Hume’s description of the
union of Christianity with medieval Aristotelianism. Only true philosophy
can provide the requisite cure. Mitigated scepticism can foster rejection of
metaphysical claims about occult causes, reconciliation to reason’s limits,
and cheerful submission to nature’s dominance. This mode of philosophy
might enable people to overcome the contrary tendencies of superstitious
opinions. The Sceptic’s caution still stands: only those with a certain
temperament are likely to follow such guidance. But philosophy’s minis-
trations can still be worthwhile. Russell, who reads Hume as on a “Lucre-
tian mission” to undermine religion theoretically and practically, suggests
one way that Hume’s philosophy might have power against superstition
despite its impotence with ordinary people. Hume would first emanci-
pate “the most able and gifted members of society” and “redirect [their]
intellectual energies” to real contributions to human welfare, thereby
weakening “the conditions that encourage and promote religion in soci-
ety.” I do not deny that Hume might have had hope in some such
trickle-down policy. But the significance of Humean philosophy is not
exclusively dependent on its influencing the masses. Someone with a
temperament prone to true philosophy may yet be susceptible to super-
stitious impulses, particularly if she lives among those who fortify them.
For such a person, true philosophy offers hope. This hope is significant,
even if its effects are confined to her own welfare.
Hume thus credits philosophy with effects that are both psychologically
and morally important. Curing superstition does not merely replace an
unreasonable belief with a reasonable one; it alters one’s fundamental
stance toward experience. It inspires “juster sentiments of superior powers”
and liberates people from crippling fear. “Reason” working on the passions
in this way is no problem for Hume, as long as “reason” stands for a
suitably Humean concept. The training of the imagination that true
philosophy requires is a promising possibility. In the first Enquiry, Hume
observes that the imagination’s natural tendencies, though they can be
amusing, often cross the ends of good judgment. The imagination “is
naturally sublime, delighted with whatever is remote and extraordinary,
and running, without controul, into the most distant parts of space and
time, in order to avoid the objects, which custom has rendered too familiar

Riddle of Hume’s Treatise, .

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 Thinking 
to it.” Coming to terms with “the force of the Pyrrhonian doubt” and
the sole corrective of “natural instinct” helps the philosopher correct her
judgment (EHU .). Thus reining in the imagination would also
rein in the passions: as the idea of a malevolent, vengeful deity recedes,
the passions attending that idea must recede likewise. Reason, as part
of the imagination in a broad sense, can affect passions by increasing or
decreasing the vivacity of ideas to which we have passionate responses.
Genevieve Lloyd compares the Enquiry’s assertion of the need to
restrain the imagination with the Sceptic’s complaint that philosophers
“imagine that [nature] is as much bounded in her operations as we are in
our speculation” (..–). These philosophers thus assume that
what makes them happy makes everyone happy, that everyone’s passions
are the same as their own. Here the fault, Lloyd notes, “lies in a lack of
mental expansiveness of mind – an inappropriate limiting of the imagin-
ation.” “The Sceptic” and the Enquiry thus identify two contrary vices
of the imagination. It can be too constricted as well as too wide-roaming.
Yet in both works “there are echoes of the Pyrrhonian idea of the trans-
formative effects of exposure to doubt – of acknowledged not-knowing as
the key to the contented life.” Lloyd observes that the essay addresses
questions about the good life, as opposed to the Enquiry’s “desire to set
proper limits to philosophical inquiry.” Yet, through palliation of super-
stition, setting those limits shares a connection to promotion of the
good life.
Nevertheless, discrete exercises of philosophical reflection have limited
power. Being convinced of the power of sceptical doubt and realizing the
submission to nature required to overcome it is not the work of a single
moment or meditation. It requires developing a habit of philosophical
reflection, in which one gradually learns to attend to arguments and
overcome fear of abandoning cherished convictions. Though this habit
requires a certain antecedent temperament, it also fortifies that tempera-
ment. This understanding of philosophy fits with Hume’s propensity to
use the term “philosophy” to refer to a way of life, type of character, and
habit of reflection. Only such a comprehensive practice could have the
power that he claims for it in “Of Suicide” – of curing the mind of a vice
with a peculiarly “pernicious tendency” to make its possessors miserable.
The Essays credit philosophy with one more serious benefit, in addition
to its power over superstition and capacity for general moral improvement.

   
See T .... See T ...n. Enlightenment Shadows, . Ibid., .

Ibid.

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
In spite of his cautions about mingling philosophy and politics, Hume
suggests in several places that philosophers can render serious political
service. Philosophy intrudes on politics to everyone’s detriment when it
attempts to transform human nature rather than serve it. But philosophers
who avoid this error, along with that of attaching themselves to factions,
provide a unique perspective on political questions.
The early political essays make several strong statements to this effect.
“That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science” includes the claim that if a
constitution is very bad, then “the zeal of patriots is in that case much less
requisite than the patience and submission of philosophers” (..). “Of
the First Principles of Government” begins with a testimony to philoso-
phers’ resistance to political manipulation that dominates most people:
“Nothing appears more surprizing to those, who consider human affairs
with a philosophical eye, than the easiness with which the many are
governed by the few; and the implicit submission, with which men resign
their own sentiments and passions to those of their rulers” (..). Hume
does not abandon this view as he matures. In “Of the Protestant Succes-
sion,” published first with the Political Discourses in , he writes that
only a philosopher without party affiliation can weigh the advantages and
disadvantages attending the Hanovers and Stuarts as heirs to the British
throne. He then takes up the charge, hoping to “show the temper, if not
the understanding of a philosopher” (..).
The preceding paragraph’s description of the nonpartisan philosopher
shows that Hume has set himself no easy task:
Such a one will readily, at first, acknowledge that all political questions
are infinitely complicated, and that there scarcely ever occurs, in any
deliberation, a choice, which is either purely good, or purely ill. Conse-
quences, mixed and varied, may be foreseen to flow from every measure:
And many consequences, unforeseen, do always, in fact, result from every
one. Hesitation, and reserve, and suspense, are, therefore, the only senti-
ments he brings to this essay or trial. Or if he indulges any passion, it is
that of derision against the ignorant multitude, who are always clamorous
and dogmatical, even in the nicest questions, of which, from want of
temper, perhaps still more than of understanding, they are altogether unfit
judges. (..)
“Of Commerce” says that the “chief business of philosophers” is to “regard
the general course of things” (..). If such thinkers are to wade into
particular questions, then they must do so on tip-toe. And it may still


The essay was written, however, by . See Chapter , note .

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 Thinking 
prove an ordeal: “essay” suggests the indefatigable researches of Montaigne;
“trial” calls to mind the many methods humans have devised for distin-
guishing guilt from innocence. The task’s difficulty, however, by no means
diminishes its importance. Because of their practice at regarding the
general and the abstract, philosophers have some hope of keeping their
minds fixed on vague and unpredictable consequences. Ideas of such
consequences, hazy as they must be, cannot attract the steady gaze of the
common thinker. The required level of emotional restraint also constitutes
a significant difficulty. Perhaps Hume is grappling with this difficulty
when he indulges in that ugly sentiment about deriding the ignorant
multitude. (This remark highlights the obstacles, noted in the last chapter,
to combining love for the public with a philosophical temperament.)
Despite these difficulties, Hume’s opinion in the Essays is that suitably
chastened philosophers can be appropriate judges of political matters.
Their contributions can range from the foundational (the nature of a
constitution, for example) to the adjudication of specific issues (such as
the claims of competing royal dynasties). What of even more foundational
questions concerning the rights and obligations of rulers and subjects?
Hume has plenty to say about such matters and does not think that they
are in principle too difficult to put into language comprehensible by the
essay-reading public. Several of the Essays, particularly “Of the Original
Contract,” include such efforts.
Here philosophers must tread very carefully. The theory that Hume
finds philosophically most plausible does not preach. It is difficult to
explain the basis of justice and allegiance in utility without encouraging
short-sighted people who fail to recognize the very great utility in a stable
government and who underestimate the profound harms of civil war.
Alternative theories do not escape this problem of inspiring rebellion or
the contrary one of justifying tyranny. Both contract theories and theories
of divine right have occasioned abuses in both directions. Moreover, any
theory that roots around in the foundations of governmental institutions
can uncover the “force and violence” behind the establishment of almost
all of them, generating repulsion against the laws (..).
So there is ground on which the philosopher must tread lightly, and
perhaps some over which she should pass in silence. But the hesitation
and reserve she has cultivated ought to help her practice such restraint.
Hume goes so far as to suggest that even a thinker who fails to absorb the
lessons of mitigated scepticism may be of considerable benefit. The Polit-
ical Discourses begins with Hume dividing the majority of humankind into
“shallow thinkers, who fall short of the truth,” and “abstruse thinkers, who

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
go beyond it” (..). But instead of condemning metaphysical over-
reachers, he remarks that, between these two types, the abstruse thinkers
are “by far the most useful and valuable. They suggest hints, at least, and
start difficulties, which they want, perhaps, skill to pursue; but which may
produce fine discoveries, when handled by men who have a more just way
of thinking” (..). They do not live up to the mean – “those of solid
understanding” (..–). But their novelties are amusing, and they
may suggest genuine advances. As long as she avoids joining a political or
religious faction, the abstruse thinker can cause little harm – and she may
do some good.

