contiguous and connected, to be placed before us; it is plain we must
attribute a perfect identity to this mass, provided all the parts
continue uninterruptedly and invariably the same, whatever motion or
change of place we may observe either in the whole or in any of the
parts. But supposing some very small or inconsiderable part to be added
to the mass, or subtracted from it; though this absolutely destroys
the identity of the whole, strictly speaking; yet as we seldom think so
accurately, we scruple not to pronounce a mass of matter the same, where
we find so trivial an alteration. The passage of the thought from the
object before the change to the object after it, is so smooth and easy,
that we scarce perceive the transition, and are apt to imagine, that it
is nothing but a continued survey of the same object.
There is a very remarkable circumstance, that attends this experiment;
which is, that though the change of any considerable part in a mass
of matter destroys the identity of the whole, let we must measure the
greatness of the part, not absolutely, but by its proportion to the
whole. The addition or diminution of a mountain would not be sufficient
to produce a diversity in a planet: though the change of a very few
inches would be able to destroy the identity of some bodies. It will be
impossible to account for this, but by reflecting that objects operate
upon the mind, and break or interrupt the continuity of its actions not
according to their real greatness, but according to their proportion to
each other: And therefore, since this interruption makes an object cease
to appear the same, it must be the uninterrupted progress o the thought,
which constitutes the imperfect identity.
This may be confirmed by another phenomenon. A change in any
considerable part of a body destroys its identity; but it is remarkable,
that where the change is produced gradually and insensibly we are less
apt to ascribe to it the same effect. The reason can plainly be no
other, than that the mind, in following the successive changes of the
body, feels an easy passage from the surveying its condition in one
moment to the viewing of it in another, and at no particular time
perceives any interruption in its actions. From which continued
perception, it ascribes a continued existence and identity to the
object.
But whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes gradually,
and making them proportionable to the whole, it is certain, that where
the changes are at last observed to become considerable, we make a
scruple of ascribing identity to such different objects.
There is,
however, another artifice, by which we may induce the imagination to
advance a step farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the
parts to each other, and a combination to some common end or purpose.
A ship, of which a considerable part has been changed by frequent
reparations, is still considered as the same; nor does the difference
of the materials hinder us from ascribing an identity to it. The
common end, in which the parts conspire, is the same under all their
variations, and affords an easy transition of the imagination from one
situation of the body to another.
But this is still more remarkable, when we add a sympathy of parts
to their common end, and suppose that they bear to each other, the
reciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their actions and
operations. This is the case with all animals and vegetables; where not
only the several parts have a reference to some general purpose, but
also a mutual dependence on, and connexion with each other. The effect
of so strong a relation is, that though every one must allow, that in a
very few years both vegetables and animals endure a total change, yet we
still attribute identity to them, while their form, size, and substance
are entirely altered. An oak, that grows from a small plant to a large
tree, is still the same oak; though there be not one particle of matter,
or figure of its parts the same. An infant becomes a man-, and is
sometimes fat, sometimes lean, without any change in his identity.
We may also consider the two following phaenomena, which are remarkable
in their kind. The first is, that though we commonly be able to
distinguish pretty exactly betwixt numerical and specific identity, yet
it sometimes happens, that we confound them, and in our thinking and
reasoning employ the one for the other. Thus a man, who bears a noise,
that is frequently interrupted and renewed, says, it is still the same
noise; though it is evident the sounds have only a specific identity or
resemblance, and there is nothing numerically the same, but the cause,
which produced them. In like manner it may be said without breach of the
propriety of language, that such a church, which was formerly of brick,
fell to ruin, and that the parish rebuilt the same church of free-stone,
and according to modern architecture. Here neither the form nor
materials are the same, nor is there any thing common to the two
objects, but their relation to the inhabitants of the parish; and yet
this alone is sufficient to make us denominate them the same. But
we must observe, that in these cases the first object is in a manner
annihilated before the second comes into existence; by which means, we
are never presented in any one point of time with the idea of difference
and multiplicity: and for that reason are less scrupulous in calling
them the same.
