0415248019 - A. E. Pitson - Hume's Philosophy of the Self

HUME’S PHILOSOPHY OF THE SELF

‘This book is excellent . . . The combination of accurate scholarship

and philosophical acumen deserves high praise.’

Terence Penelhum, Professor Emeritus of Religious Studies,University of Calgary

‘An excellent book . . . Pitson deserves congratulations for a masterly

discussion, written with great clarity and control, full of interesting

ideas, and establishing his main claims on the basis of careful reading,

cogent argument, and extensive familiarity with the scholarly

literature. This book is the most substantial monograph-length

treatment of this central aspect of Hume’s philosophy that is

currently available.’

Martin Bell, Professor of Philosophy,Manchester Metropolitan Univesity

A. E. Pitson is Lecturer in Philosophy at the University of Stirling.

ROUTLEDGE STUDIES IN

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY PHILOSOPHY

1 NATURALIZATION OF THE SOUL

Self and personal identity in the eighteenth century

Raymond Martin and John Barresi

2 HUME’S AESTHETIC THEORY

Taste and sentiment

Dabney Townsend

3 THOMAS REID AND SCEPTICISM

His reliabilist response

Philip de Bary

4 HUME’S PHILOSOPHY OF THE SELF

A. E. Pitson

HUME’S PHILOSOPHY OF THE SELF

A. E. Pitson

London and New York

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TO CAROLE,

LIZZIE AND LAURA

vii

CONTENTS

Preface ix

Hume texts xi

Introduction 1

PART IThe mental aspects of personal identity 9

1 The self and human nature 11

2 Hume and the idea of self 32

3 Hume on the mind/body relation 50

4 Hume’s second thoughts about personal identity 66

PART IIThe agency aspect of personal identity 81

5 Hume on character and the self 83

6 Human and animal nature 101

7 Hume and agency 123

8 Hume and other minds 142

Notes 160

Bibliography 186

Index 191

ix

PREFACE

A draft of this book was completed during a period of sabbatical leave from

the University of Stirling in Spring 2001. I am grateful for having been pro-

vided with this opportunity of working on my book. I should also like to

thank a number of individuals who have commented on individual chapters

in their original guise as papers given to meetings of the Hume Society. These

individuals include Elizabeth Radcliffe, Randy Carter and Will Davie. I am

indebted also to my colleagues Antony Duff and Alan Millar for their

comments on portions of the book. A version of Chapter 3 was delivered as

a paper to a meeting of the Graduate Philosophical Society at Leeds

University in 1998. I am grateful for comments made on that occasion: in

particular, those of John Divers.

I owe a special debt to Jane McIntyre who read a complete draft of the

book and made many useful suggestions for improvements. It will be evident

from the number of references in my book to her writings on the self just how

much I owe to her philosophical influence.

Chapter 3 is based on my paper ‘Hume and the Mind/Body Relation’ pub-

lished in the History of Philosophy Quarterly (2000) vol. 17, 277–95. Chapter

6 draws on my ‘The Nature of Humean Animals’ published in Hume Studies(1993) vol. 19, 301–16. Chapter 8 makes use of my ‘Sympathy and Other

Selves’ published in Hume Studies (1996) vol. 22, 255–71. I am grateful to the

editors of these journals for permission to reproduce material from these

papers.

xi

HUME TEXTS

The texts of Hume’s writings to which I will be referring are as follows.

A Treatise of Human Nature (2000), edited by David F. Norton and Mary J.

Norton (hereafter, Treatise or T with references by Book, Part, Section and

paragraph number, and to the Appendix and Abstract by paragraph number),

Oxford: Oxford University Press.

An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (1999), edited by Tom L.

Beauchamp (hereafter, EHU with references by Section and paragraph num-

ber), Oxford: Oxford University Press.

An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (1998), edited by Tom L.

Beauchamp (hereafter, EPM with references by Section and paragraph num-

ber), Oxford: Oxford University Press.

I believe that these – the most recent editions of the philosophical works in

question – will inevitably supersede the Selby-Bigge editions (with revisions

by P. H. Nidditch) to which the greater part of the recent secondary literature

on Hume refers. It is a relatively easy matter to check passages in the Selby-

Bigge editions (which are usually referred to in the literature by page number)

against the corresponding passages in these more recent editions where each

paragraph is separately numbered.

Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary (1987), edited by Eugene F. Miller

(hereafter, Essays with references to individual essays by their titles),

Indianapolis: Liberty Press.

The Letters of David Hume (1969), edited by S. Y. T. Greig (hereafter,

Letters), Oxford: Oxford University Press.

The New Letters of David Hume (1969), edited by R. Klibansky and E. C.

Mossner (hereafter, New Letters), Oxford, Oxford University Press.

Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (1993) (hereafter, Dialogues with ref-

erences to Part and page number) and The Natural History of Religion (here-

after, NHR), edited with introduction by J. C. A. Gaskin, Oxford: Oxford

University Press.

A Dissertation on the Passions (1882–6), from vol. 4 of David Hume: ThePhilosophical Works, edited by T. H. Green and T. H. Grose, London:

Longman.

He/she: English contains no common-sex personal pronoun or possessive in

the singular. This inconvenience has led me occasionally to use ‘they’ or

‘their’ where the subject is singular, but there are many instances in which this

usage would result in ungrammaticalities which are too gross to ignore.

Repeated uses of ‘he or she’, ‘his or her’, etc., are obviously to be avoided,

and alternating between the masculine and feminine is both arbitrary and

distracting. I have therefore followed Hume’s own example and used ‘he’,

‘his’, etc. where reference to a person or self is involved and the matter of sex

is not relevant: I hope it will be clear that in these cases ‘he’ is understood to

be equivalent to ‘he or she’, ‘his’ to ‘his or her’, and so on.

HUME TEXTS

xii

INTRODUCTION

This book is about Hume’s account of the self.1 There are various good rea-

sons for examining this account in detail. First, there is the intrinsic interest of

the account itself: it is rich, complex and provocative (and much of the sec-

ondary literature it has generated, both interpretative and critical, is also of

interest in its own right). Second, Hume’s account of the self is central to his

philosophy, in particular to the philosophy of the Treatise. Whilst it figures

prominently in his epistemology, it also bears on his writings on religion and

morality, and on other topics discussed in the Essays. An understanding of

this account will therefore illuminate Hume’s philosophy more generally.

Third, Hume’s views on the self have significant relevance to contemporary

discussions of the self and its identity; a study of these views will thus also

engage with contemporary debates.

The literature on Hume has much to say about his discussion of the self in

the famous section ‘Of Personal Identity’ (Treatise 1.4.6), but too often it

fails to indicate the true complexity of Hume’s account of the self and the way

in which it pervades his philosophy. The essential features of the view of the

self provided in ‘Of Personal Identity’ are in fact present from the opening sec-

tions of Book 1 of the Treatise, and the view itself emerges from the

epistemological position developed in Book 1. But it is a mistake to focus, as

Hume’s critics tend to focus, purely on the account given in T, 1.4.6. For (and

this is the second central theme of this book) Hume’s philosophy of the self

rests on a crucial distinction between two aspects of personal identity: ‘per-

sonal identity, as it regards our thought or imagination, and as it regards our

passions or the concern we take in ourselves’ (T, 1.4.6.5). It is the former

aspect that provides the topic of Treatise Book 1, but the latter is at least as

important in arriving at an understanding of Hume’s view of the self. For con-

venience I will label these two aspects of personal identity ‘the mental aspect’

and ‘the agency aspect’, respectively. Part I of this book deals with the mental

aspect, and Part II with the agency aspect; but both must be explored if we are

to evaluate Hume’s account of the self fairly.2

The four chapters which make up Part I are concerned with the details of

Hume’s account of the mind or self in Book 1 of the Treatise as a ‘bundle’ or

1

‘system’ of perceptions (T, 1.4.6.4, 19). I shall say more about the content of

these chapters below. Since the issues with which Part II is concerned represent

a comparatively neglected dimension to Hume’s account of the self I begin by

summarising the four chapters in which these issues are addressed. In the first

of these, Chapter 5, I discuss Hume’s treatment of character as a central feature

of his account of the self as an agent. I argue that his remarks about character,

together with his view of persons as narrative existences, show that the percep-

tions of the mind are structured in certain ways; and I show how this bears on

two of the major topics with which Hume is concerned in Book 2 of the

Treatise: self-concern and the conditions for moral responsibility. I consider

how traits of character are to be categorised in terms of the various perceptions

which make up the mind according to the bundle or system theory of Book 1,

and also how these traits contribute to a person’s sense of his own identity. In

Chapter 6 I am concerned with Hume’s account of the relation between human

and animal nature. As we shall see, it is one that amounts to a philosophical

revolution given its claim about the fundamental continuities between our-

selves and animals. I locate this account within a debate about animal mentality

in which Descartes and Montaigne appear to stand at opposite extremes. I

argue that Hume occupies the middle ground between their views, recognising

important differences of degree between humans and animals as well as fun-

damental points of similarity. An issue I explore in detail is the basis for Hume’s

claim about the absence in non-human animals of a moral sense. As we shall

see, this raises important questions about Hume’s view of morality itself, as well

as the relationship between human and animal nature.

In Chapter 7 I turn directly to the issue of the nature of agency. I consider,

from this point of view, the crucial role played by Hume’s account of the pas-

sions in Book 2 of the Treatise. It emerges from this account that the self, as

it is involved in the indirect passions of pride and humility, is rather different

from that associated with the mental aspect of personal identity. I go on to dis-

cuss Hume’s view of the nature of action itself, according to which the actions

of ourselves and animals share a common structure in which volition plays a

crucial role. I consider Thomas Reid’s well-known critique of Hume’s position,

in which fundamental issues arise concerning the nature of both mental and

physical agency. Finally, I examine the notion of rational agency in the context

of Hume’s views about the influencing motives of the will, and also the part

played by his notion of the calm passions in regard to the notions of moral lib-

erty and responsibility. In my final chapter, I deal with the question of Hume’s

position on the existence of other minds. Hume does not directly address the

question of how we come by the other minds belief, though the truth of this

belief is taken for granted throughout his writings. This last point might

appear puzzling in light of the dualism I ascribe to Hume in Chapter 3, and

also his account of probable reasoning in Book 2 of the Treatise. I argue that

in spite of Hume’s preparedness to use analogical argument in justifying his

claims about animal mentality, this does not provide the basis for any account

INTRODUCTION

2

he might give of the other minds belief itself. I suggest that Hume’s notion of

sympathy provides the basis for a naturalistic explanation of the belief, and I

conclude by drawing a parallel with Hume’s treatment of the understanding in

Book 2 of the Treatise.

In Part I of the book, I begin by presenting a summary of Hume’s treatment

of the mental aspect of personal identity. As this label suggests, what is essen-

tially at issue here is the nature of the mind; and I will show that the principal

ingredients of Hume’s account of the mind – which forms part of his overall

project as defined in the Introduction to the Treatise – are present in the open-

ing sections of the Treatise. What emerges from these opening sections is a

view of mental activity as consisting in the occurrence of different sorts of per-

ception related to each other partly by resemblance and partly by causation.3

This anticipates the ‘system’ account of the mind which Hume goes on to pro-

vide in T, 1.4.6 in opposition to the substance theory which he rejects (in T,

1.4.5). I will also be concerned with the distinctive features of Hume’s account

of the idea of identity, and its application to the case of the mind or self.

In Chapter 2 I turn to the philosophical implications of Hume’s system or

bundle theory of the self and the issues of interpretation to which it has given

rise. There are two questions in particular with which Hume attempts to deal:

one of these has to do with the simplicity of the mind or self and the other with

its identity (T, 1.4.6.4). In the former case Hume is concerned with the syn-chronic unity or identity of the mind, i.e. the supposition that certain

momentary experiences or mental states may be so related that they belong to

one and the same mind or self; and in the latter case he is concerned with the

diachronic identity of the mind, i.e. the supposition that certain experiences or

mental states occurring over time may be so related that they belong to the

same continuing mind or self.4 I will suggest that Hume’s account of the mind

is able to provide solutions to the problem of diachronic identity, at least when

it is supplemented by his position on the agency aspect of personal identity. So

far as the problem of synchronic identity is concerned, we shall see that Hume

does have an account of what makes certain simultaneously occurring percep-

tions those of a particular mind or self, though issues arise here to which I

return in Chapter 4. I also address some of the principal objections which have

been raised to Hume’s bundle or system theory of mind: in particular, those

which concern the relation between the mind or self and its perceptions.

Chapter 3 is concerned with Hume’s account of the relationship between

mind and body and the question of its bearing upon the traditional

mind/body problem. First, I consider Hume’s treatment of substance theories

of mind in relation to the dispute between materialism and immaterialism.

Hume condemns such ‘metaphysical disputes concerning the nature of the

soul’ (T, 1.4.5.11) and his position provides a striking perspective on con-

temporary discussions of materialist accounts of the mind. My second

principal topic is Hume’s position on the question of mental/physical inter-

action. Here, especially, we find that Hume is able to draw the sting from the

3

INTRODUCTION

difficulties supposedly involved in elaborating the mind/body relationship,

thanks to his distinctive views about the nature of cause and effect. Finally, I

consider the nature of Hume’s dualism and its implications for the nature of

both mind and body. I am concerned throughout to show that Hume’s treat-

ment of the mind/body relation involves a highly individual perspective on

the issues involved whose significance has not been generally appreciated.

In Chapter 4 I pursue the vexed question of how we are to understand

Hume’s remarks about personal identity in the Appendix to the Treatise where

he appears to retract his earlier account of the self and its identity in T, 1.4.6.

Apart from reviewing the issues of interpretation that arise here, I also specu-

late about the kind of problem which may help to account for Hume’s apparent

second thoughts about personal identity. The explanation of these thoughts

represents a problem to which there is probably no definitive solution; but my

discussion will allow me to engage with some of the most problematic features

of Hume’s treatment of the mental aspect of personal identity.

In summary, I am concerned in this book with important issues concerning

the self which arise in Hume’s philosophy including, for example, his view of

the nature of the mind and its relation to body; his use of the notion of char-

acter to explain the distinctive features of human agency, and of the associated

idea of narrative to provide a way of understanding our existence as persons;

his account of the similarities and differences between human and animal

nature; and his treatment of the ideas of moral responsibility and agency. At

the same time, I engage with Hume’s views on a wide range of philosophical

topics, including the notions of identity and substance, the relation of cause

and effect, the liberty and necessity debate, the nature of probable reasoning,

and natural belief. It may not be possible to provide a comprehensive discus-

sion of all these issues, but we shall see that Hume’s treatment of them belongs

to a coherent and philosophically productive account of the self.

Historical context

Before I proceed I should say something, at least, about the historical context

of Hume’s treatment of the various topics referred to above. This book is not

intended to add to the excellent treatments of the historical issues which are

already available.5 Nevertheless it would be helpful to get some sense of the

point from which Hume’s own discussion of issues involving the self begins.