. Philosophy as Distance

I have shown that in the Essays Hume uses “philosophy” in three positive
senses: as a source of individual character improvement, as a cure for
superstition, and as a counselor to politicians. But is there anything that
these three modes of advantageous philosophy have in common? Can we
offer any positive definition of “philosophy” in the Essays?
If by “definition” we mean a list of necessary and sufficient conditions,
surely not. But we can trace a family resemblance, and its features return
to an idea from Chapter , on “Composing.” Philosophy, in these various
modes, requires regarding one’s world and the people who inhabit it from
a certain distance. The understanding of philosophy is consistent with
the way Hume portrays his discipline in the first Enquiry.
Hume’s recommendations for salutary philosophical reflections in the
footnote to “The Sceptic” require moderate detachment. Reflection always
requires distancing oneself from the objects on which one wishes to reflect,
at least far enough to “see” that object from a second-order perspective.
Hume suggests seeing suffering and agitating desires from broader perspec-
tives – for example, that of a larger group of people (“every condition has
concealed ills,” so “why envy any body?”; “How many are happy in the
condition of which I complain? How many envy me?”), of a longer
duration of time (“Custom deadens the sense both of the good and the


Cf. Harris’s characterization of Hume’s life as a man of letters as philosophical, meaning that he was
“free enough to be able to rise above the everyday and the particular and, from that vantage point,
to identify and characterize general principles that were otherwise hard, if not impossible, to
discern” (Hume, ). The emphasis on forming general principles makes this conception of
philosophical thinking more narrow than the one I have in mind here, but they share the notion
that philosophy requires distance from objects of reflection.

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 Thinking 
ill, and levels every thing”; “Anticipate by your hopes and fancy future
consolation, which time infallibly brings to every affliction”), or of the
fullness of one’s life rather than confrontation with particular goods or evils
(“How many other good things have I? Then why be vexed for one ill?”)
(..–). These are not prescriptions for seeing the world sub specie
aeternitatis. He also recommends enjoying the present and cultivating the
esteem of one’s acquaintance. He prizes the social comforts of friendship,
mutual regard, and compassion. But he belongs in that tradition of
thinkers who believe that a little holy indifference enables one to feel these
passions with more generosity. The relevant form of indifference is not to
other people’s concerns but to the effects of those concerns on one’s own
particular interest. All of these prescriptions, moreover, are moderated by
Hume’s general cautions about the limits of human nature, summarized
by another one of his philosophical reflections in “The Sceptic”: “Expect
not too great happiness in life. Human nature admits it not” (..n).
Lloyd, discussing “Humean detachment,” emphasizes the Sceptic’s own
enjoyment of “the humanizing and ennobling force of the shared life of the
mind.” Though a severe critic of the Stoic’s overreaching dogmatism, the
Sceptic presents an engaging model of the “Stoic ideal of acceptance,”
which includes “resilience in the face of adversity, a sustained calm tran-
quillity, and – above all – a capacity for enjoyment.” One of the ways
that the Sceptic expresses that enjoyment is by his quick-fire mocking of
philosophical consolations. “Your sorrow is fruitless, and will not change the
course of destiny,” the philosopher intones. “Very true,” the Sceptic replies,
“And for that reason I am very sorry.” He approves more of Antipater the
Cyreniac’s consolation for his blindness: “What! says her, Do you think
there are no pleasures in the dark?” (..). We need not conflate the
Sceptic with Hume entirely to see that Hume is laughing, too. Humor is
another way of distancing ourselves from the causes of suffering. Some-
times the amusing folly studied by the true philosopher is her own.
Likewise, philosophy as a cure for superstition requires a perspective
of moderate distance. To be “thoroughly convinced of the force of the
Pyrrhonian doubt” requires retreating from the notion that one’s reason
has a firm grip on the world in itself. It chastises, however, the philo-
sopher’s tendency to roam too far from common life into “distant and
high enquiries.” But is this really recommending distance? Isn’t Hume


I take this as pointing out that one’s sense of goods and evils fades as one becomes accustomed to
them over time – hence my placing this in the category of reflections from a longer duration of time.
 
Enlightenment Shadows, . Ibid., .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
counseling immersion in nature’s dominance, avoiding flights of fancy
above our necessary engagement with the world? Not so simply as might
appear. The sceptical philosopher, by this rendering, appears no different
from a common dogmatist who has never engaged in reflection at all. To
benefit from the philosophical exercises that lead to mitigated scepticism,
we must remember their lessons. One of those lessons is the confinement
of philosophical researches “to such subjects as fall under daily practice
and experience.” This confinement may seem the easiest thing in the
world to an average person, but to someone with philosophical leanings,
it is not at all easy. The drive to understand, the hunter’s urge to satisfy
curiosity about metaphysical questions, lies deep within such characters.
Normal people, immersed in the world, may go about their business
without questioning whether colors are really in objects or their perceivers’
minds. The philosopher, however, will ever want to snatch up the object,
hold it at the remove necessary for philosophical contemplation, and
attempt to discover its substantial nature. Avoiding this temptation, as
Hume says, requires keeping in mind “the imperfection of those faculties
which they employ, their narrow reach, and their inaccurate operations”
(EHU .). This, in turn, requires considering not only the objects of
the world but also one’s own faculties, from the distance of the
philosophical gaze.
Hume also praises mitigated scepticism for its ability to humble our
natural tendency “to be affirmative and dogmatical,” reducing our pride in
our own opinions as well as our prejudice against opposing ones (EHU
.). The similarities between Hume’s language here and his description
of the philosophical temper in “Of the Protestant Succession” are striking.
There, he credits the philosopher with an attitude of hesitation, reserve,
and suspense. Here, he concludes his discussion of the deflating benefit of
sceptical doubt by noting that “there is a degree of doubt, and caution, and
modesty, which, in all kinds of scrutiny and decision, ought for ever to
accompany a just reasoner” (EHU .). Among the things from which
the philosopher must distance herself are her own judgments. To do so
without falling into weak-mindedness may prove a delicate operation,
requiring, one suspects, what Nietzsche calls “light feet.” But again, this
is why the philosophical stance must be one of moderate distance – a


On the difference between the true philosopher and the unreflective dogmatist, despite possible
similarities in their outward behavior, see Livingston, Philosophical Melancholy and Delirium
(especially chapter ), and Laursen, The Politics of Skepticism, .

See, e.g., Twilight of the Idols, “What the Germans Lack,” .