Secondly, We may remark, that though in a succession of related objects,
it be in a manner requisite, that the change of parts be not sudden nor
entire, in order to preserve the identity, yet where the objects are
in their nature changeable and inconstant, we admit of a more sudden
transition, than would otherwise be consistent with that relation. Thus
as the nature of a river consists in the motion and change of parts;
though in less than four and twenty hours these be totally altered; this
hinders not the river from continuing the same during several ages. What
is natural and essential to any thing is, in a manner, expected; and
what is expected makes less impression, and appears of less moment, than
what is unusual and extraordinary. A considerable change of the former
kind seems really less to the imagination, than the most trivial
alteration of the latter; and by breaking less the continuity of the
thought, has less influence in destroying the identity.
We now proceed to explain the nature of personal identity, which has
become so great a question ill philosophy, especially of late years in
England, where all the abstruser sciences are studyed with a peculiar
ardour and application. And here it is evident, the same method of
reasoning must be continued which has so successfully explained the
identity of plants, and animals, and ships, and houses, and of all
the compounded and changeable productions either of art or nature. The
identity, which we ascribe to the mind of man, is only a fictitious one,
and of a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal
bodies. It cannot, therefore, have a different origin, but must proceed
from a like operation of the imagination upon like objects.
But lest this argument should not convince the reader; though in my
opinion perfectly decisive; let him weigh the following reasoning, which
is still closer and more immediate. It is evident, that the identity,
which we attribute to the human mind, however perfect we may imagine it
to be, is not able to run the several different perceptions into one,
and make them lose their characters of distinction and difference, which
are essential to them. It is still true, that every distinct perception,
which enters into the composition of the mind, is a distinct existence,
and is different, and distinguishable, and separable from every other
perception, either contemporary or successive. But, as, notwithstanding
this distinction and separability, we suppose the whole train of
perceptions to be united by identity, a question naturally arises
concerning this relation of identity; whether it be something that
really binds our several perceptions together, or only associates
their ideas in the imagination. That is, in other words, whether in
pronouncing concerning the identity of a person, we observe some real
bond among his perceptions, or only feel one among the ideas we form of
them. This question we might easily decide, if we would recollect what
has been already proud at large, that the understanding never observes
any real connexion among objects, and that even the union of cause
and effect, when strictly examined, resolves itself into a customary
association of ideas. For from thence it evidently follows, that
identity is nothing really belonging to these different perceptions, and
uniting them together; but is merely a quality, which we attribute to
them, because of the union of their ideas in the imagination, when we
reflect upon them. Now the only qualities, which can give ideas an union
in the imagination, are these three relations abovementioned. There
are the uniting principles in the ideal world, and without them
every distinct object is separable by the mind, and may be separately
considered, and appears not to have any more connexion with any other
object, than if disjoined by the greatest difference and remoteness.
It is, therefore, on some of these three relations of resemblance,
contiguity and causation, that identity depends; and as the very essence
of these relations consists in their producing an easy transition
of ideas; it follows, that our notions of personal identity, proceed
entirely from the smooth and uninterrupted progress of the thought along
a train of connected ideas, according to the principles above-explained.
The only question, therefore, which remains, is, by what relations this
uninterrupted progress of our thought is produced, when we consider
the successive existence of a mind or thinking person.
And here it is
evident we must confine ourselves to resemblance and causation, and must
drop contiguity, which has little or no influence in the present case.
To begin with resemblance; suppose we coued see clearly into the
breast of another, and observe that succession of perceptions, which
constitutes his mind or thinking principle, and suppose that he always
preserves the memory of a considerable part of past perceptions; it is
evident that nothing coued more contribute to the bestowing a relation
on this succession amidst all its variations. For what is the memory but
a faculty, by which we raise up the images of past perceptions? And
as an image necessarily resembles its object, must not.
The frequent
placing of these resembling perceptions in the chain of thought, convey
the imagination more easily from one link to another, and make the whole
seem like the continuance of one object? In this particular, then, the
memory not only discovers the identity, but also contributes to
its production, by producing the relation of resemblance among the
perceptions. The case is the same whether we consider ourselves or
others.