As we shall see, there was a particular debate about the nature of the self

which seems to have played an especially important role in Hume’s treatment

of the mind/body problem (in Treatise 1.4.5).6 And the account of personal

identity offered by Locke obviously has an important bearing upon Hume’s

treatment of this topic in Treatise 1.4.6.7 As we shall see in our discussion of

Hume’s view of the relation between human and animal nature, he was par-

ticipating in an ongoing debate about the nature of animal mentality – and

one which has important implications not only for the kinds of reasoning

INTRODUCTION

4

capacity we ascribe to ourselves, but also our status as moral agents. Apart

from direct philosophical influences of these kinds, we must also take into

account the immediate social and historical context in which Hume’s philo-

sophical works were written, i.e. the Scottish Enlightenment.8

While I will be dealing with historical matters in the context of individual

chapters, it would be useful to provide a brief overview of the background to

Hume’s philosophical writings. One highly significant respect in which Hume

may be seen to part company with his philosophical predecessors is in regard to

what has been described as the ‘image of God’ doctrine, i.e. that man is made

in the image of God (Craig 1987: 13–18). A crucial philosophical implication

of the Doctrine, as I shall refer to it, is that our similarity to God is reflected in

our cognitive faculties – in our capacities for acquiring knowledge and, espe-

cially, knowledge of necessary truths, as in the case of mathematics. This is

reflected in Descartes’ attempt to establish a system of knowledge in the

Meditations, based on the conviction that starting from the Archimedean point

of certainty concerning one’s own existence one should be able by the use of

reason alone to arrive – via demonstrations of the existence of God – at cer-

tainty about the existence of others and, more generally, of a world external to

oneself (Descartes 1985: vol. II). There are various important philosophical

claims to be found in philosophers of the seventeenth and early eighteenth cen-

turies which reflect the influence of the Doctrine. One of these concerns the

relation of cause and effect and is embodied in the principle that any such

relation must, as such, be intelligible – in other words, that it must be possible

by the use of reason to establish why the events in question should be so related.

This, in turn, is linked with the idea that there should be a similarity between

effects and their causes, something they share in common. God as a perfectly

rational being creates a natural world in which anything that happens does so

for a reason; and we have been equipped to discern these rational connections

as manifested in the similarities between effects and their causes. The rational-

ity of the universe itself is accessible to the cognitive powers which reflect our

likeness to God. This is what might be described as the ‘epistemological version’

of the Doctrine (Craig 1987: 40). As we shall see, this provides an important

target for Hume’s arguments in dealing with the mind/body problem.

Given our concern with Hume’s philosophy of the mind or self, there is

another implication of the Doctrine that is of obvious importance. This is to

do with the nature of the human mind itself. If we are to conceive of the divine

mind as consisting in an infinite immaterial substance it appears that the

human mind is a finite counterpart, i.e. it too consists in an immaterial sub-

stance, albeit one that is limited in certain respects. Hence the substance

dualism we find in Descartes. For Spinoza, on the other hand, the implication

of recognising God as an infinite substance is that nothing else exists but this

one substance and its modifications (Spinoza 1993). Hence mind and body are

to be conceived not as two substances but as two aspects or modifications of

one and the same substance. The natural world is a deductive system

5

INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTION

6

corresponding to the system of thoughts in the mind of God, and to the

extent that we are able to achieve some insight into the system of nature we are

also closer to achieving a union with the divine mind. We shall see that Hume

pays Spinoza the compliment both of referring to him by name when identi-

fying his views about mind and body and also of subjecting these views to a

relatively lengthy critique.

We might go on to mention other striking historical instances of the philo-

sophical influence of the Doctrine – as, for example, in the case of Malebranche,

and his famous slogan of seeing all things in God – but the relevant point for our

purposes is its rejection by Hume and the philosophical consequences of this

rejection. According to the Doctrine, an understanding of the human mind, of

its nature and cognitive powers, requires us to look in the direction of the divine

mind. According to Hume, however, we need to look in an entirely different

direction – namely, the natural world as it is revealed to us by physical science (or

‘natural philosophy’, in Hume’s terms). In fact, what Hume is proposing is a sci-

ence of mind based on the model provided by ‘mechanical’ scientists like Boyle

and Newton (see the Introduction to the Treatise). In effect men (or human

beings) are being approached as natural objects rather than as objects which bear

the imprint of the divine mind. This has obvious repercussions, as we shall see,

for Hume’s view of the relation of human to animal nature, where the differ-

ences between his position and that of philosophers committed to the Doctrine

emerge in some detail. There are also important implications for the basis of

‘moral distinctions’ (the topic of Book 3 Part 1 of the Treatise) and our under-

standing of what it is to be a moral agent.

Now we saw above that there is a certain view about the nature of the mind

associated with the Doctrine, even if Spinoza forms an idiosyncratic exception,

and this is that it is a substance – more especially, a kind of spiritual or imma-

terial substance. It is a view associated with Descartes, in particular, but it is to

be found in other upholders of the Doctrine such as, for example, Leibniz,

Malebranche, Clarke, Berkeley and Butler.9 A crucial respect in which Hume

parts company with the Doctrine is precisely in his refusal to regard mind as

a substance – or even to attach any real content to the idea of substance itself.

It is not merely, as in the case of Locke, that issues of personal identity may be

resolved independently of considerations about sameness of substance (EssayII xxvii 10); the very notion of the mind or the self as a substance needs to be

discarded before we can even begin to resolve such issues. In this respect

Hume’s approach to questions about the self may be seen to mark a decisive

shift – perhaps to some degree anticipated in Locke – from the focus on the

immaterial soul to the mind regarded naturalistically as a subject for investi-

gation in accordance with the ‘experimental method’.

This last point serves as a reminder, if any were really needed, of Hume’s

place as a – arguably, the – central figure of the Scottish Enlightenment. While

it is a relatively arbitrary matter determining where to locate the beginning and

end of this period in Scotland’s intellectual history, we might think of it as

being concentrated in the latter half of the eighteenth century and centred in

Edinburgh. It was during this period that Hume returned to the city of his

birth (in 1711), having published his major philosophical, as well as political

and historical, works with the exception of the Dialogues on Natural Religionwhich was published in 1779, two years after his death. The Scottish

Enlightenment – which might be considered to have originated in 1724 with

the publication of Francis Hutcheson’s Inquiry into the Originals of our Ideasof Beauty and Virtue – is associated with such major figures, in addition to

Hume himself, as Hutcheson (philosopher), Adam Smith (economist, histo-

rian and philosopher), Adam Ferguson (proto-sociologist, philosopher and

proponent of ‘moral science’), James Hutton (geologist), Joseph Black

(chemist), James Watt (engineer), Robert and James Adam (architects and

town planners), and Thomas Reid (philosopher of ‘common sense’). While it

is obviously possible to provide only a rather general description of what

unites such disparate figures, one might see them as participating in the shared

objective of improving our understanding both of the natural world and also

of ourselves as human beings and the society to which we belong (Daiches et

al 1986: 2). There was also the practical concern of applying the knowledge

acquired in this way to enhancing human lives and the environment to which

they belong. This practical aspect of moral philosophy was a particular con-

cern of philosophers like Hutcheson and Ferguson – indeed, it lies at the root

of Hutcheson’s objection to Book 3 of the Treatise that it ‘wants a certain

Warmth in the cause of Virtue’: an objection to which Hume famously

responded by comparing his approach to that of the anatomist as opposed to

the painter (Sher 1990: 102–3). So far as philosophy is concerned, the impor-

tant factor is evidently the belief that it is possible to arrive at an

understanding of human nature itself – and, therefore, of our moral and intel-

lectual lives – on the basis of the same kinds of methods as those employed in

the physical sciences. This had been anticipated by Locke, in his advocacy of

the ‘historical, plain method’ as a means of investigating the human under-

standing and ‘the original, certainty, and extent of human knowledge’ (Essay I

i 2). We find this conception of the methods and objectives of philosophy

reflected in the titles of Hume’s major philosophical works, as well as in those

of his Scottish critic, Thomas Reid (An Inquiry into the Human Mind, Essayson the Intellectual Powers, and Essays on the Active Powers). Even the title of

Adam Smith’s principal philosophical work – The Theory of MoralSentiments – indicates the concern to investigate an issue of special signifi-

cance for our understanding of human nature, namely, the basis for our moral

judgements. In fact, there is a kind of continuity between Hutcheson, Hume

and Smith reflecting their shared rejection of rationalistic conceptions of

morality – ones which tend to be associated with the Doctrine referred to

above – in favour of an appeal to feeling or sense.

If there is one strand of thought which might be found to characterise the

philosophy of this period (though it is certainly not shared by all philosophers

7

INTRODUCTION

of the Scottish Enlightenment), it is one that is sometimes expressed in the

term ‘naturalism’. This is the perspective from which Hume is approached by

Norman Kemp Smith in his seminal work The Philosophy of David Hume(Kemp Smith 1949). It is difficult to give a reasonably precise account of the

way in which the notion of naturalism should be understood in this context

since its practitioners – including not only Hutcheson, Hume and Reid, but

also such philosophers as George Turnbull (author of The Principles of Moraland Christian Philosophy) and Henry Home, Lord Kames (author of Essays onthe Principles of Morality and Natural Religion) – do not appear to have pro-

vided any helpful formulations of it themselves. But it is reflected in part, at

least, in the approach to morality to which I have just referred, where the

emphasis is on explaining our moral judgements in terms of feeling rather

than reason. According to Kemp Smith, we find the same approach being

taken by Hume towards the kinds of belief which provide the focus of episte-

mology, for example, beliefs about causation and the external world. In other

words, these beliefs are based in essentially non-rational aspects of human

nature – summarised by Hume himself in the word ‘imagination’. Reason

itself is, as it were, subordinate to beliefs which originate in these non-rational

aspects of our nature (Mounce 1999: 3). Hume’s response to our fundamental

beliefs is thus to seek for an explanation of their basis in human nature rather

than to engage in the epistemological project associated with Descartes of

providing a philosophical justification of them – a project which, from the

standpoint of naturalism, is a fruitless one in so far as reason itself presup-

poses such beliefs. This, as we shall see, holds true also of Hume’s approach to

beliefs about the nature of the self. In all these cases we are dealing with

beliefs which may be classified as ‘natural’ and which invite an explanation of

the broadly psychological kind associated with Hume’s science of man. It is

evidently an implication of this naturalistic approach that an aspect of the

mind demanding special attention is that of our passions or emotions, to

which the second Book of the Treatise is devoted. As I have already indi-

cated, this in fact provides one of the two perspectives from which Hume

approaches questions about the self and its identity. It is, however, the first

perspective – that of ‘thought or imagination’ – to which I now turn.

INTRODUCTION

8

Part I

THE MENTAL ASPECTS OF

PERSONAL IDENTITY

1

THE SELF AND HUMAN NATURE

I indicated in my introduction that Hume’s account of the self in ‘Of

Personal Identity’ (Treatise 1.4.6) reflects remarks from earlier sections of the

Treatise. We shall see that further light is shed on it by remarks elsewhere in

the book as well as in other writings of Hume.

The self in Hume’s Treatise

One way in which we might emphasise the importance of Hume’s theory of

the self in the context of the Treatise as a whole, is to point out that there is a

sense, at least, in which the self provides the focus for the project which Hume

undertakes in the Treatise. This project, which Hume outlines in the

Introduction to his book, amounts to establishing a ‘science of man’ which will

provide a foundation for the other sciences (T, Intro. 6). This, as we have seen,

places Hume squarely within the approach to human nature associated with

the Scottish Enlightenment. More especially, the science of man as a project in

moral – as opposed to natural – philosophy, is concerned with the ultimate

principles of the mind or soul.1 It is more aptly described, therefore, as a ‘sci-

ence of mind’: a ‘science’ to be conducted in accordance with the experimental

method referred to in the sub-title to the Treatise.2 Since Hume’s account of

the mind in Book 1 is central to what he has to say about the self, while further

aspects of the self emerge from the other two Books of the Treatise, we might

say that the Treatise as a whole constitutes Hume’s theory of the self. Hume’s

theory makes itself felt elsewhere in his philosophy, though we should note

that there may be some dispute as to how far Hume retains the distinctive

theory of the self to be found in the Treatise.3

11

I

THE PERCEPTIONS OF THE MIND

I turn now to the opening sections of the Treatise, and this for two reasons.

First, we can understand the terms in which Hume’s theory of the self is

couched only if we attend to the distinction with which Hume begins his

book; and second, we shall find that these opening sections also point to the

way in which the theory is developed in Book 1 of the Treatise. Hume begins,

then, by suggesting that ‘the perceptions of the human mind’ are of two dis-

tinct kinds: impressions and ideas (T, 1.1.1.1). It becomes clear that Hume

means to provide in this way a classification of all those states, activities, etc.,

that we associate with having a mind (sensations, emotions, thoughts, memo-

ries, imaginings, and so on). A great deal has, of course, been written about

Hume’s attempt to classify these various aspects of mind in terms of his dis-

tinction between impressions and ideas, but I am not directly concerned here

with the merits of this classification, nor with the general validity of the dis-

tinction itself.4 We need to be aware, however, of certain general features of

Hume’s division of the perceptions of the mind into impressions and ideas.

First, impressions themselves are to be divided into two categories, impres-

sions of sensation (comprising the experiences associated with perception, as

well as bodily feelings of pleasure and pain), and impressions of reflection

which are in general identified with what Hume calls the passions (including,

for example, emotions like pride and humility).5 Second, ideas are described by

Hume as the ‘images’ of the different kinds of impression which we thus expe-

rience, and we may for the moment think of them as constituting our thoughts

about these experiences. In general terms, Hume’s distinction between impres-

sions and ideas amounts, as he himself puts it, to ‘the difference betwixt feeling

and thinking’ (ibid.).

Simple and complex perceptions

Now there are certain aspects of this distinction of which we need to take

note. To begin with, each of Hume’s two kinds of ‘perception’ may occur

either as something simple or as a complex containing a number of such sim-

ples. This distinction, which Hume himself seems to take more or less for

granted, is in fact problematic on a number of counts. It is far from clear what

will count as a simple impression or idea, i.e. as one which is capable neither

of ‘distinction nor separation’ (T, 1.1.1.2). And in so far as the distinction can

be made, it seems doubtful whether it will work in the same way for both

impressions and ideas, bearing in mind that while complex ideas consist in

conjunctions of ideas, complex impressions may involve a mixture of the

impressions (T, 2.2.6.1). Hume is rather coy about citing instances of impres-

sions or ideas which he would count as simple, but it is nevertheless important

THE MENTAL ASPECTS OF PERSONAL IDENTITY

12

for him that we should recognise this category of perceptions because he

wishes to claim that every simple idea, when it first appears in the mind, is a

copy of a corresponding impression (T, 1.1.1.7). If every idea is either a

simple idea or a conjunction of such ideas, it follows that all ideas must be

derived, ultimately at least, from experience in the form of impressions either

of sensation or of reflection. And this, indeed, is the ‘first principle’ – one

yielded by the impressions/ideas distinction – that Hume seeks to establish in

his science of human nature (T, 1.1.1.12).6

Ideas

We may now look a little more closely at the category of ideas. Suppose I see

something like an apple and thereby experience what is, presumably, a complex

impression of colour, shape, etc. According to Hume, there will be a corre-

sponding idea which will, at least to some extent, resemble that impression (the

extent of the resemblance perhaps reflecting the complexity of the impression,

cf. T, 1.1.1.4). But how, apart from the order in which they occur, are the

impression and idea distinguished from each other? According to Hume, they

will differ in their degree of force and vivacity, impressions generally being

more lively than the corresponding ideas.7 But an idea may acquire some of the

vivacity of the impression with which it is associated. As Hume goes on to say

in the second Part of Book 1 of the Treatise, it is of the nature of belief that it

consists in an idea enlivened in this way by a present impression (T, 1.3.7). The

idea in my example amounts, then, to a perceptual belief and we may say, in

general, that impressions of the senses are attended in this way with belief (cf.

T, 1.3.5.7). Now I may, as Hume says, repeat the original impression in a sub-

sequent idea which will be one of memory, when sufficient vivacity from the

impression is retained for the idea still to be one of belief. On the other hand,

I may form an idea – a complex idea – for which there is no directly corre-

sponding impression, by transposing and changing ideas which have already

been acquired from experience, thereby creating an idea of imagination (T,

1.1.3). In this case the idea is not enlivened by the impressions from which it

ultimately derives,8 and consequently belief is not involved.