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 Thinking 
perspective from which one can grasp one’s own judgments when neces-
sary, while seeing that alternative ones are available as well.
Besides the chastening of judgment, there is another sense in which an
anti-superstitious attitude implies distance from the world. In truth, not
everyone trips along accepting the evidence of their senses as revealing the
Ding-an-sich. Many people see omens everywhere, occult powers in natural
objects, and anthropomorphic desires and willings at every level of external
existence. Superstitious observers are not disengaged from the natural
world; they are wholly immersed in reading it through the superstitious
hermeneutic. In certain circles, it is common to lament the “disenchant-
ment of the world,” which allegedly has robbed us of our sense of wonder
at being part of the Great Chain of Being. Hume, however, notes that
seeing the world as enchanted inspires terror as well as wonder. The
sceptical philosopher avoids this fear by coming to terms with the thought
that moons and suns undergo eclipses, cocks crow, and black cats wander
about with neither concern for nor direct influence on human affairs.
There are definite losses here – of a readily available narrative of
meaning, and the wonder that comes from belief in events that run
contrary to the laws of natural experience. Hume testifies to the pleasure
of wonder in “Of Miracles,” noting that it is such an agreeable emotion
that even those whom the pleasure does not seduce into believing in
miracles enjoy hearing stories of them (EHU .). But this wonder
has a dark side too: “if the spirit of religion join itself to the love of wonder,
there is an end of common sense” (EHU .). And another source of
surprise and wonder is available to the mitigated sceptic – that of finding
herself inhabiting a world so much larger than herself, which she cannot
expect to comprehend. Whether one finds this wonder pleasant or not,
I suspect, depends on whether one has the temperament of a sceptical
philosopher. Regardless, such wonder requires recognizing that the dis-
tance between one’s mind and the world may be unbridgeable.
Finally, the philosopher who offers counsel in political matters must
maintain distance from the factionalist quarrels that characterize much of
political business. Political parties are not famous for their toleration of
hesitation, reserve, and suspense in their members. Moreover, for reasons
I discussed in the previous chapter, maintaining these sentiments within a
party is difficult, because of both social pressure and social consolation.
Political parties affect both one’s passions and one’s judgments about truth


Charles Taylor discusses this lament in a relatively nonpartisan way in The Ethics of Authenticity.
See especially chapters  and .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
(not that there is any easy separation between the two). Again, Hume
argues that belonging to a party can encourage vicious impulses, because
we get moral reinforcement from our fellows for anything we do that serves
the party’s interest, regardless of our behavior’s effects on others. At its
extremes, this encouragement promotes Manichean worldviews, from
which one sorts even new acquaintances into crude categories – “for us
or against us.” More subtly, we might find what Bernard Williams (in a
different context) calls debasing the “moral currency.” As party ends
justify questionable means, one’s commitment to some virtues may erode.
Particularly vulnerable are those virtues that concern the broader human
community – justice, extensive benevolence, and humanity.
In addition to these moral consequences, political partisanship threatens
the operation of reason itself. Parties tend to insulate their members from
opposing points of view and countervailing evidence. This effect is intim-
ately related to the previous ones: a sense of justice, for example, might
lead one to insist on hearing from an opposing side, and the erosion of that
sense would correspondingly reduce the motivation to do so. But it is fair
to identify intellectual lassitude as an independent effect. With a party
platform readily available, one need not do the work of thinking about
which views to hold. One might do so, of course, and perhaps some
thinking about such views preceded the decision to join the party in the
first place. But the party will be happy to take over the job of reasoned
reflection about issues. Kant is correct in “What Is Enlightenment?”: it is
so easy to be immature.
A party affiliation does not consign one to being a vicious automaton
toeing the party line. Again, Hume does not think that we can eliminate
political parties, nor that attempting to do so would be good policy.
A philosopher, however, who offers the political counsel that Hume
suggests she might, must be on her guard against the social and intellectual
pressure parties create. She must be able to see things from alternative
perspectives, so she must distance herself from all parties to take up a more
general point of view.
In extreme situations, such a philosopher would need yet one more kind
of distance, perhaps of a most difficult sort. This point is suggested by
Hume’s claim in “That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science” that if a
constitution is very bad, the state needs philosophers rather than zealous


Morality, .

On the expansion of Hume’s conception of justice beyond property rights after the Treatise, see
Baier, The Cautious Jealous Virtue, chapter .

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 Thinking 
patriots. In this situation, in which the fundamental structure of a nation
proves unstable, wise women and men will fear for their security and
perhaps mourn the loss of the ancient regime, though they recognize it to
have become untenable. To be of service in such a situation, a philosopher
would have to distance herself both from the fear and from the country she
once knew. This does not necessarily require seeing oneself as a citizen of
the world, but it does require a certain leaving home. Sometimes maturity
demands that we distance ourselves even from those who gave us life.

. Ancients and Moderns: A Pas de Deux

If philosophy requires distance, then we will be true philosophers, it
appears, to the extent that we can avoid getting too close. But that seems
harsh and un-Humean. Closeness helps make us human – the more so as it
allows us to enter into the deeper level of sympathy that promotes true
compassion. And we should be wary of any recommendation to aim for a
stratosphere of reflection from which all-too-human things seem to have
been overcome. “Be a philosopher,” Hume advises, “but, amidst all your
philosophy, be still a man” (EHU .). It is difficult to be a man while one
plays with the illusion of being an angel or a Kantian saint.
Fortunately, we can work with many of these forms of distancing as we
do with a camera lens – zooming in and out as necessary. In the morning,
I can reflect on my pain as one moment in a whole life, remembering
Montaigne’s adage that evils too “have their life and their limits, their
illnesses and their health.” In the evening, I can let myself feel its full
depths, as I confide those depths to my partner whose commiseration
requires knowing my misery. I can see that same partner as someone whose
love and intelligence offer me support and consolation, but then later look
at him as a work of art whose person and character would be beautiful to
me even if he had never brought goods into my own life besides this
pleasure of observation. And a mitigated sceptic can reflect on the imper-
fections and instability of all human reasoning if she feels herself being
seduced by dogmatism. But she might also hold her own reasoning close,
defending her faculties against attacks from those who do not share such
diffidence.


I have in mind the kind of Kantian saint that Rae Langton describes in “Duty and Desolation.” See
especially .

Essays, “Of Experience,” .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Such footwork is not easy; the power of habit extends to our modes of
thinking. Changing the perspective of thought is not as easy as changing
the focus on a camera. Our inner eyes are trained by their movements. But
we can train for suppleness, too, and it is no small benefit of sceptical
practice that it provides such training. In this last section, I want to return
to theme of progress – both social and individual. For Hume, thinking
about progress often includes comparing the ancients with the moderns,
since it was ancient culture that acted as an alluring ideal for some aspects
of the modern imagination.
It is plausible to see the ongoing contest of ancients and moderns as a
kind of factionalism, and factions limit the possibilities for supple thought.
Parties from principle especially promote calcification of opinion, as Hume
notes in “Of Parties in General.” If our agreement on some “abstract
speculative principle” holds us together, I cannot disagree with you about
that principle and remain in the party (..). Hume observes that we
tend to be tetchy about our opinions: “such is the nature of the human
mind, that it always lays hold on every mind that approaches it; and as it is
wonderfully fortified by an unanimity of sentiments, so is it shocked and
disturbed by any contrariety” (..–). The interplay of fortification and
disturbance can lock the camera lens into whatever position is best for
reflecting the image of my fellow partisans’ ideas. I am supported in my
opinions by my fellows, and I do not want to look at anyone else’s.
This effect does not require the infrastructure of a political party. All it
requires is partisan-like allegiance to an opinion or set of opinions. In place
of allegiance to the court or country party, we pledge ourselves to supply-
side economics or Keynesianism, to romanticism or realism, to progressiv-
ism or narratives of decline. It is as difficult to maintain distance from a
system of thought as it is to be loyal to a party only some of the time –
perhaps more so. Once one is convinced by such a system, it becomes part
of the perspective from which one sees everything else.
Surely the line between having a healthy commitment to a set of
worldview-structuring beliefs and being a partisan of an ism is vague.
The other side of the mean is an intellectual vice exhibited by those who
agree with whichever argument they heard last. But we all know the
symptoms of those who make the opposite (and probably more common)
error: they dismiss counterevidence to any claim made by the system; they
become angry at those who question its validity; they cherry-pick their
reading lists either for supporting arguments or for targets to attack.
A thinker bound so closely to her views cannot, if Hume is right, be a
true philosopher. The true philosopher must leave herself the freedom to

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 Thinking 
travel between points of perspective. This is not to say that she must
occupy the view from nowhere. Like Hume’s general points of view,
philosophical perspective requires sympathetically taking up multiple
points of view. If we want to philosophize about social contract versus
divine-right theories of sovereignty, then we must offer the best arguments
each affords, and even look at the question from both a speculative and
a practical side to put each theory in its best light. If we want to judge
which limitations on marriage are most beneficial, we must try to see what
the proponents of both closed and open arrangements see in their own
proposals. And if we want to understand the prevalence of and possibilities
for progress, we must sometimes think with the ancients and sometimes
with the moderns. To participate in the dance of judgment, the philoso-
pher cannot remain in the audience. She must enter into the dance, taking
up partners for a series of delicate pas de deux. Hume assays such a dance
throughout the Essays.
How graceful is this dance? Hume has set himself a difficult task. He
does not claim to be superhuman, without partisan tendencies or parti-
cular humors, manners, and opinions that direct his own judgment. He
complains repeatedly and explicitly about nostalgia for the past and the
tendency toward antiquarianism. In each of the areas of human life that we
discussed, he praises modern advances. The rule of law, less destructive and
fewer wars, the rejection of slavery, increased trade and industry, refined
poetry and prose, and the welcoming of women into polite society are all
developments to be celebrated. At each step of the way, however, we have
also seen him in conversation with the ancients, often using their ideas
to correct the moderns. And at no point is he complacent in his praise
of modernity: determined assurance that human nature and institutions
will continue to progress is as unwarranted as reactionary attachment to
the past.
If this is a dance, it is fair to say that Hume is usually more comfortable
with his modern partners. But the tune, I submit, is an ancient air. This
description is deliberately vague. I am not making a claim about the influ-
ence of specific ancient thinkers on particular Humean theses. I instead
contend that the Essays exhibit a cast of mind that has ancient roots in the
Hellenistic philosophers, especially the sceptics.