As to causation; we may observe, that the true idea of the human mind,
is to consider it as a system of different perceptions or different
existences, which are linked together by the relation of cause and
effect, and mutually produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other.
Our impressions give rise to their correspondent ideas; said these ideas
in their turn produce other impressions. One thought chaces another,
and draws after it a third, by which it is expelled in its turn. In this
respect, I cannot compare the soul more properly to any thing than to a
republic or commonwealth, in which the several members are united by the
reciprocal ties of government and subordination, and give rise to other
persons, who propagate the same republic in the incessant changes of
its parts. And as the same individual republic may not only change its
members, but also its laws and constitutions; in like manner the
same person may vary his character and disposition, as well as his
impressions and ideas, without losing his identity.
Whatever changes
he endures, his several parts are still connected by the relation of
causation. And in this view our identity with regard to the passions
serves to corroborate that with regard to the imagination, by the making
our distant perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present
concern for our past or future pains or pleasures.
As a memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and extent of this
succession of perceptions, it is to be considered, upon that account
chiefly, as the source of personal identity. Had we no memory, we never
should have any notion of causation, nor consequently of that chain of
causes and effects, which constitute our self or person.
But having once
acquired this notion of causation from the memory, we can extend the
same chain of causes, and consequently the identity of car persons
beyond our memory, and can comprehend times, and circumstances, and
actions, which we have entirely forgot, but suppose in general to have
existed. For how few of our past actions are there, of which we have
any memory? Who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts and
actions on the 1st of January 1715, the 11th of March 1719, and the 3rd
of August 1733? Or will he affirm, because he has entirely forgot the
incidents of these days, that the present self is not the same person
with the self of that time; and by that means overturn all the most
established notions of personal identity? In this view, therefore,
memory does not so much produce as discover personal identity, by
shewing us the relation of cause and effect among our different
perceptions. It will be incumbent on those, who affirm that memory
produces entirely our personal identity, to give a reason why we cm thus
extend our identity beyond our memory.
The whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion, which is of great
importance in the present affair, viz. that all the nice and subtile
questions concerning personal identity can never possibly be decided,
and are to be regarded rather as gramatical than as philosophical
difficulties. Identity depends on the relations of ideas; and these
relations produce identity, by means of that easy transition they
occasion. But as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may
diminish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard, by which we
can decide any dispute concerning the time, when they acquire or lose a
title to the name of identity. All the disputes concerning the identity
of connected objects are merely verbal, except so fax as the relation of
parts gives rise to some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as we
have already observed.
What I have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our
notion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended with
little or no variation to that of simplicity. An object, whose different
co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation, operates upon
the imagination after much the same manner as one perfectly simple and
indivisible and requires not a much greater stretch of thought in order
to its conception. From this similarity of operation we attribute a
simplicity to it, and feign a principle of union as the support of this
simplicity, and the center of all the different parts and qualities of
the object.
Thus we have finished our examination of the several systems of
philosophy, both of the intellectual and natural world; and in our
miscellaneous way of reasoning have been led into several topics;
which will either illustrate and confirm some preceding part of this
discourse, or prepare the way for our following opinions. It is now time
to return to a more close examination of our subject, and to proceed in
the accurate anatomy of human nature, having fully explained the nature
of our judgment and understandings.
SECT. VII. CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.
But before I launch out into those immense depths of philosophy, which
lie before me, I find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present
station, and to ponder that voyage, which I have undertaken, and which
undoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a
happy conclusion. Methinks I am like a man, who having struck on many
shoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith,
has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten
vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing
the globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. My memory of past
errors and perplexities, makes me diffident for the future. The wretched
condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must employ in my
enquiries, encrease my apprehensions. And the impossibility of amending
or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair, and makes
me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which I am at present,
rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean, which runs
out into immensity. This sudden view of my danger strikes me with
melancholy; and as it is usual for that passion, above all others, to
indulge itself; I cannot forbear feeding my despair, with all those
desponding reflections, which the present subject furnishes me with in
such abundance.