The association of ideas

There is one additional feature of Hume’s account of the perceptions of

the mind – in particular, those which belong to the category of ideas – that

I should mention here. In Treatise 1.1.4 he sets out the theory his use of

which, he subsequently says, may entitle him ‘to so glorious a name as that

of an inventor’ (Abs. 35). This is the theory of the connection or association

of ideas. The gist of this principle of association is that there are various

‘qualities’ by which one idea may naturally introduce another: these con-

sisting in resemblance, contiguity, and cause and effect (T, 1.1.4.1). In the

13


corresponding discussion in the first Enquiry (Section 3, ‘Of the Association

of Ideas’), Hume gives examples to illustrate how each of these qualities may

lead to a connection of one idea with another (EHU, 3.3). Since we will be

concerned with two of them, in particular, later on I shall not pause to say

more about them here. The fact that ideas are associated or connected in this

way shows that the occurrence of ideas in imagination is not, after all, an

entirely arbitrary process, but one that is guided by certain principles. These

principles amount, Hume says, to ‘a kind of ATTRACTION’ (T, 1.1.4.6),

which provides the counterpart in Hume’s science of mind to the Newtonian

theory of gravity in natural science.

Relations and substance

Before I go on to consider this account of the perceptions of the mind, there

are two other topics introduced in Treatise Book 1 Part 1 which should be

mentioned. The first occurs in Section 5, ‘Of Relations’. Hume here suggests

that the word ‘relation’ is commonly used in two different senses. One of these

is reflected in Hume’s theory of the association of ideas. According to this

theory, two ideas may be so connected in the imagination that ‘the one natu-

rally introduces the other’ (T, 1.1.5.1). Accordingly Hume himself

subsequently describes this kind of relation as a natural one. The other kind of

relation obtains where it is possible to make some kind of comparison between

objects or qualities, even if the corresponding ideas themselves have no natural

relation to each other. Hume refers to relations of this kind – which include

ones of particular concern to philosophy – as philosophical relations. We

should note that all relations are philosophical in so far as they involve a

‘comparison of objects’; the point of Hume’s distinction is that some, but not

all, of these relations are also natural ones.

The other topic occurs in Section 6, ‘Of Modes and Substances’, where

Hume introduces a preliminary discussion of the idea of substance (we will

be concerned later with his detailed treatment of this topic in Treatise Book

1 Part 4). If it is true that every idea originates in experience, then the idea of

substance will be derived from impressions either of sensation or reflection.

Now the impressions with which our senses provide us are those of colour,

sound, taste, and so on, while substance itself is conventionally distinguished

from such qualities. On the other hand, impressions of reflection comprise

the passions and emotions, none of which, as Hume puts it, ‘can possibly rep-

resent a substance’ (T, 1.1.6.1). Hume thus reaches the important conclusion

that ‘We have therefore no idea of substance, distinct from that of a collection

of particular qualities, nor have we any other meaning when we either talk or

reason concerning it’. This is not to say, however, that we think of substances

in such terms. In fact, since the simple ideas associated with a substance

exhibit the kind of natural relation referred to above – they are ‘united by the

imagination’ – we may be led to form the ‘fiction’ of substance as an


14

‘unknown something’ in which particular qualities inhere. We will see the

importance of this shortly.

Hume’s causal account of the perceptions of the mind

Let us now, then, consider Hume’s account of the perceptions of the mind as

described above. Perhaps the most striking feature about it is that it not only

represents these perceptions as standing in certain causal relations to each

other, but that different kinds of perception are identified by their causes and

effects. (It is true that Hume’s references to the vivacity of impressions, and

also to the vivacity of certain ideas, seem concerned with internal, rather than

relational, features of these perceptions: but it is arguable that in this case

Hume is, after all, referring to the characteristic effects of the perceptions in

question – cf. n7 above). Impressions of the senses, for example, are dependent

on the organs through which they occur, so that someone born blind or deaf

will be incapable of the relevant impressions of sensation (and also, therefore,

of the corresponding ideas, T, 1.1.1.9). It is true that Hume as a moral – as

opposed to natural – philosopher is not concerned with the nature of the

causes of impressions of sensation (T, 1.1.2.1), and that he is agnostic as to

their ultimate explanation (T, 1.3.5.2), but he clearly ascribes them immediately

to physical or natural causes (T, 2.1.1.1). Such impressions also, as we have

seen, have effects in the form of ideas which amount to beliefs. These ideas, in

turn, also have their characteristic effects in the form of impressions of reflec-

tion, so that our beliefs may have emotional repercussions. The latter, as

involving impressions, will give rise to further ideas (and, perhaps, beliefs),

from which further impressions of reflection may result. Hume himself pro-

vides a summary of the way in which ‘perceptions’ thus arise in the mind:

An impression first strikes upon the senses, and makes us perceive

heat or cold, thirst or hunger, pleasure or pain of some kind or other.

Of this impression there is a copy taken by the mind, which remains

after the impression ceases; and this we call an idea. This idea of

pleasure or pain, when it returns upon the soul, produces the new

impressions of desire and aversion, hope and fear, which may prop-

erly be called impressions of reflection, because deriv’d from it. These

again are copy’d by the memory and imagination, and become ideas;

which perhaps in their turn give rise to other impressions and ideas.

So that the impressions of reflection are only antecedent to their cor-

respondent ideas; but posterior to those of sensation, and deriv’d

from them (T, 1.1.2.1).

What Hume says here suggests that perceptions typically occur in the follow-

ing sequence: impressions of sensation → ideas → impressions of reflection →ideas, etc. But this is not invariably so, as Hume’s re-statement of the

15


impressions/ideas distinction at the beginning of Book 2 of the Treatise illus-

trates. Hume here identifies the distinction between impressions of sensation

and impressions of reflection with the distinction between original and sec-ondary impressions. Impressions of sensation are ‘original’ in the sense that

they arise in the mind through physical or natural causes, independently of any

other perceptions, while the secondary impressions of reflection proceed from

these original impressions either immediately or through ideas derived from

impressions of this latter kind (T, 2.1.1.1). This latter distinction within the

category of impressions of reflection indicates that some ‘passions’ are direct,arising immediately from experiences of pain or pleasure, while others are

indirect to the extent that they depend upon additional perceptions. Hume

classifies as direct such ‘passions’ as desire and aversion, as well as emotions

like hope and fear, and as indirect, emotions such as pride, humility, love and

hatred (T, 2.1.1.4). We shall see later that the indirect passions in particular

play an important part in Hume’s account of the self.

Now it is not too much to say that in these opening sections of the TreatiseHume has provided us with a picture of the mind itself. It is one which repre-

sents mental activity as consisting in the occurrence of different sorts of

perception related to each other partly by resemblance (as in the case of com-

plex ideas of memory which repeat the original impressions), and partly by

causation (so that the perceptions of the mind occur in typical sequences).

This suggests how Hume will carry out the task he describes in Section I of the

first Enquiry as ‘mental geography’, or the ‘delineation of the distinct parts and

powers of the mind’ (EHU, 1.13). As his preliminary remarks about memory

and imagination indicate, it is a matter of locating the perceptions in the com-

plex pattern of activity that makes up our mental life. An idea of memory is

identified in part, for example, by its causal relation to the corresponding

impressions. More generally, the ‘mapping’ of perceptions will reflect their

function or role in the mind, in terms of their characteristic causes and effects.

This does not, as such, amount to a theory of mind, for any such theory would

require that something should be said about the relation of the mind to its per-

ceptions. But while it may be true that Hume has not, at this stage, provided us

with a positive account of the nature of the mind itself (Flage 1990: 253), we

have identified here the essential ingredients of the account which Hume goes

on to present in Treatise 1.4.6. For what could the relation of the mind to its

perceptions be? There seem to be only two sorts of possibility, namely, that per-

ceptions belong to the mind as something which is itself distinct from

perceptions themselves, or that the mind just is the perceptions related to each

other in the complex way described. But the former possibility seems to require

that the mind itself should be some sort of thing or substance to which per-

ceptions would belong as qualities, and Hume has indicated that this kind of

supposition amounts to a fiction explained by the fact that natural relations

among perceptions (including resemblance and causation) would lead us to

refer them to the mind as an unknown ‘something’. We are at least prepared,


16

therefore, for the explicit account of mind which we subsequently find in the

Treatise, and to which I now turn.

II

TREATISE 1.4.6 ‘OF PERSONAL IDENTITY’

Apart from the opening sections of the Treatise to which I have referred above,

it should be said that the section explicitly devoted to the topic of personal

identity is preceded by others in which the ground is prepared for Hume’s

treatment of this topic. For example, Hume’s account of the nature of the

mind in T, 1.4.6 is anticipated in his earlier discussion of belief in the existence

of body (T, 1.4.2.39), and his treatment of the view of the mind as a substance

reflects the discussion of the Aristotelian and scholastic notion of substance in

T, 1.4.3. Perhaps most importantly of all, Hume provides an extended treat-

ment of the rationalistic conception of the mind as an immaterial substance in

the immediately preceding section, ‘Of the Immortality of the Soul’ (T, 1.4.5).

I shall reserve discussion of this section for the third chapter where I am con-

cerned with its bearing on Hume’s view of the mind/body relation. So far as ‘Of

Personal Identity’ is concerned, it scarcely needs to be said that Hume provides

here one of the most significant, as well as controversial, treatments of this

topic in the history of philosophy; and it is one that has given rise to a host of

issues, both interpretative and critical. I shall attempt to do justice to some of

the more important of these issues, while making clear the gist of what Hume

has to say in this much-cited section of the Treatise.

Philosophers and the vulgar

Hume’s central concern in Book 1 is with the investigation of certain ideas: in

the case with which we are presently concerned, the idea of the self or person

and its identity. More precisely, the idea of the self to which Hume is referring

here is that of something to which we ascribe ‘a perfect identity and simplicity’

(T, 1.4.6.1). While – as the title of this section would indicate – the bulk of

Hume’s discussion is devoted to the idea of personal identity, some concluding

remarks about simplicity suggest that he is referring here to the idea of the self

as something which at any given moment possesses a certain kind of unity. (To

avoid undue clumsiness I shall continue to refer to the idea with which Hume

is concerned as that of personal identity – but we should bear in mind through-

out that he is also concerned with the idea of the simplicity of the self.) Before

we consider Hume’s explanation of the way in which these ideas – and the

beliefs which they embody – arise, we should note that there are really two sets

of ideas or beliefs to be taken into consideration here. One of these consists in

a philosophical theory about the self and its identity, while the other belongs to

17


the ordinary, non-philosophical view, or that of ‘the vulgar’ as Hume describes

them elsewhere. This distinction, between philosophers and the vulgar, under-

lies Hume’s discussion in Treatise 1.4.2. of belief in an external existence: a

discussion with which the present one may usefully be compared. Hume’s

attempt to explain belief in an external existence, or the existence of body,

rests on a distinction between perceptions – as the items which are immediately

present in perception to the senses – and objects.9 But this distinction belongs

to philosophers who theorise about the relation, and it is one that the vulgar do

not recognise (T, 1.4.2.31). Hence, the ordinary belief in external existence has

to be explained as something that arises from features of our sense-impressions,

even though we do not, unless philosophising about this, think of the objects of

sense-experience in these terms.

What, then, is the philosophical view of the self with which Hume is con-

cerned? He begins his discussion of personal identity rather enigmatically in

the following way:

There are some philosophers, who imagine we are every moment inti-

mately conscious of what we call our SELF; that we feel its existence

and its continuance in existence; and are certain, beyond the evidence

of a demonstration, both of its perfect identity and simplicity (T,

1.4.6.1).

There is scope here for some uncertainty as to which philosophers Hume is

thinking of, and what view of the self is being ascribed to them. So far as the

first of these questions is concerned, it seems not unreasonable to suppose that

one philosopher Hume has in mind is Descartes. It is worth noting, for exam-

ple, that in describing his own position on the topic of personal identity in the

Abstract Hume mentions Descartes as holding a view of the mind which is

‘unintelligible’. He also goes on to refer in the present section to the unintelli-

gible notion of a substantial self (T, 1.4.6.6), and this echoes the earlier

discussion of the immaterialist account of the mind as a substance in T, 1.4.5.

Certainly, Descartes is not the only proponent of the view that the person or

self consists essentially in a spiritual or immaterial substance, though he is

prominently associated with this kind of view. (Other philosophers Hume

may have in mind here would include Malebranche, Clarke, Leibniz, Butler

and Berkeley – all of whom might be seen to subscribe to the Doctrine men-

tioned in my introduction.) While Hume does not immediately identify the

philosophical view of the self with what might broadly be described as the

Cartesian one, it is a natural assumption that this is what he has in mind in his

subsequent discussion.

On this philosophical view, then, the self is a kind of substance to which our

perceptions – i.e. our mental states, activities, etc. – belong and which accord-

ingly exhibits such features as simplicity and identity.10 Hume argues that we

have no idea of self ‘after the manner it is here explain’d’ (T, 1.4.6.2). He does


18

so by invoking his first principle, i.e. that for any idea there must be some cor-

responding impression; and then arguing that we have no impression of a

simple and identical self. Indeed, according to Hume, we could have no impres-

sion of this kind, one which is constant and invariable;11 and so it appears that

there is really no such idea of the self as the one to which the philosophical

view appeals. In contrast to the view he is rejecting, Hume makes the follow-

ing observation:

. . . when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always

stumble on some particular perception or other . . . I never can catch

myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any-

thing but the perception (T, 1.4.6.3).12

The conclusion Hume draws from this failure to introspect the self as con-

ceived by philosophers is that we must provide a quite different account of

what the self is, and this is captured in Hume’s famous remark that each of us

is ‘nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions, which succeed

each other with an inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and

movement’ (T, 1.4.6.4). Not only is this view of the self foreshadowed in the

opening sections of the Treatise, as I have indicated, but it is also formulated

quite explicitly in the context of Hume’s earlier discussion of belief in the exis-

tence of body. There he writes as follows:

. . . what we call a mind, is nothing but a heap or collection of differ-

ent perceptions, united together by certain relations, and suppos’d,

tho’ falsly, to be endow’d with a perfect simplicity and identity (T,

1.4.2.39).13

Now this has an important bearing on Hume’s attempt to account for the idea

of the self as something which is both simple and identical. For if we cannot

look in the direction of the philosophical view of the self for an explanation

of this idea, then there is no alternative but to appeal to features of the per-

ceptions which, according to Hume, make up the mind. This provides a direct

parallel with the earlier discussion of the idea of an external existence, or of

body, in T, 1.4.2. The unsustainability of the philosophical view of perception

in that context meant that the idea in question could be accounted for only by

reference to features of sense-impressions themselves. Hume is also able to

make use here of the results of his discussion in T, 1.4.3 of the philosophical

idea of substance. In brief, this idea is represented as the outcome of our ten-

dency to regard a physical object or body as one thing which possesses a

continuing identity in spite of the fact that it is really a kind of compound or

collection of sensible qualities and one that may undergo considerable changes

(T, 1.4.3.2). In other words, we tend to confound the different ideas of, respec-

tively, simplicity and composition, identity and variation. The explanation

19



20

for this lies with propensities of the imagination to which Hume had appealed

in T, 1.4.2 in accounting for our belief in the existence of body. Certain rela-

tions among our perceptions – in particular, the relation of resemblance – lead

us to treat them as though they amounted to one identical object (T, 1.4.2.35);

the general principle, reflected also in the idea of the simplicity and identity of

physical bodies, is that we respond to a succession of related objects in the

same way we would to something which possesses a genuine simplicity and

identity. In doing so, however, we find ourselves involved in a kind of mental

conflict (or ‘contradiction’), for we can scarcely fail to be aware that we are

presented with composition and diversity. Thus, according to Hume, the imag-

ination is obliged to feign the existence of something which would provide a

principle of union or identity – and this ‘unintelligible something’ is what is

referred to by philosophers as substance (T, 1.4.3.4).