For two important treatments of Hume’s scepticism that focus on his epistemology, see Robert
J. Fogelin’s “Hume’s Skepticism” and Donald C. Ainslie’s Hume’s True Scepticism. Julia Annas
criticizes Hume’s own understanding of ancient scepticism in “Hume and Ancient Scepticism.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
To see that cast of mind, we must reflect on what Hume is doing
in writing essays. “Endeavouring to open the eyes of the public,” he quips
as a dying man. But writers do not write only for others, nor can they
write for all others. Hume aims some of his methods at a relatively
unreflective audience. But in recommending the cultivation of philosoph-
ical distance as a habit of mind, he will only reach the few philosophically
minded among his readers. For those few, however, who are able to take
the perspective of a moderate distance, he recommends thought that leads
to something close to what the ancient Sceptics called epochē, with the
ultimate aim of something close to the general Hellenistic ideal of ataraxia.
Pascal Massie, commenting on Sextus Empiricus, writes that the sceptical
“ethos involves creating an internal space between oneself and one’s own
thoughts . . . Thus, the skeptic is not identical with her thoughts; she is
rather spectator and judge of the thoughts she entertains and continues to
examine but to which she never gives her full assent.” Such mental dis-
tance, whereby we might become critics of our own thoughts, is the primal
distance on which all other forms of philosophical distance depend. The
seeking, hesitating tendency characteristic of someone who manages such
distancing allows her to query the importance of her desires, to wonder
how her friends appear in isolation of the good or evil they cause her, to
recognize the limitations of her own faculties, and to observe the oper-
ations of nature without assuming that they exist to benefit or punish
her. It also moves her to look for alternative perspectives on political
questions – so that when she encounters those who disagree with local
party sentiments, or foreigners whose perspective on her country may
be quite different from her own, she can take this as an opportunity for
escaping her earlier narrowness, rather than a threat against her identity.
In such perspective lies our best hope for tranquility. The mature Hume
no doubt tempers his hope for the “Greatness & Elevation of Soul” that
“can alone teach us to look down upon humane Accidents” (Hume to


“Letter from Adam Smith,” in Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary, xlvi.

“Ataraxia: Tranquility at the End,” –.

Penelhum argues that “Hume is a neo-Hellenistic thinker . . . in maintaining that we should avoid
anxiety by following nature” (“Hume’s Moral Psychology,” ). Hume’s psychological science is
then a method whereby the philosopher comes to understand the nature that she must accept.
“Hume thinks a philosopher must, first and foremost, learn to accept his or her nature for what it
is” (). The acceptance of nature is a helpful way to see Hume’s relation to the Hellenistics, but at
the risk of taking “first and foremost” too literally, I would argue that the philosopher must first
cultivate the habits of mind on which such an acceptance can rest.

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 Thinking 
Michael Ramsay, July , Letters :). But he does not abandon it
altogether. Distance gives the philosopher some armor against the vicissi-
tudes of life and provides her with internal sources of consolation. If her
efforts to accomplish something fail, she can zoom out to consider the
other aspects of life and the possibilities of the future. If she suffers
physically, she can reflect on the elevating beauty of her friend’s character,
or the awe-inducing otherness of the natural world. And if new evidence
contradicts her opinions, that is precisely what she ought to expect will
happen, at least once in a while.
But the tranquility, like the distance, is only moderate. Complete
independence from external forces is the Stoic’s illusion, not the Sceptic’s.
In his own voice, Hume argues that it is an illusion in “Of the Delicacy
of Taste and Passion.” “That degree of perfection is impossible to be
attained” (..). For one thing, the Humean sceptic does not believe that
her reason alone can be the source of her judgment about anything,
including her own passions. These judgments, as well as those of other
people and the external world, all proceed from her sentimental constitu-
tion. This constitution requires external goods, particularly other people,
for its cultivation and sustenance. Its vulnerability is ineliminable. Whether
she generally – or at any particular moment – has the strength to take up a
position of moderate distance is not entirely up to her.
Moreover, she cannot in honesty comfort herself with assurances that,
with Reason at the helm, all will turn out well in the end. All is not right
with the world, and there is no certainty that it ever will be. Since our well-
being is intimately bound up with the world, we are again vulnerable.
Political instability constitutes a particularly strong threat, since a stable
civic environment is the good without which pursuit of other goods is
impossible. “If the reason be asked of that obedience,” Hume writes in
“Of the Original Contract,” “which we are bound to pay to government,
I readily answer, because society could not otherwise subsist” (..). If
society cannot subsist, neither can its members – at least not for long, and
not without creating a new society in some other image. Hume does not
pretend that in extreme situations of instability, such as civil war, philoso-
phy will save a single soul. In his concern about civic destabilization, he
perhaps evinces less confidence than some ancient sceptics about the power
of epochē as a response to the soldier at the door. Those ancients, however,


We should hesitate to read Hume’s expression of that hope, even at age sixteen, too piously. In a
couple of sentences he is practicing “Mortification” by descending to vulgar life, sharing with his
friend that “John has bought a horse he thinks it neither cheap nor dear,” etc. (Letters :).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
tended to be cautious in their promises of ataraxia itself, since to affirm a
necessary connection between Sceptical practice and tranquility would
itself be a form of dogmatism.
Commentators will sometimes admit that Hume admires the practical
moral philosophy of the Hellenistics, but then take pains to argue that he
assesses their theoretical philosophy as beneath serious consideration in
light of the advances in modern thought. Peter Loptson gives a thoughtful
analysis of Hume’s relation to the ancients along these lines, claiming that
Hume admires the “painterly” philosophy of the ancients but not their
abstruse or anatomical theory. With some reservations about the termin-
ology, I have no objection to this story about Hume’s relation to the
ancients, as long as it does not include the implicit premise that the latter
is real philosophy and important, whereas the former is a lesser mode of
thought with correspondingly lesser significance. Hume’s own understand-
ing of philosophy, as shown by his use of the term in the Essays, is more
expansive. And the time that he spent on practical philosophical work as a
mature thinker demonstrates his own recognition of its importance.
That importance is a function of philosophy’s benefit to both the public
and the philosopher. The peculiar danger of political instability offers
philosophers both motive for and hope of exercising public spirit in a
manner harmonious with their philosophical tendencies. Hume, recogniz-
ing the dangers of factionalism, picks up his pen with a conciliating aim
and crafts essays that resist Manicheanisms. Forestalling these dangers
would of course serve every citizen’s interest, by protecting their safety
and liberty. But in serving this end of the majority, rarer spirits benefit
themselves as well: they practice their own habit of moderate distance and
therefore advance their pursuit of tranquility.
Hume makes no promise that philosophy leads to eudaimonia. He
claims that it is an enjoyable practice for those with a certain temperament,
but this is not overall flourishing toward the highest good. The way that he
portrays philosophy in the Essays, however, does suggest that its practice
might offer the more modest goal of tranquility. His theory of sympathy,
moreover, offers the hope that such practices and the resulting passions
might be catching, so that their promotion could have an influence beyond
those with that certain temperament.
In acknowledging that Humean philosophy has a political as well as a
personal aim, am I cleaving a breach between Hume and the Hellenists?