I am first affrighted and confounded with that forelorn solitude,
in which I am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange
uncouth monster, who not being able to mingle and unite in society,
has been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and
disconsolate. Fain would I run into the crowd for shelter and warmth;
but cannot prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. I call upon
others to join me, in order to make a company apart; but no one will
hearken to me. Every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that storm,
which beats upon me from every side. I have exposed myself to the enmity
of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even theologians;
and can I wonder at the insults I must suffer? I have declared my
disapprobation of their systems; and can I be surprized, if they should
express a hatred of mine and of my person? When I look abroad, I foresee
on every side, dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny and detraction.
When I turn my eye inward, I find nothing but doubt and ignorance.
All the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though such is my
weakness, that I feel all my opinions loosen and fall of themselves,
when unsupported by the approbation of others. Every step I take is
with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an error and
absurdity in my reasoning.
For with what confidence can I venture upon such bold enterprises, when
beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, I find so many
which are common to human nature? Can I be sure, that in leaving all
established opinions I am following truth; and by what criterion shall
I distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on her
foot-steps? After the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, I can
give no reason why I should assent to it; and feel nothing but a strong
propensity to consider objects strongly in that view, under which they
appear to me. Experience is a principle, which instructs me in
the several conjunctions of objects for the past. Habit is another
principle, which determines me to expect the same for the future; and
both of them conspiring to operate upon the imagination, make me form
certain ideas in a more intense and lively manner, than others, which
are not attended with the same advantages. Without this quality, by
which the mind enlivens some ideas beyond others (which seemingly is so
trivial, and so little founded on reason) we coued never assent to any
argument, nor carry our view beyond those few objects, which are present
to our senses. Nay, even to these objects we coued never attribute any
existence, but what was dependent on the senses; and must comprehend
them entirely in that succession of perceptions, which constitutes our
self or person. Nay farther, even with relation to that succession, we
coued only admit of those perceptions, which are immediately present to
our consciousness, nor coued those lively images, with which the memory
presents us, be ever received as true pictures of past perceptions. The
memory, senses, and understanding are, therefore, all of them founded on
the imagination, or the vivacity of our ideas.
No wonder a principle so inconstant and fallacious should lead us into
errors, when implicitly followed (as it must be) in all its variations.
It is this principle, which makes us reason from causes and effects; and
it is the same principle, which convinces us of the continued existence
of external objects, when absent from the senses. But though these two
operations be equally natural and necessary in the human mind, yet in
some circumstances they are [Sect. 4.] directly contrary, nor is it
possible for us to reason justly and regularly from causes and effects,
and at the same time believe the continued existence of matter. How
then shall we adjust those principles together? Which of them shall we
prefer? Or in case we prefer neither of them, but successively assent
to both, as is usual among philosophers, with what confidence can we
afterwards usurp that glorious title, when we thus knowingly embrace a
manifest contradiction?
This contradiction [Part III. Sect. 14.] would be more excusable, were
it compensated by any degree of solidity and satisfaction in the other
parts of our reasoning. But the case is quite contrary.
When we trace up
the human understanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us
into such sentiments, as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains
and industry, and to discourage us from future enquiries. Nothing is
more curiously enquired after by the mind of man, than the causes of
every phenomenon; nor are we content with knowing the immediate causes,
but push on our enquiries, till we arrive at the original and ultimate
principle. We would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with
that energy in the cause, by which it operates on its effect; that tie,
which connects them together; and that efficacious quality, on which the
tie depends. This is our aim in all our studies and reflections: And
how must we be disappointed, when we learn, that this connexion, tie, or
energy lies merely in ourselves, and is nothing but that determination
of the mind, which is acquired by custom, and causes us to make
a transition from an object to its usual attendant, and from the
impression of one to the lively idea of the other? Such a discovery not
only cuts off all hope of ever attaining satisfaction, but even prevents
our very wishes; since it appears, that when we say we desire to know
the ultimate and operating principle, as something, which resides in
the external object, we either contradict ourselves, or talk without a
meaning.
This deficiency in our ideas is not, indeed, perceived in common life,
nor are we sensible, that in the most usual conjunctions of cause and
effect we are as ignorant of the ultimate principle, which binds them
together, as in the mos