Returning, then, to what Hume has said about the mind, we can see that the

ordinary belief in an identical self will have to be explained by reference to the

perceptions of which it is composed. And this, in fact, is how Hume proceeds:

certain natural relations which obtain among our perceptions lead us to con-

found their diversity with identity; reflection makes us aware of the error

involved but is unable to overcome the propensity to ascribe a perfect identity

to what is variable or interrupted; and we attempt to rescue ourselves from this

predicament by feigning a connecting principle among our perceptions

(T, 1.4.6.6). Hence philosophers arrive at the fiction of a soul or substantial self.

So far as the vulgar are concerned, the idea of the self is that of something

unknown and mysterious which somehow connects or unites their perceptions.

The ordinary beliefs for which Hume is trying to account in Treatise 1.4.2 and

1.4.6 are treated as fictions for which the imagination (as opposed both to the

senses and to reason – T, 1.4.2.2) is responsible: in the case of body, the fiction

is that of a continued existence (T, 1.4.2.36), and in the case of the self, the fic-

tion is that of the identity and simplicity of the mind (T, 1.4.6.15). In each case,

the error of the vulgar is merely compounded by the attempt of philosophers

to provide their own rationale for the beliefs in question. (One might add that

the philosophical view is in each case essentially parasitic upon the vulgar

view – it arises from the attempt to reconcile a propensity of the vulgar to

ascribe an identity to their perceptions with the process of philosophical reflec-

tion by which we come to see that the resulting beliefs are fictions; but, of

course, no such reconciliation is possible.)

Belief in self-identity and the mind

There are many questions arising from the above, not least, what we should

make of Hume’s remarks about identity and how we should understand his

account of the self as a bundle of perceptions. Before saying something about

these questions I should comment briefly on the direction that Hume’s dis-

cussion has taken. For his original question about belief in the self and its

identity has become transformed into one about the mind – something that

Hume makes explicit when he links his explanation of ‘the nature of personalidentity’ with ‘the identity, which we ascribe to the mind of man’ (T, 1.4.6.15).

But this apparent identification of the self with the mind surely calls for com-

ment. Part of the explanation for it is that Hume is approaching the problem

of personal identity from a similar dualistic perspective to that of Descartes

(though, as will already be apparent, Hume certainly does not accept

Descartes’ substance dualism). The philosophical view of the self he rejects is,

as we saw earlier, a version of the Cartesian conception of the mind as some-

thing distinct from its perceptions. But Hume does not appear to question the

assumption that questions about the self should be approached in this way, by

reference to the mind. Rather, the ‘bundle’ theory is Hume’s alternative to

Descartes’ view of the mind as a kind of substance.14

We should bear in mind also that the issue with which Hume is immediately

concerned in Treatise 1.4.6 is the explanation for the existence of our idea of

the self (i.e. as something simple and identical). In Hume’s terms, the idea must

derive from some corresponding impression – and this impression, whether

simple or complex, is to be found only in reflection on our own perceptions

(i.e. the impression of the self for which Hume is seeking will be, in Hume’s

own terminology, an impression of reflection). This makes it intelligible that

Hume should appear to identify the self with that which is the immediate

object of reflection – i.e. our perceptions or, more generally, the mind to which

they belong. And it would explain why Hume’s question about the nature of

the self becomes a question about the mind and its relation to our perceptions.

Nevertheless, there is good reason to suppose that Hume cannot really mean

to identify the self with the mind. (The following points are, in effect, a

reminder about the other aspect of Hume’s concern with personal identity to

which I have referred, namely, the agency aspect.) For, as Hume recognises, we

are conscious not only of our feelings and sentiments, for example, but also of

the actions we perform (T, 2.1.5.3) – and the latter reflect our possession of

bodies as well as minds. There is no reason, therefore, why Hume should not

include the body as part of the self, as indeed he sometimes does (for example,

T, 2.1.9.1). But since the immediate objects of consciousness must presumably

belong to the category of perceptions, it is understandable that Hume should

equate self-consciousness with consciousness of the mind as the apparent sub-

ject of these perceptions.

There is perhaps another reason for approaching the issue of personal iden-

tity in the way Hume does, though it is not clear how far it weighs with Hume

himself. Some questions about personal identity may be resolved much as we

resolve questions about the identity of plants or animals – where, for example,

we rely on considerations of bodily continuity (witness Hume’s own discussion

of these other cases of identity, T, 1.4.6.12). This is reflected, for example, in

the use of eye-witness identifications in a court of law. In this kind of case we

are dealing with what might be described as the ‘external’ idea of the self

21


where identification is independent of the particular viewpoint of the person

concerned. But it is evident that the kind of case Hume is thinking of is where

we are concerned with our own identity; and while this is a question which

may, in some instances, be approached from an essentially impersonal point of

view (for example, where I am genuinely unsure whether I could really have

performed a certain action, and may have to appeal to the testimony of

others), there are other cases in which it is one that is essentially bound up with

the individual’s point of view. If I ask whether I am the same person as the one

who performed some action in the past, I may not doubt that others would

identify me with that person; but I may wonder, nevertheless, how far the

person I am now is really to be identified with the person responsible for this

action. In this sort of case, the issue of personal identity involves what might

be described as ‘the internal idea’ of the self (Nagel 1979: 201). The concept or

idea of the self which is relevant to this kind of issue of personal identity

appears to be a psychological rather than a bodily one, and to the extent that

Hume is approaching questions about personal identity from this internal

perspective we can see why he should concentrate on questions about the

nature of mind.

The mind as a system of perceptions

The key to understanding Hume’s account of the mental aspect of personal

identity lies in the following remark about the mind:

. . . the true idea of the human mind, is to consider it as a system of

different perceptions or different existences, which are link’d together

by the relation of cause and effect, and mutually produce, destroy,

influence, and modify each other (T, 1.4.6.19; my emphasis).

It is worth comparing this with what Hume says elsewhere about the mind as

consisting in a bundle or collection of different perceptions (for example,

T, 1.4.2.39, 1.4.6.4). To describe the mind as a heap or bundle of perceptions

gives the impression that there is nothing in particular that relates these dif-

ferent perceptions to each other, apart from the fact that they happen to

belong to the same mind – and this fact itself will then remain quite inexplic-

able. Indeed, Hume is often understood in just this way. But it is worth noting

that even when Hume uses the kind of language to which I have referred, there

is more to what he is saying about the mind than this common understanding

of him suggests. Thus, he follows up his initial reference to the mind as a

‘heap or collection of different perceptions’, by adding that these perceptions

are ‘united together by certain relations’ (T, 1.4.2.39).15 It is just this that

Hume’s own word ‘system’ so usefully captures. (One should perhaps add

here that Hume’s characterisation of the mind as a system of perceptions

may possibly be intended to apply only to human minds together with the


22

minds of more complex non-human animals – he notes, for example, that a

mind may contain few perceptions, and perhaps only one – T, Appendix, 16.

We should remember that Hume is concerned with the belief in self-identity,

and this – for reasons which may be evident already – could only be a property

of the kind of systematic mind to which Hume refers in Treatise 1.4.6).16

I have indicated that the ingredients of Hume’s view of the mind as a system

of perceptions are present in the opening sections of the Treatise. For he has

presented us there with a picture of the mind in which perceptions occur in

causal sequences amounting to a continuous cycle of activity (at least, so long

as the mind is receptive to the initial impressions of sensation). It is just this

kind of picture that is conveyed in the passage from Treatise 1.4.6 quoted

above. There was also the suggestion that the mind is nothing more than per-

ceptions linked to each other in this way, and this too we find in Hume’s

characterisation of the mind as a system of perceptions.

The perceptions which make up the mind – impressions and ideas – occur in

a causal sequence which also enables us to identify in a functional way such

aspects of the mind as those of belief, memory and emotion. In other words,

these mental phenomena may be represented as the product of causal relations

among our perceptions, as well as being the source of further relations of this

kind. As a specimen instance of this way of thinking of the mind, one might

cite Hume’s account of belief, i.e. as consisting in an idea enlivened by its asso-

ciation with an impression, and one which as a result ‘renders realities more

present to us than fictions, causes them to weigh more in the thought, and

gives them a superior influence on the passions and imagination’ (T, 1.3.7.7).

There is a causal flow among impressions and ideas, originating with impres-

sions of sensation, with particular impressions of reflection, volitions and the

passions, giving rise not only to ideas but also to the actions we perform. On

this account, then, the mind is organised in a certain way, with volition, belief,

passion, etc., each performing certain functions and, by their interaction, pro-

ducing bodily behaviour. (Indeed, this is implicit, at least, in Hume’s

description of the mind as a system.) Another way of putting all this might be

to say that Hume has provided us, in effect, with a flow chart account of the

mind, in which it is represented as just such an organisation of interacting sub-

personal ‘perceptions’. In the passage cited earlier from T, 8, Hume explains

how a passion may arise from impressions of sensation and ideas of memory;

while his account, in Treatise Book 2, of the ‘indirect’ passions, provides an

especially clear example of how one kind of perception may be explained as

the outcome of a complex set of causal relations among other impressions and

ideas. (We should note that Hume accepts the implication of this, that the rela-

tion between emotions like pride and humility and their objects or causes are

essentially contingent ones, to be determined experimentally: see Treatise2.2.2, ‘Experiments to Confirm this System’.)

In the diagram which follows I illustrate this general picture of the mind,

with the single lines indicating a causal flow among impressions and ideas,

23


originating with our impressions of sensation.17 On the side of impressions, we

should notice that the impressions of sensation which provide the source of

the mind’s activity may be either ‘external’, i.e. ones which arise from the

senses, or bodily impressions of pleasure or pain (thirst or hunger, etc.). The

impressions of reflection include both volitions, as the immediate effects of

bodily impressions of pain and pleasure (see, for example, T, 3.3.1.2), and

also passions as depending additionally, in the case of those which are ‘indi-

rect’, on the prior occurrence of ideas. On the side of ideas, I have interpreted

Hume’s distinction between primary and secondary (T, 1.1.1.11) as concern-

ing, on the one hand, the beliefs which immediately arise as the ‘new ideas’ in

which our impressions are initially copied, and on the other, the memories cor-

responding to these original beliefs – while imagination, on this picture, is an

activity involving transpositions among ideas which have been acquired in

the latter way. Finally, I have used thicker arrows to indicate the causal rela-

tions between perceptions and the body, this reminding us of the important

point that the causal role of perceptions is not confined to their effects within

the mind itself (hence the agency aspect of personal identity).


24

BELIEF MEMORY

Secondary

IMAGINATION

IMPRESSIONSOF

REFLECTION

PASSIONIMPRESSIONSOF

SENSATION

VOLITION

IDEAS Primary

Bodily actionBodily motions

External/bodilyPAIN

PLEASURE

Some aspects of this representation of Hume’s view of the mind are con-

troversial. This would be true, for example, of the way in which I have located

volition in the flow chart. On some interpretations, for example, Hume regards

volitions as being themselves passions (Laird 1967: 202; Penelhum 1975a:

114), while on others they are regarded as distinct kinds of impression of

reflection (Capaldi 1975: 145). And there is the further question of whether

volitions really are the direct effects of pain and pleasure, or whether they also

depend on our thoughts and ideas (Bricke 1984). In each case Hume’s own

remarks appear rather equivocal: for example, he does at one point apparently

identify volition as a direct passion (T, 2.3.9.2), while elsewhere he denies that

volition is a passion (T, 2.3.1.2); and while the will is said to be the immediate

effect of pain and pleasure (ibid.), Hume sometimes appears to include the

understanding among the causes of the will (T, 2.3.3). These issues of inter-

pretation perhaps reflect the fact that Hume himself finds difficulty in

allocating volition to one or other of the various categories he has created for

himself. But since these issues are not of direct concern to me here, in so far as

I am concerned with Hume’s account of the mind in general, I shall simply

assume a particular flow chart representation of volitions. It would be possi-

ble to represent them differently, in accordance with the alternative

interpretations I have mentioned.

I have not attempted to incorporate into the flow chart representation of the

mind I have ascribed to Hume the important distinction within the category of

passions, between those that are direct and those that are indirect. I shall later

on be concerned directly with the role of the passions in Hume’s account of

the self, so the details of his theory of the passions is another matter which

may be deferred for the moment. But for the sake of completeness, I supply an

additional diagram to indicate how this distinction might be registered in the

relevant part of the flow chart above.

25


(IDEAS OF MEMORY/IMAGINATION)

PASSIONIMPRESSIONS

OFSENSATION

External/bodilyPAIN

PLEASURE(Direct)

(Indirect)

In other words, while the direct passions arise from pain or pleasure alone,

the indirect passions depend also on ‘other qualities’ involving the presence of

ideas (T, 2.1.1.4). It should be said, incidentally, that the passions referred to

in this flow chart representation of the mind belong to the category of what

might be described as the ‘responsive’ passions, i.e. those which occur in

response to pain or pleasure. Hume also allows for the existence of what

might be described as ‘productive’ direct passions which are themselves

sources of pleasure and pain, and whose occurrence in the mind reflects a ‘nat-

ural impulse or instinct’ (these include certain desires and bodily appetites – T,

2.3.9.8).18 In the case of memory, we should bear in mind that an idea of

memory is itself, for Hume, one of belief – indeed, Hume even indicates that

this is what distinguishes ideas of memory from those of imagination (T,

1.3.5.7). The point that the flow chart is meant to convey is that memory

appears typically to depend on some prior belief associated directly with the

occurrence of sense-impressions.

Before we go on to consider some of the implications of the flow chart

account of the self (or, more precisely, mind) that I am ascribing to Hume, I

need to say something about an objection which might arise at this point. It

would be natural enough to characterise the view of the mind I have ascribed

to Hume as a reductive one – and he is, indeed, often so interpreted

(Beauchamp 1979; Ashley and Stack 1974). But there is an obvious danger

here of providing an anachronistic reading of Hume, particularly if his reduc-

tionism is supposed to take the form of a logical construction theory

according to which statements about the mind are reducible to statements

about perceptions (Penelhum 1975b: 404). It seems obvious that Hume’s

theory of the mind is intended not as an analysis of the idea or notion itself,

but rather as an account of what the mind is: and this latter issue is something

to be settled, at least in part, by the experimental method advocated in the

Introduction to the Treatise rather than the analysis of statements about the

mind. It is true, of course, that Hume begins with the idea of the mind or self

and that he does in effect try to provide an account of its meaning by looking

for the corresponding impression(s). We have seen already, in fact, that the

idea is that of something to which our perceptions belong; and Hume means

to explain how we are able to have this idea in spite of the absence of any

impression directly corresponding to it. Hume’s own theory is therefore of a

revisionary kind and not an attempt to express what is implicit in what we ordi-

narily think or say about the mind. It might properly be described as a

psychological, rather than logical, theory.19

It is here that the flow chart account helps to bring out just what it is that

Hume apparently wants to say about the mind (or self, considered as the mental

aspect of personal identity). For the view that the mind is some sort of thing or

substance, distinct from perceptions themselves, might be seen as one which

would attempt to locate it in such a chart as something requiring a separate box

of its own (i.e. in addition to ones for impressions, ideas, memory, imagination,


26

and so on). The gist of Hume’s bundle (or, as I would prefer, system) theory is

that such an attempt would be misguided since the mind is already catered for in

the way that its various operations are represented as functionally inter-related.20

It is not perhaps too fanciful to treat this as a kind of gloss on Hume’s own

remark about his comparison of the mind with a theatre where perceptions

make their appearance: ‘The comparison of the theatre must not mislead us.