On this point, see Massie, “Ataraxia: Tranquility at the End,” –.

Loptson, “Hume and Ancient Philosophy.”

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 Thinking 
Hegel’s analysis of the Hellenists endures – according to which their
thought was an understandable retreat, in response to the dominance of
Rome, from the political science of Plato and Aristotle. When there is no
hope of unity with the political world one inhabits, “man is driven within
his inmost self” and must “seek the unity and satisfaction, no longer
to be found in the world, in an abstract way.” Despite the differences
between Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics, they shared a common purpose:
“rendering the soul absolutely indifferent to everything which the real
world had to offer.” Scepticism takes this indifference to its limits:
“the immobility of Scepticism made aimlessness itself the object of the
Will”; it “was the counsel of despair to a world which no longer possessed
anything stable.”
From this point of view, the Hellenistics have little to offer to political
thought. Their relation to the state was either one of quietistic withdrawal
or conservatism based on passive acceptance of prevailing customs. Such
thinkers would not waste energy attempting to persuade the public, as
Hume evidently does, that specific policies promote or fail to promote the
well-being of the citizenry.
But is this a fair interpretation of the Hellenists? Or is it an accusation
based on a particular understanding of what real political philosophy is
that then judges these sects for not agreeing that such political philosophy
is viable? Recent scholars have argued that the Hegelian opinion fails to
take into account the diversity of thought among the Hellenistic philoso-
phers, the availability of alternative interpretations of that thought, and the
difficulty of making any claims about what these thinkers did not address,
given the volume of their writing that has been lost. In an overview of
Hellenistic social and political thought, Malcolm Schofield argues that
although Epicurus does recommend quietism, the Epicureans nonetheless
give theoretical accounts of political society’s purpose and the development
of laws. Some of these ideas sound strikingly Humean: Hermarchus, for
instance, argues that the establishment of laws “is a formalized substitute
for perception of mutual advantage and consequential self-restraint,” as

 
Lectures on the History of Philosophy, . Hegel, The Philosophy of History, .

Ibid. Blame for the “quietist” interpretation of the Hellenistic philosophers is usually placed on
Hegel, but there are seeds of it at least in the eighteenth-century writings of Giambattista Vico. In
his Autobiography, he writes that the Stoics and Epicureans share “a moral philosophy of solitaries:
the Epicurean, of idlers inclosed in their own little gardens; the Stoic, of contemplatives who
endeavor to feel no emotion.” These philosophies stand opposed to those of Cicero, Aristotle, and
Plato, which were “all worked out with a view to the good ordering of mankind in civil society”
(Autobiography of Giambattista Vico, ).

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
people forget why their conventions of restraint toward one another serve
their own interest. The Stoics also theorize about the relations between
nature, justice, and law, and often advocate immersion in political activity.
What of scepticism? Here the divisions between groups of even ancient
sceptics, combined with the diversity of interpretations of their views
(and, again, the loss of so many of their writings) exponentially complicate
the question. But, as John Christian Laursen has argued in The Politics of
Skepticism in the Ancients, Montaigne, Hume, and Kant, the assumption
that scepticism must lead to quietism or conservative acceptance of a
prevailing regime fails to attend to what we know of the sceptics’ involve-
ment in political activities. This assumption can also come from a failure to
take sceptical nondogmatism seriously: the dogmatist assumes that if a
strategy (such as submitting to prevailing conventions) seems appropriate
to a sceptic at one moment, it must be a commitment that follows from
the sceptical system of thought – even if the sceptic denies that she has any
such commitment or, indeed, any system of thought at all. Mitigated
sceptics might find it reasonable to immerse themselves in political ques-
tioning or even political activity, when it seems worthwhile to do so. And
that activity need not be aimed at upholding the status quo, given the
mental freedom that scepticism aims to cultivate. In Academica, Cicero
locates the essential difference between the sceptic and the dogmatist in the
former’s capacity for freedom in judgment – a freedom that can enable
escape from the boundaries of a stale or corrosive tradition. “We are more
free and untrammelled,” he says, “in that we possess our power of judg-
ment uncurtailed, and are bound by no compulsion to support all the
dogmas laid down for us almost as edicts by certain masters.”
Is this attitude just another retreat into mental freedom, helpful for
those for whom political freedom is not possible but no aid to the public
spirit who actively seeks public good? Cicero does explain that only his
release from the burden of public service enables him to record his philo-
sophical reflections. But freedom of thought is a necessary precondi-
tion for any political activity that seeks to challenge an existing regime.


Schofield, “Social and Political Thought,” . Hermarchus was a successor of Epicurus; Schofield
draws this interpretation from a long passage quoted by Porphyry.

Schofield’s gloss on Chrysippus’ position on the choice between active and contemplative lives
corresponds, I would argue, to Hume’s view: “Indeed it is as if Chrysippus is saying: ‘Choose the
active life, but don’t conceive it in monolithic terms. In particular don’t contrast the active with the
contemplative life, since the wise man acts out his social nature and contributes to the public
advantage by his philosophical and scientific writing and teaching’” (ibid., ).
 
Cicero, De Natura Deorum; Academica, . Ibid., .

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 Thinking 
For such a challenge to be anything other than reactionary prejudice, the
thought that freedom enables must be philosophical in the broad sense
outlined above.
Mental freedom can enable living an externally conventional life with-
out internal submission. Such a course may be the only wise one available
in conditions of extreme violence. On the other hand, when we ascribe
such a course to sceptical philosophers, we often forget that disseminating
radical ideas is itself a political act. Can we seriously call the Montaigne
who published “An Apology for Raymond Sebond” and “On Some Verses
of Virgil” politically submissive? Nothing within scepticism itself prevents
a thinker from attempting to persuade the public of the political views she
finds most probable. Cicero himself did more by becoming a political
leader. Perhaps learning from Cicero’s example, Hume did not pursue this
course. But both in attempting to persuade the public of particular posi-
tions and in endeavoring to mollify the tone of public dispute, Hume
pursues a political good without risking complete loss of tranquility. In
doing so, he follows the only course that could enable philosophy to offer
those benefits to political thinking that require disengagement from parties
to a dispute.
Hume’s seeking political improvement through his writing, then, does
not necessarily put him at odds with the Hellenistic philosophers whose
ideal of tranquility he shares. He is far from unique among the moderns, of
course, in drawing on Hellenistic ideas. Moreover, finding inspiration in
the Hellenistics as opposed to those medieval favorites, Plato and Aristotle,
was itself a progressive move in the early modern period. But Hume’s
attitude is in sharp contrast to those modern philosophers whose hopes for
mastering nature with the club of new scientific knowledge led to wildly
optimistic proposals for human progress, as well as those who trusted that
advancing reason would guarantee such progress for all time.
Can we imagine Hume, for instance, proposing a work with the title,
“The Plan of a Universal Science Which Is Capable of Raising Our Nature
to Its Highest Degree of Perfection,” as Descartes did? Or claiming that,
with proper study, one “ought infallibly to find” a medical science that
will “rid oneself of an infinity of maladies, as much of the body as of the
mind, and even perhaps also the frailty of old age”? Descartes did not
envision such possibilities for a long-distant future: there is evidence from


See Descartes’s Letter to Mersenne from March of ; this work became the Discourse on the
Method (The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, Vol. : The Correspondence, ).

Descartes, Discourse on Method, .