They are the successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind’ (T, 1.4.6.4).

This comparison is, in fact, particularly striking in light of the view of the mind

I have ascribed to Hume. For a theatre is very much an organisation, in which a

performance is the product of a number of individuals engaged in different

sorts of task. Of course, we may distinguish the theatre as a building from the

company who perform in it: it is just this aspect of the comparison that may mis-

lead us. But rather as the performance itself is in some sense reducible to the

activity of a number of individuals, so our mental life consists in the activity of

the perceptions which, on Hume’s account, go to make up the mind. (A similar

moral might be drawn from the other comparison employed by Hume in pre-

senting his system view of the mind or self, namely, that of the republic or

commonwealth in which, as Hume says, ‘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’–

T, 1.4.6.19. If we could succeed in finding some way of representing the mem-

bers of the republic and their relationships accordingly, we should not expect to

be accused of having failed to provide an account of the republic itself.)

III

HUME ON IDENTITY

So far I have been concerned with one aspect of Hume’s discussion of per-

sonal identity, namely, his rejection of the self as something simple and

identical which underlies our perceptions, and his alternative to this in the

form of an account of the mind (foreshadowed in the opening sections of the

Treatise) as a bundle or system of perceptions. But this still leaves central

aspects of Hume’s discussion in Treatise 1.4.6 to be considered including, for

example, his treatment of the idea of identity. I first say something about this

and then go on to set the scene for a discussion in the next chapter of Hume’s

account of the idea of personal identity.

The principle of identity

Hume’s first reference in the Treatise to identity occurs in the context of the dis-

cussion mentioned previously of relations (in Treatise 1.1.5). Identity is,

according to Hume, an instance of a purely philosophical relation – i.e. one

27


which is not also a natural relation. Hume makes two important claims here:

that in ‘its strictest sense’ the relation applies to objects which are constant and

unchangeable; and that identity is the most universal relation, belonging to any-

thing that exists for any time at all (T, 1.1.5.4).21 It appears that Hume is

referring here to two sorts of case: in the first of these, identity is ascribed to

something that has duration and may be described as constant and unchang-

ing; but in the second, identity may be ascribed to something that lacks

duration and cannot therefore be described in such terms. The universality of

the relation of identity in this second sense amounts to nothing more than the

fact that the description of something as being the same with itself may be

applied to anything at all. As we shall see, the corresponding idea of identity

cannot, for Hume, be a genuine one since he regards the description of some-

thing as being the same with itself as essentially a meaningless one (T, 1.4.2.26).

The idea of identity in the ‘strictest sense’ appears to be that of a relation

which obtains only for a single object considered at different times: these dif-

ferent moments in an object’s history in themselves do not constitute a change

in the object. Hume implies that this is not the only idea of identity as a rela-

tion when he refers subsequently to the case in which we compare two or more

objects with each other. In this kind of case the judgement of identity is really

one of perception rather than reasoning, since it rests typically on the avail-

ability of the objects to our senses (T, 1.3.2.2). To anticipate a distinction which

Hume goes on to draw explicitly in the Section ‘Of Personal Identity’, we are

dealing in this kind of case with what Hume calls specific identity, where there

is a relation of exact resemblance between two objects. This is to be contrasted

with numerical identity, where something remains one and the same object

(T, 1.4.6.13). If we ascribe numerical identity to an object perceived intermit-

tently, this is essentially, for Hume, an instance of causal reasoning, for what we

are doing is to infer that the object would have resulted in ‘an invariable and

uninterrupted perception’ had we perceived it throughout (T, 1.3.2.2).22

Hume returns to cases of this latter kind in Treatise 1.4.2, where he seeks to

explain our belief in the existence of body. What is it about our perceptions,

broken and interrupted as they generally are, that leads to the idea of an

external existence? As we have seen, the gist of what Hume says is that there

are certain features of our perceptions [= sense-impressions] which lead us to

ascribe an identity to them in spite of their interruption, and we disguise or

remove this interruption by forming the idea of a ‘real existence’ that connects

them throughout (T, 1.4.2.24). But what, then, of the principle of identity

itself ? Hume distinguishes here between the idea of identity, on the one hand,

and the ideas of unity and number (or multiplicity) on the other. A single

object at any particular moment in its history conveys the idea of unity rather

than identity. (This is where Hume indicates that the words ‘An object is the

same with itself ’ would not amount to a genuine proposition, for the indistin-

guishability of the ideas expressed by ‘object’ and ‘itself ’ leaves us without a

distinct subject and predicate.) On the other hand, a number of objects also


28

fails to convey the idea of identity, i.e. the idea to which Hume subsequently

refers as that of numerical identity. So how, then, are we to account for this

idea since, as Hume says, there appears to be no ‘medium’ between the two

ideas of unity and number? Hume returns here to the idea of identity as a rela-

tion which belongs to an object considered at different times. We may think of

the object, in relation to these different points in time, in two ways. In so far as

it exists at these different times we may apply the idea of number to it, as we

do to the times themselves. But by imagining that the change in time occurs

without any variation or interruption in the object we form the idea of iden-

tity (i.e. of the object at one time with itself at another). Strictly speaking, we

can apply to the object only the ideas of number or unity, according to these

different ways of thinking of it. But the idea of time or duration enables us to

form the idea of identity as a kind of medium between the ideas of unity and

number (T, 1.4.2.29).23 As a result of this account of the way in which the idea

of identity is formed, Hume arrives at his formulation of the principle of

identity (or individuation): namely, ‘the invariableness and uninterruptedness of

any object, thro’ a suppos’d variation of time’ (T, 1.4.2.30).24

It is central to Hume’s explanation of how we arrive at the idea of an exter-

nal existence that our ascriptions of identity do not necessarily depend on

experience of invariableness and uninterruptedness. In particular, a succession

of related objects – for example, the resembling perceptions I experience at the

different moments when I look around my study – may be treated as though

they were constant and uninterrupted, with the result that succession is con-

founded with identity (T, 1.4.2.34). This is a crucial element in Hume’s

explanation of how the idea of an external or continued existence arises as the

means by which our interrupted perceptions are united in accordance with

this ascription of identity (T, 1.4.2.36). We here encounter an instance of the

principle of association of ideas, for as Hume says in introducing this principle,

‘our imagination runs easily from one idea to any other that resembles it’

(T, 1.1.4.2). When we experience a succession of related objects the imagination

responds as though it were presented with something invariable and uninter-

rupted, and the idea of a distinct or continued existence which is generated in

this way may therefore be described as a fiction of the imagination.

The idea of personal identity

To return, then, to Hume’s discussion of personal identity in Treatise 1.4.6. In

conformity with his earlier discussion in Treatise 1.4.2, Hume equates our

idea of the identity or sameness of an object with that of its invariableness and

uninterruptedness through a supposed variation of time (T, 1.4.6.6). This is to

be distinguished from the idea of diversity, which is essentially that of a suc-

cession of related objects. But given the way that imagination works in the

latter kind of case, that we are placed in much the same state of mind as if we

were presented with something invariable and uninterrupted, we are liable to

29


confound identity with diversity. This propensity is at odds with the recogni-

tion that we are presented with a related succession which is variable and

interrupted, but it is maintained by the supposition of something that con-

nects the related objects together. This is how we come by the fiction of a

substantial self, or (in the case of the ‘vulgar’) a self as something unknown

and mysterious that connects our perceptions, as it is also the way in which we

come by the idea of an external existence. Hume has a somewhat similar story

to tell about simplicity, i.e. that the mind tends to respond to an object with

closely related co-existent parts much as it would do to something simple and

indivisible, thereby confounding simplicity with composition; but finding that

it really is presented with distinguishable and separate qualities it feigns an

unknown principle of union among these qualities (T, 1.4.3.5).

Hume intends these remarks about identity to apply not only to persons or

selves but also to inanimate objects as well as to plants and animals. In all

these cases we are liable to attribute identity to things which are variable or

interrupted, and in doing so to create fictitious subjects of identity. And when-

ever we do so it is because these things consist in a succession of related parts.

This explains why, for example, we ascribe a perfect identity to a mass of

matter which undergoes some small increase or diminution in its parts. The

uninterrupted progress of thought throughout this kind of change consti-

tutes the ‘imperfect’ identity ascribed to the object (T, 1.4.6.9).25 Where the

parts of an object have some common end or purpose, as in the case of a ship,

this so facilitates the activity of imagination that attributions of identity occur

in spite of considerable changes in these parts. The case of plants and animals

introduces an additional factor: not only is some common end served by their

parts, but their parts are organised to achieve this end by virtue of the causal

relations among them. This enables us to ascribe identity even where the parts

in question undergo a total change, as in the case of the oak which grows from

a small plant to a large tree (T, 1.4.6.12).26 Another kind of case in which an

object is allowed to retain its identity in spite of a total change in its parts is

where the object is by its nature ‘changeable and inconstant’ – as, for example,

in the case of a river (T, 1.4.6.14).27

In all the cases above – including that of the mind (or self, in relation to its

mental aspect) – Hume regards our attributions of identity as fictitious products

of the imagination. We should recall here that Hume is in fact dealing with two

kinds of idea associated with the idea of personal identity: one of these concerns

the mind or self at a time; and the other concerns the mind or self over time. In

each case I ascribe a certain kind of unity to my perceptions. In Hume’s terms,

the former case is one in which I make a judgement of simplicity (however

complex the perceptions I am currently experiencing I suppose that they are uni-

fied as the perceptions of the same mind or self); and the latter is one in which

I make a judgement of identity (I suppose also that the perceptions I experience

at different times belong to an identical continuing self). Thus, simplicity is con-

founded with composition, and identity with variation; in each case a kind of


30

identity or unity is ascribed to the mind – which may be distinguished as syn-

chronic and diachronic, respectively – as a result of the way in which relations

among the perceptions themselves result in an association of their ideas in the

imagination. There is, as we have seen, a direct parallel in these respects between

mind and body; for in the latter case, according to Hume, we treat what is in fact

a collection of sensible qualities as though it is one thing and also as though it

continues the same thing whatever changes it may undergo (T, 1.4.3.2–5). The

outcome, in the case of body, is the feigning by imagination of a material sub-

stance as a principle of union and identity among the qualities of which a body

consists. In similar fashion, we arrive at the notion of the mind as a kind of prin-

ciple of union and identity among our perceptions; but this too, whether the

resulting conception is that of a material or an immaterial substance, amounts

to no more than a fiction of the imagination.28

In the next chapter I turn to the details of Hume’s account of the way in

which we come by the idea of a simple and identical mind; and I also consider

some of the many interpretative and critical issues to which his bundle (or

system) account of the mind or self gives rise.

31


2

HUME AND THE IDEA OF

THE SELF

So far I have been concerned mainly to describe and explain Hume’s position

in regard to the mental aspect of the self. As we have seen, Hume’s principal

concern is to account for the idea of the self as something which is both

simple and identical. In attempting to do so he rejects a certain kind of philo-

sophical account of the self and also indicates that the ordinary (‘vulgar’)

belief about personal identity involves a fiction. This represents the negative

side of Hume’s discussion in T, 1.4.6. But there is also the positive side to be

considered: Hume’s explanation of how we come to ascribe an identity to the

mind, and his own account of the mind as a system of perceptions. In what

follows I begin by addressing issues concerning Hume’s explanation of our

belief in the mind’s identity – and, in particular, the part played here by

memory. I then turn to some of the difficulties apparently encountered by

Hume’s bundle or system view of the self, and I look in more detail at the

implications of this view for the problems of the synchronic and diachronic

identity of the mind or self. I am concerned here to show how Hume may be

defended against a variety of objections to be found in the secondary litera-

ture, including those directed to Hume’s account of the relation of perceptions

to the mind they supposedly constitute. I conclude with some remarks about

Hume’s position in relation to the existence of the self.

I

THE CONTINUING IDENTITY OF THE MIND:

MEMORY AND PERSONAL IDENTITY

According to Hume, the idea of a mind or self which possesses a diachronic

identity (i.e. which remains the same over time), arises from the fact that we

ascribe a continuing identity to the perceptions of the mind; something we do in

spite of the obvious variations and interruptions of these perceptions, because

they possess certain features which result in an association of their ideas in the

32

imagination. In particular, there will be resemblances among the perceptions of

a person’s mind arising from memory;1 and there will be causal relations of the

kind we have already explored in some detail, with impressions giving rise to

ideas, and these ideas to other impressions. Both these sorts of relation con-

tribute to a transition in the imagination from one perception to another, and

the result according to Hume is the fiction of an identical self or mind.

Such, in outline, is Hume’s account of the continuing identity ascribed to

the mind. But we now need to look at this in more detail and we might

begin with the role of memory in Hume’s account. Hume describes the role

played here by memory by referring to the perceptions, or mind, of another

person. Supposing that we could be directly acquainted with these percep-

tions, then we would observe resemblances among them arising from the

person’s memory of his past perceptions.2 And this would provide a succes-

sion among the perceptions which would enable the imagination to be

conveyed from the one to the other so that the whole would ‘seem like the

continuance of one object’ (T, 1.4.6.18). Now there is an important difficulty

which appears to arise at this point (Bricke 1977: 170, 1980: 85–8). In order

for memory to play the role required on Hume’s account of the way we

arrive at the mistaken idea of an identical mind or self, it seems necessary

that a person should be able to stand in the same kind of relation to his per-

ceptions as he would do to those of another mind, supposing that he could

be acquainted with them in the way Hume describes. In this latter case we

may distinguish between the perceptions of the subject and those of the

observer. But how can a distinction of this kind be made in the case of the

subject himself ?

It seems that in the hypothetical situation in which you were able to observe

my perceptions, you would have perceptions corresponding both to my present

perceptions and also those past perceptions of mine which they resemble. By

becoming aware in this way of the resemblances between my past and present

perceptions you are, in effect, discovering a relation among my perceptions

which helps to account for your attribution of them to the same self. If we now

apply this third-person picture to the case of self-identity the consequence is

that we apparently need to distinguish between the self as subject and the self

as (self-)observer. And we will again need two sets of perceptions: on the one

hand, the past perceptions and the subject’s present recollections of them; on

the other, the perceptions which represent the subject’s awareness of both the

past and the present perceptions. The former set consist in the perceptions

which ‘produce’ the subject’s identity; and the latter consist in those percep-

tions which enable the subject to discover it. It is not enough that there should

be a relation of resemblance among the subject’s perceptions; the subject must

also become aware of this resemblance in order for the process of association

to take place which would lead to his acquiring the fictitious idea of self-

identity. Yet it seems that this will involve having distinct perceptions with the

same content, namely, the recollection belonging to the first set of a past

33

HUME AND THE IDEA OF THE SELF

perception, and the perception belonging to the second set which represents an

awareness of that past perception. These perceptions are supposed to occur at

the same time and represent the same past perception, but there seems to be no

way of individuating two such supposedly distinct perceptions.

The question is, then, whether we can find a solution, on Hume’s behalf, to

this problem – and, preferably, one that is consistent with at least some of his

remarks. First, we should note that Hume has a view of consciousness which

would suggest that a subject stands in relation to his perceptions in something

like the same way that an observer of those perceptions would do. For Hume

asserts that ‘consciousness is nothing but a reflected thought or perception’

(App. 20). And consciousness is, it seems, inseparable from the actual occur-

rence of perceptions in the mind (T, 1.4.2.7). Thus, I will be aware of my

perceptions in the form of other perceptions (of reflection) which take percep-

tions as they occur in the mind as their objects.3 But there is a further, crucial

dimension to consciousness on Hume’s account. For I am conscious not merely

of each of my perceptions individually as they occur; I am also conscious of

myself as a succession of such perceptions (T, 2.1.2.2; cf. T, 2.2.2.15).4 In this

latter case, what is involved is presumably a kind of complex perception which

takes the successive perceptions of my mind as its object.

Now, this view of consciousness appears to provide Hume with a basis for

individuating my perceptions as subject, and my corresponding perceptions

as self-observer. In the former case, I may have a perception which is a rec-

ollection of some past perception to the extent that it is, in effect, a kind of

present awareness of that past perception. In the latter case, I have a per-

ception which is not only a kind of reflected awareness of the past perception

in question; it is also an awareness of it as part of the succession of percep-

tions which constitute my mind. This is to be contrasted with an ordinary

impression or idea of memory, which represents past perceptions without

thereby representing them as the perceptions belonging to this larger bundle

or collection. Thus, we may distinguish between the resembling perceptions

associated with the role of memory in producing identity, and the corre-

sponding perceptions associated with its role in discovering identity.5 To this

extent, Hume’s references to the way in which the perceptions of another

mind would appear to us, supposing that we could be directly acquainted

with them, may be regarded as a kind of heuristic device for explaining how

the belief in self-identity arises rather than a threat to the intelligibility of

that explanation.6

Memory and causation

So far we have considered the part played by resemblance among perceptions in

giving rise to the idea of an identical self. We have seen that the relation of

resemblance among present and past perceptions is one which results from

memory. Memory also has a part to play in explaining how the relation of


34

causality that obtains among the perceptions of a mind gives rise to the belief in

self-identity. For this relation can account for the belief only if the self to whom

the perceptions belong is aware of the relation. Memory is, in fact, the only

means by which we can become aware of the causal connections among our per-

ceptions to which I have previously referred. Given that the self or person is in

fact constituted by a ‘chain of causes and effects’ (T, 1.4.6.20), this is another

reason for considering memory as the source of personal identity. Hume is also

able to deal here with a problem which seems to undermine the theory of per-

sonal identity associated with Locke (1979: II xxvii).7 On one interpretation

Locke is committed to the view that what makes someone the same person now

as a person at some previous time is the fact that he now remembers the actions

of that person in the past. (That Hume shares this interpretation of Locke is

suggested by his reference to ‘those, who affirm that memory produces entirely

our personal identity’.) But Hume suggests that we remember comparatively few

of our past actions, and therefore that memory does not, after all, so much pro-

duce personal identity (as Locke’s theory apparently maintains) as discover it ‘by

shewing us the relation of cause and effect among our different perceptions’.8 To

this extent the relation of causation is of greater importance than that of resem-

blance in accounting for the part played by imagination in giving rise to the idea

of an identical self (cf. T, 1.3.9.6).

Locke and the memory theory of personal identity

This would be a convenient point at which to say a little more about Locke’s

account of personal identity which not only contributes importantly to what

Hume has to say, but also influences discussion of the issues involved through-

out the eighteenth century. As I indicated in my introduction, Locke’s view

about the existence of spiritual substance appears to amount to a kind of

agnosticism; it is therefore not surprising that he is at pains to distinguish the

question of whether we remain the same thinking substance, where con-

sciousness is interrupted, from the question of whether we remain the same

person (Essay II xxvii 10). Locke subscribes to a principle which is, in effect,

endorsed by Hume, that the question of what constitutes a thing’s identity is

relative to the kind of thing it is. From this point of view there is a crucial dif-

ference between the identity of a human being (or ‘man’) and, on the other

hand, the identity of a person. The identity of a human being is essentially a

matter of bodily continuity (where the body itself continues to function as a

living thing), while the identity of a person consists essentially in the continu-

ance of consciousness. For a person is ‘a thinking intelligent being, that has

reason and reflection, and can consider itself as itself, the same thinking thing,

in different times and places; which it does only by that consciousness which

is inseparable from thinking, and . . . essential to it’ (Essay II xxvii 9). The

question of what makes the same person is therefore to be settled indepen-

dently of whether the same substance, either spiritual or material, is involved.

35


In asking whether I am the same person as someone who performed a certain

action in the past what matters crucially is whether I retain any consciousness

of performing that action – or, in other words, whether I now remember doing

so. Locke thus appears to be committed to what might be described as a

memory theory of personal identity according to which I am identical with

someone who performed a certain action in the past if and only if I am now

able to remember performing that action.9

Locke’s theory sets the scene for important discussions of personal identity

in Shaftesbury and Butler, as well as in Reid in the latter part of the eighteenth

century. The difficulty about the fallibility of memory voiced by Hume is also

to be found in Shaftesbury, who focuses on the possibility of misremembering:

. . . the question is, ‘What constitutes the “we” or “I”?’, and ‘Whether

the “I” of this instant be the same with that of any instant preceding

or to come?’ For we have nothing but memory to warrant us, and

memory may be false. We may believe we have thought and reflected

thus and thus, but we may be mistaken. We may be conscious of that

as truth which perhaps was no more than dream, and we may be

conscious of that as a past dream which perhaps was never before so

much as dreamt of (1999: 420).

Further difficulties about the appeal to memory were voiced by Butler who

suggested not only that present consciousness of past actions is not necessary

to our being the same persons who performed those actions, but that in any

case such consciousness presupposes our identity with those persons and there-

fore cannot constitute personal identity (1855: 314). While Hume would

evidently reject Butler’s conclusion that personal identity must, after all,

depend on sameness of substance, he appears to have Butler’s arguments in

mind in denying that memory produces personal identity. It is this kind of

debate, initiated by Locke, that Hume is referring to when he says that per-

sonal identity ‘has become so great a question in philosophy, especially of

late years in England’ (T, 1.4.6.15).

Let me summarise what I have said so far in this section. Hume is attempt-

ing to account for the belief in personal identity, and he appears to treat this

as being in part a belief about the continuing identity of the perceptions of

the mind. We have seen that, for Hume, there can be no genuine relation of

strict, or numerical, identity, and that our ordinary attributions of identity

arise from relations among the objects concerned that are responsible for an

association of their ideas in the imagination. We treat certain objects – includ-

ing perceptions – as invariable and uninterrupted, when they exhibit such

relations as resemblance and causation. In this way identity may be ascribed

to what is, strictly speaking, a succession of related objects. But this, in turn,

may lead to some fictitious connecting principle as in the case of the idea of

an identical self. (The relations among the co-existent perceptions of the


36

37


mind similarly lead to the mistaken notion of its simplicity, and the conse-

quent feigning of a principle of union, T, 1.4.6.22 – but this is something with

which we will be further concerned below.)

Contiguity

Before I proceed there is one further aspect of Hume’s account of the belief in

the diachronic identity of the mind or self on which I should comment at this

point. The gist of what Hume has said is that the perceptions of the mind fail

to exhibit a genuine unity and identity, and that these qualities are ascribed to

them because of the effect of certain relations among perceptions on the

imagination. The relations in question are ones that lead to an association of

ideas; in referring to the various cases in which identity is ascribed to objects

which are variable and interrupted Hume cites three such relations: resem-

blance, contiguity and causation. These are the relations which obtain among

objects which in fact consist in a succession of parts, and they are responsible

for the transition of imagination that results eventually in the fiction of some-

thing invariable and uninterrupted, or of something mysterious and

inexplicable (T, 1.4.6.7). Now so far as the fiction of a simple and identical self

is concerned, Hume restricts himself to the two relations of resemblance and

causation, on the ground that contiguity ‘has little or no influence in the pre-

sent case’ (T, 1.4.6.17). This appears puzzling, if only because Hume has

previously in the Treatise declared contiguity to be a relation essential to the

idea of causation itself (for example, T, 1.3.2.6). When Hume introduces his

theory of the association of ideas contiguity is mentioned as one of the ‘qual-

ities’ from which this association arises (T, 1.1.4.1). It is true that he

subsequently denies that contiguity has any influence on the association of

impressions with each other; but he also denies that causation has any influence

in this case (T, 2.1.4.3). So why does contiguity have no part to play in

accounting for the belief in personal identity?

Presumably the relation of contiguity that does obtain among our ideas

cannot, strictly speaking, be one of spatial contiguity. At one point Hume

does say something about the possible physiological explanation for the way

in which the relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation operate as

principles of union among ideas. The explanation, in short, has to do with

motions in the brain (T, 1.2.5.20). But when Hume later explores the question

of which objects are ‘susceptible of a local conjunction’, he suggests that

our perceptions are, for the most part, incompatible with conjunction in place

with matter or body (T, 1.4.5.10).10 If so they surely cannot be spatially con-

tiguous to each other. Only the impressions and ideas associated with the

senses of sight and touch are apparently compatible with local conjunction

(to the extent that, according to Hume, they have extension), though it

remains unclear whether Hume really would regard them as being spatially

contiguous with the corresponding brain-motions. Hume’s own conclusion

that ‘we cannot refuse to condemn the materialists, who conjoin all thought

with extension’ (T, 1.4.5.15) perhaps indicates that this is a case in which

having experienced the relations of causation and contiguity in time of

appearance, we add the relation of conjunction in place in order to facilitate

a transition of the imagination among the objects concerned (T, 1.4.5.12). In

any case, it seems that for the most part, at least, the relation of contiguity

which obtains in the case of our perceptions is that of temporal contiguity; so

that the question we face is why this particular relation is not relevant in the

case of the belief in self-identity.

There appear to be at least two factors that we need to take into account

here. One of these is that the succession of perceptions which makes up the

mind is interrupted: there are times when no such perceptions exist, as in

sound sleep, and Hume accepts that during these times we – or, at any rate, our

minds – no longer exist (T, 1.4.6.3). In other words, the successive bundles-of-

perceptions-at-a-time which constitute the mind or self over time need not be

temporally contiguous to each other. A further point is that relations of tem-

poral contiguity which do occur among our perceptions often fail to be

preserved in memory,11 and so would not themselves influence our tendency to

ascribe an identity to these perceptions. Given the existence of both these

sorts of ‘gap’ in our perceptions it is understandable that Hume should con-

sider contiguity to have little, if any, influence on the imagination in

proceeding from the one to the other.

II

PROBLEMS WITH HUME’S EXPLANATION OF THE

BELIEF IN CONTINUING IDENTITY

We are aware that given his account of identity as a philosophical relation,

Hume is committed to the view that, strictly speaking, my belief that I remain

the same person from one time to another is false.12 Thus, the real issue for

Hume is why I should have this belief and the idea on which it depends. His

explanation of this belief refers to relations among our perceptions – those of

resemblance and causation – which are supposed to result in an association of

ideas in the mind which leads us to treat them as the perceptions of a contin-

uing identical self. But the question we should now consider is whether the

belief can be adequately explained in these terms.

We have explored and tried to resolve, so far as possible, some of the prob-

lems associated with Hume’s appeal to the relation of resemblance. And we

have also seen why Hume attaches a greater importance to causation in this

context. Having acquired from memory the idea of a chain of causes and

effects – in which the self essentially consists according to Hume’s system con-

ception – we then extend this idea to those times in our lives of which we have


38

no present recollection. There are at least two sorts of problem with this expla-

nation of the belief in an identical self. The first has to do with resemblance. It

is supposed to be the resemblance among our perceptions produced by memory

that in part leads us to regard them as constituting one mind. But it seems clear

that resemblance can affect us in this way only in so far as the perceptions con-

cerned do all occur within the memory of one and the same person. This,

however, exposes Hume’s position to the obvious threat of circularity because

the idea of one person’s memory clearly presupposes that of one (identical)

person, and could scarcely be used to explain the origin of the latter idea

(Stroud 1977: 124). Still, it is not clear that this objection, as it stands, really

undermines Hume’s position. Of course the person who is supposed to be

acquiring the idea of a continuing identical self or mind on the basis of his con-

sciousness of the resemblances among perceptions occurring as part of a

succession of such perceptions, cannot do so by first identifying them as

belonging to his memory. But there seems no reason why they should be so

identified at this stage, before the idea of a single identical self has been

acquired. What is true is that the perceptions must belong to such a self, and

form part of the memory of that self, in order for the resemblances between

them to have the associative effects required by Hume’s account. In this sense,

Hume’s explanation of the belief in self-identity appears to presuppose that

there is a continuing self constituted by a succession of perceptions. But it is

another question, to be considered in its own right, whether Hume can ade-

quately defend the assumption that our perceptions do in fact present

themselves to us in distinct bundles or collections.

There is a related objection to Hume’s account of self-identity which arises

from the following sort of consideration. As we have seen, Hume’s discussion

of the idea of an identical mind or self may be compared with his earlier

remarks about the idea of body as something which is both simple and identi-

cal. In this latter case Hume assumes the existence of a mind or self which

responds to its perceptions in certain ways.13 The same appears to be true of

what he says about the way in which we come by the idea of a simple and iden-

tical self.14 If, however, this idea is a fictitious product of the imagination how

can Hume legitimately assume the existence of a mind or self which is respon-

sible for the idea? His position appears, in this respect, to be internally

inconsistent. (It is of course another matter whether the supposed inconsistency

can be avoided only by positing the existence of a substantial mind or self.) This

is perhaps the most familiar – as well as the most intuitively compelling –

objection to Hume’s bundle theory of the mind or self (MacNabb 1951: 151;

Passmore 1952: 82–3). There is, however, an important line of defence to this

objection (Pike 1967) which I shall briefly describe. The gist of this is that

Hume can make use of the possibility of the mind being aware of its own per-

ceptions and, indeed, forming mistaken beliefs about them without slipping

back into the notion of a mind or self which is separate from these perceptions.

He can do so by treating these references to the mind’s activities as a shorthand

39


way of reporting the occurrence of certain perceptions within the mind itself.

In other words, self-awareness consists essentially in the occurrence of a certain

perception – namely, a perception of myself as a series of perceptions – within

the series. There is no circularity or inconsistency here because in this context

‘myself’ refers to the mind understood as a bundle or series of perceptions. In

short, the mind contains a perception which is a perception of the mind as a

series or bundle; and it seems further to be possible that the series should

include a perception which is of the former perception as a perception of the

series itself, so that in this sense I am aware of that perception as belonging to

the series.15 The same sort of approach enables us to make sense of talk about

the mind being involved in various confusions and mistakes, for this once more

is to report the occurrence of certain perceptions – in this case, ones which

amount to beliefs – within the series or bundle of perceptions which make up

the mind itself.16

Causation and the self

There appear to be special difficulties arising from Hume’s appeal to the rela-

tion of causation in accounting for the idea of an identical self. Granting

Hume the assumption that perceptions do come to us in the form of distinct

bundles or collections, can the causal relations among certain perceptions really

account for the subject treating them as members of such a bundle (= self)?

This question might be answered negatively on the ground that our percep-

tions simply do not, as a matter of fact, manifest the requisite systematic

causal connections (Stroud 1977: 125–6; Noonan 1999: 206). Our experi-

ences just do not appear to exhibit the kinds of regularity or uniformity

which, on Hume’s account, would be necessary for us to regard them as being

causally related (see, for example, T, 1.3.6.2). It appears that causation must

operate as a natural relation if Hume’s account of the belief in self-identity is

to succeed, and yet the condition for its doing so – that our successive per-

ceptions should fall into classes the members of which are constantly

conjoined with each other – fails to obtain. The point, as Stroud puts it, is

that the kind of causal chain to which Hume refers has to do with ‘vertical’

connections among our perceptions – impressions of sensation giving rise to

ideas, which in their turn give rise to further impressions (of reflection), and

so on17 – whereas what he needs are ‘horizontal’ connections among the per-

ceptions that occur in the mind from moment to moment. Now, while it is

obviously true that my current perceptions have few if any direct causal rela-

tions with each other, they may nevertheless stand in causal relationships to

other perceptions which make up this particular series or bundle over time.