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
his correspondence that he thought he might prolong his own life to the
age of  or . Indirect evidence suggests a more ambitious goal: a
third-hand account in Baillet’s biography reports Descartes’ confidence
that “it was possible to lengthen out his life to the period of the Patriarchs,”
upward of  years. Contrast these hopes with Hume’s claim that
“useful inventions in the arts and sciences” may be influential but produce
less sensible benefit than wise laws (..).
What of those wise laws? Do we have reason to expect progress in this
most significant of public institutions? In a sense, yes: Hume clearly thinks
progress has been made since the “barbaric” ages he reads about in ancient
histories and writes about in the History. He also finds hope in the
possibility of the civilizing effects of the arts and trade. But such progress
is by no means guaranteed: as I have argued, Hume recognizes threats to it
both from the virulence of political factionalism and the fragility of the
related economic institutions. The economic progress in which he has
genuine hope depends on a concurrence of moral causes. For instance, he
argues against the notion that the quantity of available money determines
interest rates, fixing instead on the borrowing and spending habits of the
populace. A set of idle landlords and indigent peasants will always drive up
the demand for lending; the resulting high interest depends “on the habits
and manners which prevail” (..). He does then identify principles
that suggest that further progress in industry will ameliorate these habits,
but he also recognizes that various causes can deter such progress. The
hatred and fear of neighboring nations that motivate bad trade policies are
perennial problems, not easy to stamp out of either citizens or sovereigns.
Finally, Hume expresses hope of progress against superstition, whose
harmful effects he sees across vast areas of human life. His explanation of
superstition (and enthusiasm) as rooted in natural tendencies of various
kinds of people, however, recommends diffidence about expecting to extir-
pate false religion altogether. Indeed, after ridiculing the Roman Catholic
doctrine of the real presence in the Natural History, he prophesies not
progress but merely the creation of new absurdities. Though people “in a
future age” will be incredulous that anyone ever accepted such a doctrine,


See Descartes’s letter to Constantyn Huygens from January , . Quoted in Gruman, “History
of Ideas about the Prolongation of Life,” .

Ibid., . Gruman also discusses Descartes’s ambivalence about this aim, revealed in his own
promotion of a Hellenistic aim – the removal of the fear of death.

See also .., where Hume writes that religion, politics, metaphysics, and morals “form the
most considerable branches of science. Mathematics and natural philosophy, which only remain, are
not half so valuable.”

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 Thinking 
“it is a thousand to one, but these nations themselves shall have something
full as absurd in their own creed, to which they will give a most implicit
and most religious assent” (NHR .).
Hume is being witty here, but his wit has a solemn edge. He appreciates
and hopes for the continuation of modern advances. Progress in philo-
sophical ideas may be slow going, but once it is well begun, might we have
reason to hope for its picking up speed? In “Of the Middle Station of
Life,” he emphasizes the extreme rarity of great philosophers, but the two
he names are both moderns: “Galilœo and Newton seem to me,” he writes,
“so far to excel all the rest, that I cannot admit any other into the same
Class with them” (EWU .). But what does Hume admire most about
Newton? He explains in the History:
In Newton this island may boast of having produced the greatest and rarest
genius that ever arose for the ornament and instruction of the species.
Cautious in admitting no principles but such as were founded on experi-
ment; but resolute to adopt every such principle, however new or unusual:
From modesty, ignorant of his superiority above the rest of mankind; and
thence, less careful to accommodate his reasonings to common appre-
hensions . . . While Newton seemed to draw off the veil from some of the
mysteries of nature, he shewed at the same time the imperfections of the
mechanical philosophy; and thereby restored her ultimate secrets to that
obscurity, in which they ever did and ever will remain. (H :)
Hume’s Newton, in other words, had that hesitation, reserve, and suspense
that “Of the Protestant Succession” identifies as requisite for the true
philosopher’s character. The ultimate benefit from his philosophy, as
Hume characterizes it, is not mastering and possessing nature but respect-
ing its mystery. This is not the mystery of the Great Chain of Being, but
the mystery of the mitigated sceptic.
In the face of this mystery, true philosophers are willing to make use
of whatever resources avail themselves, whether ancient or modern. This
stance has political ramifications, because of our entrenched tendency
to divide political views according to whether they wish to conserve the
past or overturn it for the progress of the future. But the stance also has
ramifications for the life of the philosopher herself – for any hope she may
have for happiness. In resisting party affiliations, including temporal ones,
Hume consciously promotes his own tranquility as well as the possibility

This question is not the same as the question of whether or to what degree Hume’s own philosophy
was Newtonian, though these questions are related. For a recent treatment of this question that
provides a summary of and citations to the ongoing debate, see Matias Slavov, “Newtonian and
Non-Newtonian Elements in Hume.”

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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
of enjoyable philosophical reflection, which he values so highly. To
“possess our power of judgment uncurtailed” is to live with the freedom
unique to the philosophical life. Nietzsche tells us that “philosophy offers
an asylum to a man into which no tyranny can force it way.” We
condemn such freedom, such asylums, as feckless quietism if we fail to
recognize that the rarest spirits can also need comfort, or if we fail to
appreciate another quasi-Nietzschean lesson – that only by cultivating such
spirits can we hope for progress for all.
Perhaps mitigated hope is the proper mood for the mitigated sceptic.
The note on which the Essays ends suggests as much. After detailing a
commonwealth as perfect as he can imagine, Hume ends with a caution.
Even under such a system, threats both internal and external might
abound – enthusiasm, personal factions, ambition, and rust on the polit-
ical machine. “It is a sufficient incitement to human endeavours,” Hume
concludes, “that such a government would flourish for many ages; without
pretending to bestow, on any work of man, that immortality, which the
Almighty seems to have refused to his own productions” (..).


Schopenhauer as Educator, .

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 Conclusion

I hope it is clear that all of the earlier chapters in this book are about
thinking. They show the breadth of Hume’s thinking in the Essays. Given
the understanding of philosophy sketched in Chapter , this thinking
is all to some degree philosophical. I do not claim that Hume always
maintains an ideal philosophical distance from his subject matter. He
seems to divide religious practitioners into those with dangerous forms
of superstition and those whose faith has scant influence over their lives.
There are other live options. Likewise, he sometimes fails to appreciate the
experience and promise of people whose lives are very different from his
own – most strikingly, in his contempt for all those of African descent.
Both errors could result from perspectives either too near or too far, and
I do not pretend to know the proper diagnosis in Hume’s case. Yet the
Essays as a whole show a commitment to expanding vision, for both author
and reader. We think better about each subject when we are in the grip
of neither a thesis nor a party. And these benefits can endure, even if
our thinking tells us to immerse ourselves in certain experiences, such as
friendship or art.
Philosophical thinking about social and institutional structures pro-
vides hope for improvement primarily through its suggestions for how
we should or should not modify those institutions and structures. In his
political and economic thought, Hume encourages us not to let our
reverence for the past blind us to modern advancement, nor to let our
attachment to the present blind us to what we might learn from the past.
He shows us how changes in practice can effect changes in humanity – as
have alterations in war and the abolition of legal slavery. But he also warns
us that some dark principles in human nature – such as our attraction to
domineering over our fellows – can reemerge in different guises when we
thought they had disappeared. These complex studies of human nature
suggest some specific recommendations for legislators who, if the polity
is well structured, must be interested in the well-being of their subjects.


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  The Philosophical Progress of Hume’s Essays
Such legislators would do well to resist facile distinctions between the
strength of a nation, its economic prosperity, and its promotion of liberal
arts and sciences.
Hume the philosophical essayist also has recommendations that do not
require political mobilization. He shows how the cultivation of an aesthetic
sensibility can improve our passionate lives, and explores the difficult
terrain of our most intimate relationships, including those with our own
selves. Though appreciating the brilliance of satire, he warns us against the
form of it that finds nothing great in human nature. Without condemning
the physical pleasures of sex, he celebrates more the possibility of intellec-
tual friendship between men and women. And while recognizing the rarity
of the philosophical spirit, he commends its joys to those who share his
temperament.
Here is a final way in which the Essays can contribute to philosophical
progress. If we do happen to share the philosophical temperament, there
is no need to read the Essays themselves as a historical artifact. They
can be both a challenge and a stimulus to our own thinking, in ways that
Hume himself might never have imagined. In finding such stimulations in
a historical text, we are following a method Hume valued himself. We may
have good reasons sometimes to set aside our more creative philosophical
talents, as we seek to understand a philosopher on his or her own terms.
But to set aside these talents altogether would be to disregard Hume’s own
advice (in his response to his Sceptic) to take advantage of the favorable
temper with which nature has endowed some fortunate people. It would
also be to abandon an opportunity to inspire others to similar reflection
and cultivation. We can be grateful that, in his long-standing dedication to
the Essays, Hume provides such inspiration himself.


See ..n.