My sense-impressions, for example, occur as a result of an intention to engage

in a certain kind of action which also has ramifications for other bodily sen-

sations I might experience; and my original intention results in other

intentions which find expression in the particular bodily movements I


40

perform. This kind of mutual dependence on the other perceptions which

make up my mind seems to provide some basis, at least, for explaining how I

might be disposed to regard them as those of an identical mind or self.

We might return at this point to what Hume has to say about the nature of

the mind itself and its supposed identity (both synchronic and diachronic).

The bulk of Hume’s discussion is devoted to belief in the diachronic identity

of the mind or self, but let us begin by considering his position on synchronic

identity (or, in Hume’s terms, the ‘simplicity’ of the mind).

The simplicity of the mind

The question at issue for Hume is, then, that of how we come to attribute a

simplicity to the mind in spite of the complexity of its perceptions at any

given time. There is also the question of what, in any case, makes it true that

certain simultaneously occurring perceptions belong to a particular mind or

self.18 So far as the former question is concerned, Hume claims that the co-

existent parts of the mind are so related that they affect the imagination as

something simple and indivisible would do. The result is that we feign a prin-

ciple of union as a way of reconciling this tendency of the imagination with

the evident diversity of our perceptions (T, 1.4.6.22). Let us then explore this

view in more detail.

The obvious question which arises here is what kind of ‘close relation’

Hume has in mind as accounting for the belief in the simplicity of the mind.

He has allowed himself reference only to resemblance and causation, and it

is difficult to see how either of these relations can do the job required of

them.19 At the moment, for example, I am simultaneously having various

visual and auditory perceptions as I sit at the word processor, and I am also

experiencing a slight ache in my shoulders as I type with the intention of

recording various thoughts; but it is obvious that these various ‘perceptions’

neither resemble each other nor are there any direct relations of causation

between them. There is the further point that there may be simultaneously

occurring perceptions which do resemble each other, and between which

there are causal connections, and which belong to different minds. Once more,

Hume appears to be implicitly relying on the assumption that perceptions are

given to us in different bundles, so that the belief I acquire about the sim-

plicity of this mind rests on relations between the perceptions only of the

mind in question. How, then, do I come to ascribe a simplicity or unity to

such a heterogeneous assortment of perceptions? There is a possibility of

which Hume might avail himself in the light of our earlier discussion. This is

to claim that what relates certain simultaneously occurring perceptions so

that I come to treat them as the perceptions of a single and indivisible mind

is the consciousness I have of these perceptions. As we have seen, Hume

apparently supposes that at each moment we are conscious of the various

perceptions which make up our mind. We have also seen that Hume’s position

41


seems to allow for the possibility that there might be a perception which

amounts to a consciousness of the various perceptions which make up the

mind at a time. It does seem that in so far as I have a perception of this kind

I also have an idea of the various perceptions which make up my mind at a

time – one which would enable them to operate upon the imagination in the

way required by Hume to account for the idea of the simplicity (or syn-

chronic unity or identity) of the self.20

There is still the question of what makes certain simultaneously occurring

perceptions those of a particular mind or self. Even if talk here of identity

(i.e. of synchronic identity) is, for Hume, strictly mistaken, it would be of

interest to consider what explanation he might be able to provide of how the

various mental states I happen to be undergoing at the moment are so related

that they are my mental states, rather than those of some other person(s).

According to the philosophical theory which Hume rejects, the explanation

lies with the fact that these mental states belong to an underlying immaterial

substance. What, precisely, is the alternative provided by Hume’s bundle or

system theory of the mind? It would help to remind ourselves of what we

were able to establish in the last chapter about Hume’s view of the mind and

its perceptions. I pointed out there that Hume appears to be committed to

something like a flow chart conception of the mind which represents percep-

tions according to their causal role within the overall system to which they

belong. The implication is that a particular kind of perception may be iden-

tified by reference to its causal relations both to other perceptions and also to

actions of the body. Now this seems to suggest a solution to the problem of

synchronic unity. It may well be true that particular ‘perceptions’ which

belong to me at the moment fail to display any distinctive relations of resem-

blance or causation with each other. But they may nevertheless combine to

produce effects (in the form of other perceptions or of bodily actions) in a

way which would not be possible for resembling or causally related percep-

tions belonging to different minds or selves. 21 It is my intentions together

with my perceptual beliefs about the machine in front of me that give rise to

the actions in which I am currently engaged; even if your perceptual beliefs

happen to be of the same kind they will not combine with my intentions to

produce the same bodily actions.22

We should notice that this kind of response to the problem of synchronic

unity or identity appears to presuppose the idea of diachronic identity

(Shoemaker and Swinburne 1984: 94). If what makes certain beliefs and

intentions mine is the nature of their effects in the form of bodily actions, for

example, then we must take into account that they are temporally prior to

these effects (indeed, temporal priority is for Hume a general feature of the

relation of cause to effect – T, 1.3.2.7, 1.3.14.1, 1.3.15.4, etc.). In providing

this account of what it is for these mental states to be synchronically unified

we are therefore presuming a relation of diachronic unity between these

states and their effects (behavioural or otherwise). What is it, then, that so


42

relates different mental and bodily states occurring at different times that

they are the states of the same person (as we should say)? Hume rejects

both the substance theory (according to which they would be states of the

same ongoing substance, material or immaterial) and also the memory

theory (according to which they are all of them mine, for example, to the

extent that I am now able to remember them). Once more Hume’s system

view of the self appears to provide a possible alternative. For on this view

different kinds of mental state (or ‘perception’) are characterised by their

distinctive causes and effects, and these relations are ones which occur over

time. The diachronic unity of a mind thus consists in the fact that the states

which belong to it at different times stand in direct causal relations to each

other – relations of a kind which do not occur between the states of differ-

ent minds, even if they are able causally to influence each other. (To

illustrate: my current desires may reflect previously formed intentions; while

I might cause you to have similar desires they will not in the same way be the

direct outcome of my own prior intentions.) Although there is obviously a

great deal more to be said to make this account of the diachronic identity of

the mind acceptable, it is the kind of account to which Hume’s view of the

nature of the mind or self would lead and it appears to provide a promising

alternative to the philosophical accounts he rejects.23

These suggestions about the account of synchronic and diachronic identity

which might be provided by Hume’s system view of the self have an important

bearing on the question of how we should conceive the relation between per-

sons and the bundles of perceptions which constitute their minds at particular

moments. Are these bundles or collections temporal parts of persons? Or is it,

rather, that each such bundle or collection is a person? On the former view per-

sons are four-dimensional objects which exist only over time; on the latter view

persons are three-dimensional objects which exist as persons at each moment

in their histories (Shoemaker and Swinburne 1984: 75; Schechtman 1996:

10–11). Hume’s bundle view appears to commit him to the claim that a heap

or collection of perceptions existing at a particular time may constitute a

self – and, as we have seen, Hume’s account of the mind as a system appears

to provide the basis for ascribing a synchronic identity to the perceptions con-

stituting such a self (though Hume would question the use of ‘identity’ in this,

as in other, contexts). This suggests that his view of selves or persons is essen-

tially a three-dimensional one, so that the question about the diachronic

identity of a person has to do with whether a person at one time may be

regarded as the same person as one existing at a different time (where this is,

in Hume’s terms, a matter of establishing whether the bundle or collection of

perceptions making up a mind at one time and those making up a mind at a

different time are perceptions belonging to the same mind or self). 24

We might add that these suggested responses to the problems of the syn-

chronic and diachronic unity of the mind indicate that the different aspects

of personal identity with which Hume is concerned cannot, after all, be

43


dealt with entirely in separation from each other. If we appeal to Hume’s

system view of the mind in order to deal with these problems, then we have

to take into account the role of the passions on this view. Hume acknowl-

edges this as follows:

. . . our identity with regard to the passions serves to corroborate

that with regard to the imagination, by the making our distant per-

ceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present concern for

our past or future pains or pleasures (T, 1.4.6.19).

Not only this, but we must also recognise that we are dealing with embodied

minds: ones whose states have effects not only on each other, but also on the

body itself. To this extent the agency aspect of personal identity impinges

directly on the mental aspect with which Hume is predominantly concerned in

T, 1.4.6. This is, in fact, reflected in the way that we think of ourselves as

remaining the same over time to the extent that we recognise certain kinds of

connection and continuity between the kinds of person or selves we are at var-

ious points in our lives. For these will have partly to do with the mental aspect

of personal identity – the occurrence of experiences available to subsequent rec-

ollection, etc.; and partly also to do with the agent aspect which we have still to

consider – the presence of certain long-term intentions, traits of character,

and so on.25 In this respect Hume’s comparison of the mind to a republic or

commonwealth is a telling one, for identity in this latter case also seems to have

to do with the existence of certain kinds of connection and continuity between

the members of a republic at different times in its existence (including ones

which enable it to act on behalf of those members – T, 3.2.7.6–8).26

The bundle theory and the relation of perceptions to the mind

I leave discussion of Hume’s account of the idea of a simple and identical

mind or self to look more closely at the bundle or system theory with which it

is associated. This theory has encountered various objections of which the fol-

lowing are worth looking at in some detail. Each of them has to do with the

crucial issue of the relation of perceptions to the mind, on Hume’s account.

The first objection I have in mind concerns the singularity of perceptions, i.e.

given that the mind is supposed to be a bundle or collection of perceptions, it

seems that the members of the bundle must themselves be capable of occurring

singly, and therefore existing independently of the other perceptions which go

to make up the bundle itself. Yet this might be considered to represent some-

thing that is obviously impossible. The second kind of objection concerns the

particularity of perceptions, i.e. the fact that we apparently individuate partic-

ular perceptions by reference to the bundle to which they belong.27 In each case

it appears that there is a metaphysical dependency of perceptions on minds


44

which is at odds with the requirements of the bundle or system theory.

Let me begin, then, with the singularity issue. The objection here is that the

mind can scarcely be conceived as a bundle of perceptions unless we can make

sense of the possibility of these perceptions occurring singly – and this, so it

may be claimed, is not a meaningful possibility. But if perceptions can exist

only as members of the minds to which they belong, then it would seem that

any account of the mind in terms of relations between perceptions would be

viciously circular (Ayer 1956: 192). Now it is clear that Hume would, in fact,

accept as meaningful the possibility of perceptions existing in their own right,

independently of any mind. Thus, in his critique of the philosophical idea of

substance, Hume indicates that even perceptions may be considered to fall

under the definition of substance as ‘something which may exist by itself ’ (T,

1.4.5.5).28 And Hume’s account of the way in which we arrive at the idea of

external existence had assumed that the possibility of perceptions existing inde-

pendently is at least a meaningful one; for the idea in question is supposed to

arise from a propensity of the imagination by which we ascribe such an exis-

tence to certain of our perceptions (T, 1.4.2.39). 29 We should note, however,

that while Hume wishes to allow for the possibility of perceptions having an

independent existence, he explicitly denies that our ‘sensible’ perceptions, at

least, do in fact have any such existence. For he takes a number of simple

experiments to establish that these perceptions are dependent on our sense-

organs and our bodily states more generally (T, 1.4.2.45). But the point that

Hume makes here about the dependency of perceptions on the ‘nerves and

animal spirits’ is, as we shall see in the next chapter, one which he takes to apply

to the perceptions of the mind in general. Thus, it appears that there are no per-

ceptions which are in fact capable of an independent existence. This, however,

presents us with the problem of explaining how it is possible to provide a non-

circular account of the mind in terms of relations between perceptions.

It seems that what we need is an example of a system which is plausibly

regarded as a kind of construction from its members or components, in spite

of the fact that these components are not capable of existing independently of

the system to which they belong.30 An example which might provide a useful

analogy for understanding Hume’s view of the mind is provided by a game like

chess (Carruthers 1986: 53–4; Brennan 1984: 178–9). It seems obvious that we

can make little if any sense of the idea of a move taking place outside the con-

text of the game in which it occurs. We might put this by saying that a move in

chess is a move only within the context of a game consisting in other moves.

Yet it does not follow that the game itself is something other than the moves

it contains – a kind of mysterious ‘principle of union’ relating the different

moves together. Analogously, then, it seems that we may accept the view that

minds are comprised of perceptions, rather than being separately existing

entities, even if it is not possible for any perception to exist independently of

the mind to which it belongs.

What, then, of the particularity objection? This may be expressed in the

45


following way. It seems that perceptions are individuated by reference to the

minds to which they belong, and not vice-versa. (My present feeling of

hunger, for example, can be picked out only as a member of this bundle or

series of perceptions.) But how can this be so if minds themselves are noth-

ing more than bundles or collections of different perceptions? On this latter

view, it appears that in order to explain what makes a mind the particular

mind it is we have to appeal to the particular perceptions in which it consists.

So the objection to the bundle theory is that it wrongly treats the particu-

larity of perceptions as being prior to the particularity of persons or their

minds, when the reverse is the case.31 Now we may reply to this on Hume’s

behalf in the following way. It must be agreed that perceptions cannot (even

if only in fact) occur independently of the minds to which they belong. But

it doesn’t follow that individual perceptions must therefore be individuated

by reference to the minds of which they are constituents – as opposed to

being individuated by reference to other constituents of these minds. On

Hume’s system account of the mind, the individuation of a perception will

depend upon its relation to those perceptions which are its immediate causes

and effects.32 This, indeed, provides the basis for an account of the syn-

chronic and diachronic unity of the mind, as we saw above. Of course, this

is also to say that the particularity of a perception is bound up with the

larger structure or system to which it and the other related perceptions

belong. The important point is, however, that we can acknowledge the

dependency of perceptions on minds while at the same time insisting with

Hume that minds themselves are nothing more than constructions from

such perceptions.

III

HUME AND THE EXISTENCE OF THE SELF

I suggested earlier that the kind of question Hume is trying to answer has to

do with what might be described as the internal idea of the self. We might

express this idea by saying that there is something that makes the various

thoughts and experiences of which I am aware at the moment mine; and that

there is some respect in which I remain this same person or self from one time

to another. According to Hume, in the former case the imagination responds

to co-existent perceptions as it would to something that really is simple and

indivisible, and the self is feigned as a principle which would unite these per-

ceptions; and in the latter case, the relations among our perceptions result in

the imaginative fiction of an identical mind or self which connects our per-

ceptions over time. Now Hume’s position, summarised in his own words, is

that ‘There is properly no simplicity in it [sc. the mind] at one time, nor iden-tity in different’ (T, 1.4.6.4). One way of understanding what Hume is saying


46

is that there is no real core to my experiences at any given time that makes

them the experiences of a distinctive self; and that, similarly, there is nothing

at the centre of the experiences which occur at different times to connect them

as experiences of the same self. This seems tantamount to denying that there

is such a thing as the self, that the sense which each of us apparently has of his

self is anything more than an illusion.