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 Index

Abramson, Kate, n, n, n Berkeley, George, n

Addison, Joseph, n, n
adultery, , n
aesthetics. See beauty; contemplation; delicacy;
emotions; passions; pleasure; taste,
standard of
Ainslie, Donald C., n
Alcibiades, , 
allegiance, , , , See also contract theory,
divine right
government role in cultivating virtue of, 
moral obligation to, –, , –
Allestree, Richard, 
anger, , , –, , , , 
anhedonia, , , , See also melancholy
Annas, Julia, , n
Antipater the Cyreniac, 
Árdal, Páll, n
Aristophanes, , n, 
Aristotle, , , , , n, –,

on friendship, , , , , n
politics, , , –, n, 
Athens, , n, , n, , –
Atticus, –
Austen, Jane, , , n
Baier, Annette, n, n, n, –,
n, n
on Hume’s views of women, n, n,
n, n, n, n,
n
balance of power, n, –, , 
Baumstark, Moritz, n, n
Bayle, Pierre, n
beauty. See also delicacy, emotions
moral, , 
sentiment of, n, , , –, ,
–
benevolence, , , , –, , ,
n, 
Berry, Christopher J., n, n, n,
, n
Bill of Rights (England), 
Black, Scott, n
Boufflers, Comtesse de, n, , 
Box, M. A., n, , n, , n,
–
Boyd, Richard, n
Branchi, Andrea, n
Brown, Christopher Leslie, 
Buckle, Stephen, n, n, n
Burke, Edmund, n, –
Burton, Robert, , , 
Butler, Joseph, , 
Caffentzis, C. George, n
Caligula, 
Castiglione, Dario, n, n
Castro, Juan Samuel Santos, n
Catholicism, , –, , See also
Christianity, priests, religion, superstition
character. See also character traits, virtue
national, how formed, –, , 
strength of mind forming, 
character traits, , –, n
industry as a trait, , –
chastity. See Sex
Cheyne, George, –, –, 
children, , n, , n, 
Christianity, , , , , See also
Catholicism, priests, religion, superstition
Chrysippus, 
Cicero, , –, , , –
Cohen, Alix, n
Cohen, Ted, n
Colburn, Glen, 
Collingwood, R. G., , n
comparison, effects on emotions or passions, ,
–, n, , –
conservatism, –, –



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 Index
constitution, myth of ancient, , –,
See also past, admiration or veneration of
contemplation, , –, , –, ,
, , n
contract theory, –, –, 
Costelloe, Timothy, n, n, n,
n
courage, –, –, –, , 
The Craftsman, n, 
custom, , , , See also habit
and law, , 
relation to sexual practices, , , 
role in strengthening passions, 
Dadlez, Eva, n
Darwall, Stephen, n
Debes, Remy, n
debt, public, , –, , –, , 
Dees, Richard, n
delicacy, –, , , See also imagination,
delicacy of; melancholy; pleasure, of those
with delicacy; women, delicacy or
sensibility of
of taste or passion, –, , , ,
–
democracy, , , , 
Demosthenes, , , , 
depression. See melancholy
Descartes, René, –
Dew, Thomas Roderick, n, –
divine right, –, 
divorce, –, –, See also marriage
Dollimore, Jonathan, 
Drescher, Seymour, , 
Dubos, Jean-Baptiste, –
Duran, Jane, n
education, , –, , , , , ,

Edward II (King of England), n
egoism, 
effects of malignant forms of, , 
forms of, –
Eliot, George, , , , 
Elizabeth I (queen of England), n, –
eloquence, , –, , , , ,

Emerson, Roger, , , n
emotions. See also comparison, effects on
emotions or passions, passions, as
distinguished from emotions; sympathy;
specific emotions
aggressive, , , 
and defects of character, 
and tragedy, –
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
as reflective impressions, –
as related to beauty, , , , 
as related to passions, –, 
distinction between calm and violent, 
distinction between strong and weak,
–
distinction between warm and cold, 
improved by aesthetic experience, –
England. See Great Britain
enthusiasm, n, , –, , , 
Epicurus, –, –, , 
essay, genre of, –
Evnine, Simon, –, n, 
Eze, Emmanuel C., n
factionalism, , –, , See also
friendship, and the state; Great Britain,
parties or factions in; justice, and
factionalism; philosophy, as non-partisan;
public spirit; reason, threatened by
partisanship; religion, and factionalism;
sympathy, and factionalism
conflict with public spirit, , –
Hume’s efforts against, –, , 
religious, , , 
Falkenstein, Lorne, n, , 
fame, love of. See vanity
fear, , , –, , , , 
and superstition, , –, –, 
Fieser, James, n
Finlay, Christopher, n
Fletcher, Andrew, –
Fogelin, Robert, , n
Fontenelle, Bernard de, –
Forbes, Duncan, , n, –, n, 
France, , –, , 
friendship, , , , , , –
and egoism or self-love, , , ,
–, –
Epicurean, , –
its emotions or passions, –, 
and pride, –
and sex, –, –, –
and the state, –, , 
between women and men, , , 
Galileo, 
gallantry, , –, –, See also sex,
women
Gardner, Catherine Villanueva, n
Garrett, Aaron, n, n
Garrett, Don, n
genius, –, –, , –, 
Gill, Michael B., n, n, n
Goldie, Mark, n
03 3D , , C 4 75D D D:7 3 4 697 7
 
Great Britain, –, , See also Scotland
“Glorious Revolution” of England (-),
, , 
constitution, –
parties or factions in, –, 
relations with France, –, 
slavery practices of, 
greatness of soul. See magnanimity
Grose, T. H., 
Grüne-Yanoff, Till, n
Guimarães, Lívia, n
habit(s), –, , , , See also custom
encouraged by aesthetic experience, –
industry as, –
of peoples, , –, , , ,
See also character, national, how formed
of the poor, –
philosophical, , , , , 
and strength of mind, –
and virtue, 
Hanvelt, Marc, –
happiness, , , , , See also indolence,
industry, pleasure
and delicacy, , 
essays on, –
and friendship, , 
and industry, –
and philosophy, , , , , 
others’, as aim of benevolence, , 
Hardin, Russell, n
Harper, William, 
Harris, James A., –, n, n, n,
, n, n, n, n,
n
hatred, –, , , , –
between nations, , , 
calm, –
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, , ,

Herdt, Jennifer, n, , n
Hermarchus, –
Heydt, Colin, 
history, conjectural, , 
Hobbes, Thomas, , , –, 
Homer, , 
homosexuality. See sex
honor, , n, , , , 
Hont, Istvan, –, n
Horace, –
Hough, Sheridan, n
human nature, as variable or uniform, n,
–, , , –, , See also courage;
genius; industry, as constant or variable
aspect of human nature
. 3676 8 :DD C, 53 4 697 95 7 2 7 CD 8 1 CC7 / 4 3
Index
humanity, as virtue, , , , n, ,
, See also inhumanity; virtue
modern improvement in, , , –, ,
–, 
as related to government, , –
Hutcheson, Francis, n, n, 
idleness, , , –, 
imagination, , , , , , , 
and superstition, –
delicacy of, 
Immerwahr, John, , –, n, , n,
, n, 
indolence
associated with the poor, –
as ingredient of happiness, , 
unpleasant, , –, 
industry, 
as constant or variable aspect of human nature,
–, –, 
and essays on happiness, –
evidence of less in ancient societies, –
Hume’s ambiguous use of the term, –
relation to liberty, 
relation to other forms of progress, , , ,
–, 
as virtue both useful and immediately
agreeable, –, –
inhumanity, , , 
and slavery, , , 
Jacobson, Anne Jaap, n
James I (king of England), n, n
James II (king of England), 
Johnson, Samuel, 
Jordan, Mark D., n, n
Jordan, Will R., n
justice, , , n, , , , , ,
, , 
and factionalism, , 
government cultivation of, –, 
Kaye, F. B., 
Keats, John, 
Kekes, John, n
Klein, Lawrence E., n
knowledge, , , 
link to industry and humanity, –, , ,
–
Kraepelin, Emil, 
La Fayette, Madame de, 
La Rochefoucauld, François de, , –, ,
–
Langton, Rae, n
03 3D , , C 4 75D D D:7 3 4 697 7
 Index 
language, , , , , See also rhetoric monogamy, , n, 
Laursen, John Christian,  Montaigne, Michel de, , n, ,
law, , , , –,  –, n, , , 
influence on character,  as inventor of the essay, , 
and marriage, ,  Moore, James, n
rule of, – Mossner, Ernest Campbell, n, n
and slavery, ,  Mourgues, Odette de, 
Le Jallé, Éléonore, n, n Murdoch, Iris, n
Lemmens, Willem, n, n
Levey, Ann, n Neill, Alex, –
Levi, Anthony, n Newton, Isaac, 
liberal arts, , , , –,  Nietzsche, Friedrich, , , , –, ,
liberty, , –, ,  , 
ancient spirit of, , , , , ,  Norton, David Fate, n, n
civil, , , –,  Norton, Mary J., n
relation to industry, 
relation to marriage, ,  O’Brien, Dan, 
Livingston, Donald, –, n, n, oratory. See eloquence, rhetoric
n, n Ormrod, W. Mark, n
Lloyd, Genevieve, ,  Ovid, , , 
Locke, John, n, –, –, 
Loptson, Peter,  Palter, Robert, n
Lucretius, n, ,  parties. See factionalism; Great Britain, parties or
luxury, , , , –, –, , – factions in
Pascal, Blaise, , 
MacDowell, Andrew Bankton. See McDouall, passions. See emotions
Andrew (Lord Bankton) as distinguished from emotions, –, See
Machiavelli, Niccolò, , n,  also delicacy
MacIntyre, Alasdair, n,  past, admiration or veneration of, , –, ,
magnanimity, , , , , n, –, , , 
n,  Penelhum, Terence, n, n
Malebranche, Nicolas, n, n,  Phillipson, Nicholas, n, n
Malthus, Thomas Robert,  philosophy
Mandeville, Bernard, , , , , , Hume’s negative remarks about in the Essays,
n –
defense of luxury, – Hume’s positive remarks about in the Essays,
rhetorical style, – –
treatment of pride, n, , – meaning of, , , 
Marcus Aurelius,  as non-partisan, , , , –
marriage, n, , –, –, Pieper, Josef, –, 
See also divorce, sex, women Plato, , –, , , n, , 
Mary II (queen of England),  pleasure, n, , See also anhedonia;
Massie, Pascal, , n beauty, sentiment of
McArthur, Neil, n, n, –, n, , Epicurean view of, –, 
n increased by comparison, 
McClennen, Edward F., n from industry or difficulty, –, 
McDouall, Andrew (Lord Bankton), ,  as ingredient of happiness, 
McIntyre, Jane, ,  no forms of in themselves vicious, , 
McKee, Anthony Patrick Francis,  sexual, , , 
melancholy, , –, –, –, , as source of pride or love, –, –, 
 of those with delicacy, , , –,
Merivale, Amyas, n, n, n, 
n of tragedy, –
miracles,  of wonder, 
modesty, , –, – Plutarch, , 

. 3676 8 :DD C, 53 4 697 95 7 2 7 CD 8 1 CC7 / 4 3 03 3D , , C 4 75D D D:7 3 4 697 7

  Index
Pocock, J. G. A., , –, n, n,
n, , 
poetry, , , , , , –, –,

politics as a science, –, , , n
polygamy, , –, 
Popkin, Richard, n
population density (and well-being), , 
populousness. See population density (and
well-being)
Postema, Gerald, , n, n, 
Potkay, Adam, , –, n, n
poverty, , , , –, , –
pride, , , , , , –, ,
–
priests, –, , –, , –, n,

property, , , , , , , , n
Protestant Reformation, , , , 
public opinion, –, –, , 
public spirit, , , , , , 
difficulty of combining with delicate taste,
–
Hume’s own, 
Pyrrhonism, , , See also scepticism
race, , –, 
Radcliffe, Elizabeth, n, n, n,
n, , n
Radden, Jennifer, –
Rasmussen, Dennis, n
Raynor, David R., n
reason, –, , –, n, , , 
as calm passion, –, 
and imagination, –
and mitigated scepticism, , , 
threatened by partisanship, 
rebellion, , , , , , 
Reed, Philip, n
religion, n, –, , –, See also
Christianity, factionalism, priests,
Protestant Reformation, superstition
ancient compared to modern, –
and factionalism, –, , 
government establishment of, –
Hume’s treatment of, n, 
resentment, , 
rhetoric, , n, –, –, , See
also eloquence, language
Richardson, David, 
Robertson, John, , , n, –, –
Robison, Wade, n
Rome, , , , n, , , , , 
marriage in, , 
reasons for decline, 
. 3676 8 :DD C, 53 4 697 95 7 2 7 CD 8 1 CC7 / 4 3
Ross, Ian Simpson, 
Rothschild, Emma, n
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, , 
Russell, Paul, n, 
Sabl, Andrew, n, n
Sablé, Madame de, 
Sapp, Vicki J., n
Sayre-McCord, Geoffrey, n
scepticism, –, , , –, –,
See also happiness, essays on; Pyrrhonism;
reason, and mitigated scepticism
as cure for superstition, 
and progress, 
Schabas, Margaret, n, , 
Schneewind, J. B., n
Schofield, Malcolm, –
Scotland, , , See also Great Britain
selfish system. See egoism
Seven Years War, 
sex, , , –, See also pleasure, women,
marriage
chastity, –
homosexuality, –
Hume’s language about, –, –
and marriage, –, 
moral status of, , –, –, 
natural relation to love, , –
social functions of, –
Sextus Empiricus, , 
Shaftesbury, Lord (Anthony Ashley Cooper), ,
, , n
Shelley, James, –
Shovlin, John, 
Silverthorne, Michael, n, , n,

slavery, , –, n, , –, , ,
, , See also Great Britain, abolition;
inhumanity; race
as result of government tyranny, 
religion rendering people fit for, –
Slavov, Matias, n
Smith, Adam, 
Socrates, , , , 
Sparta, , –, n
The Spectator, , n
Spencer, Mark G., , n
Speusippus, 
Spinoza, Benedict de, , , n
Stewart, Dugald, , n
Stewart, John B., , , n, n
stoicism, –, , , , , ,
–, See also happiness, essays on
Strabo, 
Strahan, William, 
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 Index
strength of mind, , , n, –, 
superstition, , n, , , , See also
Catholicism, melancholy, priests, religion
about the constitution, 
more severe in modern religion, –, 
origin in passions, –
philosophy as cure of, –, , 
progress against, –
promoted by priests, –, –
and sex, 
Susato, Ryu, n, n, n, n
Swanton, Christine, 
sympathy, , n, –, , ,
n, , , 
as cause of national character, , 
and factionalism, 
relation to cruelty toward enslaved people,
–
relation to love or benevolence, –, ,
n, , , , 
relation to sentiments of beauty, , ,
–, , –
as source of moral sentiments, n, , ,

as source of pride or humility, , –
Tacitus, 
taste
delicacy of. See delicacy
standard of, –, , –, –
Taylor, Charles, , n
Taylor, Jacqueline, n, n, n
on humanity, n, n
on Hume’s views of women, n, 
on Humean pride, –, , 
Tise, Larry E., 
Tolonen, Mikko, n, –, n, n,
n, n, n
trade, , , , –, See also industry, luxury
tragedy, –, , See also beauty, sentiment
of; emotions, and tragedy
Trajan, 
tranquility, , , –, , 
tyranny, , , , –, , , , , –,
, , 
of men over women, , , –, 
of women over men, 

Virgil, 
virtue. See also delicacy; friendship; law, influence
on character; strength of mind; sympathy,
as source of moral sentiment; particular
virtues
and egoism, , –, 
and emotions or passions, –
as an end, 
government influence on, –
not identical to altruism, n
of rulers, 
public spirit most material part of, , 
supported by pride, self-love, and vanity,
–, 
Vitz, Rico, n
Voltaire, 
Walker, Matthew, n
Walpole, Robert, –
war
ancient versus modern, –, , 
as origin of government, 
relation to public debt, –
Webster, Alison, n
Welchman, Jennifer, n
Wennerlind, Carl, 
Wertz, S. K., n
Whelan, Frederick G., n
Whigs, , , n, 
Whyte, Iain, 
William III (king of England), 
Williams, Bernard, 
Williams, Eric, 
Willis, Andre C., n
Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 
Wollstonecraft, Mary, n
women. See also chastity; friendship; marriage;
sex; tyranny, of men over women; tyranny,
of women over men
alleged vindictiveness of, , 
company of improving manners or virtue, ,
, –
delicacy or sensibility of, –
equality with men, –
as melancholic, –
Woolf, Virginia, –
Wright, John P., n, n

vanity, , , –, –, –,  Yanal, Robert, 
Vico, Giambattista, n Young, David B., 

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