Now Hume cannot really mean to deny the existence of the self. Apart from

the obvious problem that would arise from asking what it is that has the mis-

taken belief in such a thing, the fact is that Hume’s theories in Books 2 and 3 of

the Treatise require a self as the subject of the passions and moral sentiments

with which these books respectively deal. Not only this, but an explanatory

principle on which these later theories rely – namely, the principle of sympathy –

requires that we should have an idea of self with which to arrive at the idea of

other persons as the subjects of sentiments or passions (T, 2.1.11.2–6).33 It seems

evident that the idea of self to which Hume is referring in this latter case is the

idea of a certain collection of perceptions (cf. T, 2.1.2.2), rather than that of

something distinct from the perceptions themselves. But in this case Hume is not

so much rejecting the existence of the self as, rather, a certain theory about the

nature of the self. What, then, of Hume’s denial of a simple and identical self?

How is this consistent with recognition of the existence of a self?

It may be helpful at this stage to return to Hume’s own comparison with

other things to which such characteristics are ascribed. What this comparison

reveals is that Hume recognises a variety of cases in which identity is ascribed

to something which manifests variation and/or interruption, though in each

case certain relations among the parts of the object account for this mistaken

attribution of identity. But, as we saw, the criteria of identity, i.e. the consid-

erations on which these ordinary attributions of identity depend, vary

according to the kind of object in question. We continue to regard something

as the same mass of matter provided that any change in its parts is inconsid-

erable; a ship is considered to remain the same in spite of changes in its parts,

so long as they continue to serve the same purpose; and a tree is treated as the

same even when its parts have undergone a total change, given the way in

which these parts are organised. In all these cases identity is, strictly speaking,

destroyed by the change which the object undergoes, so that the identity which

is actually ascribed is no more than an ‘imperfect’ one (T, 1.4.6.9). But Hume

obviously does not mean to deny that there are such things as mountains,

planets, ships, rivers, oak trees and men, though he is committed to denying

that they have a genuine identity and simplicity. This is surely how we should

understand also what he says about persons or selves: they do exist, i.e. as col-

lections of perceptions, and there are certain conditions that attach to our

attribution of identity to them; but these conditions do not allow for their pos-

session of a strict identity or simplicity.

What, then, are these conditions? We know that they have to do, in part,

with resemblances among perceptions which are themselves variable and

47


interrupted. But we also know that our ordinary attributions of personal

identity do not necessarily depend on the existence of such resemblances,

because we are prepared to identify a present with a past self notwithstanding

the inability of the former to remember incidents from the life of the latter.

What really constitutes a self or person, according to Hume, is a certain chain

of causes and effects and this may be extended to times that we are presently

unable to remember. It seems clear, therefore, that the imperfect identity

ascribed to persons or selves must depend on a certain kind of continuity

among the perceptions in which the mind or self consists, and that the appro-

priate comparison here is with plants and animals (T, 1.4.6.15). The crucial

consideration in these latter cases is that while the parts of which a thing con-

sists may undergo a total change, they continue to be organised so as to serve

their purpose. Somewhat similarly, then, the perceptions of a person’s mind

may change entirely from one time to another (as fleeting and interrupted exis-

tences they could not preserve a numerical identity), but so long as they are

still linked systematically by the relation of cause and effect we are prepared to

recognise them as the perceptions of the same mind or self. This serves to

emphasise the importance of the distinction between the mental and agency

aspects of personal identity. Hume is committed to the view that a person may

satisfy the conditions for (diachronic) identity associated with the mental

aspect34 – in other words, that there should be systematic causal relationships

among the perceptions constituting his mind at different times; even though

this person may not remain the same from the perspective of the agency aspect

to the extent that he is no longer the same kind of person. Just as we may

regard a republic as remaining the same even if changes occur in its laws and

constitutions as well as in its members, so also ‘the same person may vary his

character and disposition, as well as his impressions and ideas, without losing

his identity’ (T, 1.4.6.19).

I have, in this chapter, addressed some of the many issues raised by Hume’s

account of the mind or self and our belief in its simplicity and identity. It may

at least be said on his behalf that he is able to provide an account of the basis

for belief in the identity of the self that marks an advance on Locke; and that

his view of the mind or self as a system of perceptions makes possible an

account of the synchronic and diachronic identity of the self which provides

a significant alternative to those philosophical accounts which Hume rejects.

We have also seen that this view of the mind or self has the resources to deal

with some of the more familiar criticisms that have been made of it. This is

not, of course, to say that the bundle or system theory, as presented by Hume,

is fully defensible; and we need to allow, in particular, for the further difficul-

ties that Hume himself may have in mind when he refers in the Appendix to

the labyrinth in which he finds himself as a result of reviewing the section on

personal identity. Since the nature of these possible difficulties has been a

subject of so much speculation it requires a separate, if relatively brief, dis-

cussion (which I will be providing in Chapter 4). For the moment I suggest


48

that, faced by the critic who accuses him of, in effect, denying the existence of

the self, Hume might respond by arguing that it is a positive merit of his posi-

tion that it locates self-identity in relations among perceptions rather than in

the continuing existence of some mysterious and perhaps unintelligible prin-

ciple of union. This, however, invites the question of where Hume himself

stands on the question of the relation of mind – whether understood as a sub-

stance or as a bundle of perceptions – to body. This is the question with which

I am concerned in the next chapter.

49


3

HUME ON THE

MIND/BODY RELATION

We have seen that Hume appears to identify the mind (or self, in its mental

aspect) with a system of perceptions. It is because of the way in which our

perceptions are organised – i.e. by virtue of the relations of resemblance and

causation they exhibit in memory – that we arrive at the mistaken view of the

mind as something, a substance or connecting principle, to which these per-

ceptions belong. It is a striking feature of Hume’s account of the idea of a

simple and identical mind or self that it focuses entirely on our perceptions

and their relations to each other. For it might well be argued that it is impos-

sible to provide an adequate explanation of the synchronic and diachronic

identity of the mind independently of reference to its relation to body (Pears

1990: 129–31). We saw in the previous chapter that there is indeed a sense in

which this is true, to the extent that reference to the agency aspect of the self

is required for the purpose of providing such an explanation. In any case, it

is evident that Hume’s account of mind follows the same sort of pattern as his

earlier account of our idea of body, namely, as a collection of sensible qual-

ities related to each other in certain ways, the ways in which they are related

giving rise to the mistaken belief in body as something simple and identical

(T, 1.4.3.2).1 The question which naturally arises at this point is how, in

Hume’s view, mind and body are related to each other. This in fact is a topic

with which Hume deals in T, 1.4.5 and it is to his discussion there that I now

turn.

Treatise 1.4.5 ‘Of the immateriality of the soul’

As we saw in the previous chapter, Hume’s discussion of personal identity in

T, 1.4.6 makes use of some of the important conclusions at which he arrives in

this preceding section of the Treatise – so much so that one might see them as

combining to provide his account of personal identity. I shall organise my dis-

cussion of T, 1.4.5 as follows. First, I consider in a little more detail what

Hume has to say about substance theories of mind; second, I consider his

position on the question of mental/physical interaction; and third, I consider

the question of where Hume stands on the nature of both mind and body.

50

There are various reasons why Hume’s views on these matters should be con-

sidered of interest in their own right. For one thing, they involve difficulties

which go to the heart of Hume’s philosophical position generally, as we shall

see in the final part of my discussion. For another, we shall see that his account

of the mind/body relation has an important bearing on recent discussions of

this topic. Finally, and most important, this account contains a highly indi-

vidual perspective on the issues involved whose significance has not been

generally appreciated: I have in mind, in particular, the fact that Hume does

not find any special problem in the mental/physical relationship. Indeed it

would not be an exaggeration to describe Hume’s discussion of this relation-

ship in Treatise 1.4.5 as an exercise in philosophical demystification.2

I

HUME ON THE NATURE OF MIND

In the course of Treatise 1.4.5 Hume compares two claims concerning the

nature of mind: materialism and immaterialism. Descartes’ position, which

represents the mind as an unextended substance, obviously provides an

instance of the latter. One of the problems it is often thought to encounter is

that of allowing for the possibility of mental/physical interaction. How can the

mind, conceived as something unextended, be involved in mutual relations of

cause and effect with the body as an extended substance? It might be thought

that this problem would most simply be obviated by adopting an alternative

conception of mind as a substance: namely, the materialist one. For Hume,

however, both kinds of claim about the nature of mind are mistaken. The dis-

pute between materialism and immaterialism is essentially misconceived

because it assumes that we may intelligibly employ the notion of substance.

Since, according to Hume, we have no significant idea of substance (as we have

seen from earlier references to the discussion of T, 1.4.3), the question as to

whether perceptions inhere in a material or immaterial substance must itself be

condemned as meaningless (T, 1.4.5.6). This conclusion is reinforced by

Hume’s comments on a ‘remarkable’ argument for immaterialism which pro-

ceeds, essentially, as follows. Whatever is extended consists of parts, and

whatever consists of parts is divisible. If it were possible for a thought or per-

ception to be conjoined with the soul as something extended it would have to

exist either in some particular part of it or in every part. In the former case,

that particular part would be indivisible and the perception would be con-

joined only with it and not the extended whole. In the latter case, the

perception itself would be extended and divisible – something which is

revealed as absurd by the fact that it is impossible to conceive of a passion, for

example, possessing this kind of property. Hence, thought and extension are

‘qualities wholly incompatible’ (T, 1.4.5.7).

51

HUME ON THE MIND/BODY RELATION

It is worth noting that this argument has a more than merely historical

interest. It bears some affinity to a line of thought which is prominent in

recent discussion of the mind/body problem (MBP for short). Thomas Nagel,

for example, has raised the question of how constituents of the brain may

combine to form a mental life. The problem he finds here is essentially a con-

ceptual one: while we may be inclined to ascribe mental events to the brain as

a spatially extended organism, we are unable to understand how these events

may have parts that in some way correspond to the parts of the organism itself.

Consciousness is so unified (perhaps, one should add, normally) that it is dif-

ficult to imagine any kind of mental analogue of spatial volume and

complexity (Nagel 1986: 50). A similar line is taken by Colin McGinn in his

argument for supposing that the MBP is insoluble. One difficulty he identifies

is that of conceiving of consciousness as a perceptible property of the brain.

While the senses are geared to representing a spatial world, conscious states

cannot be linked to the brain in virtue of its spatial properties. Perception of

the brain reveals only such properties; consciousness, on the other hand, does

not appear to be made up out of smaller spatial processes (McGinn 1991:

11–12). These reflections are not, in either case, directed towards establishing

a view of the mind as something immaterial: rather, the focus is on the appar-

ently non-spatial character of consciousness and the question of how this is to

be reconciled with the assumption that it is a property of the brain. Hume in

effect anticipates this point when he notes that the ‘remarkable’ argument for

the immateriality of the soul seems directed towards the question of how

thought may be conjoined with matter rather than that of the substance of the

mind itself (T, 1.4.5.8).

For Hume, then, the interest of this argument concerns its relation to the

question of what things are, and what are not, capable of spatial location

(‘local conjunction’). Hume would have been aware, incidentally, that this

question arises not only in the context of the relation between thought and

matter, but also in the theological context of God’s supposed omnipresence in

the world.3 In other words, the issues with which Hume is concerned are not,

from his point of view, in any way peculiar to the MBP. Now, on Hume’s

account, something may be spatially located by reference either to an object

which is extended or to a mathematical point. This reflects his treatment in

Treatise 1.2 of the idea of space, i.e. that extension is finitely divisible into

parts which are themselves indivisible, these being individual points or atoms

(T, 1.2.4.9). Our idea of space or extension is a compound one whose simple

constituents are derived from impressions of sight and touch.4 What is

extended must have a particular figure or shape, but this kind of feature is

associated only with visual and tactual impressions. This leads Hume to for-

mulate the maxim – which, as he recognises, might be considered contrary to

reason – ‘that an object may exist, and yet be nowhere’ (T, 1.4.5.10); and he

takes this to apply to most of our perceptions in so far as their parts fail to

form any shape or size, and the perceptions themselves are not spatially related


52

to other objects or bodies. These perceptions, at least, cannot be ascribed any

spatial location.5 In this case, however, they cannot be spatially conjoined

with matter or body.

Now the maxim of Hume’s to which I have just referred obviously calls for

comment. For one thing, it presumes that our perceptions may, in general, be

thought of as objects of some kind and this is a controversial assumption in

its own right.6 For the purpose of investigating Hume’s position on the

mind/body relation I will not directly question the assumption, but later I

shall be concerned with some of the difficulties which arise from Hume’s

attempt to distinguish among these supposed objects between those which are

extended and those which are not. As for the notion that an object may exist

without any place, some light is shed on this by the analogy which Hume goes

on to employ. According to Hume, we are prone to a certain kind of illusion

or fiction which consists in ascribing a conjunction in place with body to

something which has no existence in extension, where it is inseparable from

those perceptions and objects of sight and touch which are susceptible to this

kind of relation. Thus, to illustrate the point, we are accustomed to suppose

that the sweet taste of a fig lies in the object itself because it is inseparable

from certain visible and tangible qualities which may be so located. Reflection

assures us of our error, however, when we ask ourselves whether the taste is

in every part of the body or only in one part of it. Obviously, we do not think

of only one part of the fig as being sweet; but we cannot ascribe the sweetness

to every part of the fig without falling into the absurdity of supposing the

taste itself to have shape and size.7 (I will not pause to comment on Hume’s

argument here; I return to some of the issues involved later in the chapter.)

This is another context in which imagination and reason come into conflict

with each other: the former inclining us to incorporate taste with the extended

object, and the latter showing that this is impossible. In typical fashion we

manage to disguise this conflict from ourselves by supposing that the taste

fills the whole without extension and exists in each part without separation.

But in doing so we in effect employ the scholastic principle of totum in toto ettotum in qualibet parte (the whole in the whole and the whole in every part).8

For Hume, this reduces to the absurdity of saying that something is in a cer-

tain place and yet is not there (T, 1.4.5.13): an absurdity which we can avoid

only by recognising that some things exist without any place. The difficulty we

find ourselves in here arises from attempting to ascribe a spatial location to

something which – like most of our perceptions – is not capable of it.

Materialism is therefore mistaken in so far as it supposes that thought may be

combined with extension (T, 1.4.5.15).

Hume’s example of an object and its taste is evidently intended to provide a

model for dealing with ‘metaphysical disputes concerning the nature of the

soul’ (T, 1.4.5.11). On one side in these disputes is the claim about the immate-

riality of the soul associated with the ‘remarkable’ argument to which Hume has

referred. The argument seeks to establish this claim on the basis that thought

53


and perception can belong only to what is simple and indivisible, while matter

itself is infinitely divisible: the conclusion being that thought and perception

must be ascribed to an immaterial mind or soul.9 If, however, matter itself is only

finitely divisible (as Hume argues in Treatise 1.2.4), then even if thought must be

ascribed to something which is simple and indivisible this does not prevent it

from having a material basis. In any case, the argument overlooks the possibil-

ity that an object may exist and yet be nowhere – as, indeed, is true of most of

our thoughts or perceptions. Furthermore, if we accept that some perceptions

are extended, the proponent of the argument is faced with the problem of

explaining how they may be incorporated with a simple and indivisible sub-

stance (T, 1.4.5.16). The lesson, for Hume, is that the question of the substance

of the soul should be condemned as unintelligible (T, 1.4.5.33); if the immateri-

alist view is to be rejected, so also is that of materialism.

We might consider at this point how Hume’s remarks about ‘local conjunc-

tion’ would bear on the problem with which both Nagel and McGinn are

concerned. To the extent that it is impossible to establish any spatial contigu-

ity between conscious states in general and the brain, we should apparently

conclude that conscious states belong to the category of beings which exist

without any place. This, as we shall see, does not prevent us from establishing

that such states are causally related to events in the brain and temporally con-

tiguous with those events; but, from Hume’s perspective, there is no furtherissue to be resolved as to the relation between these states and the corre-

sponding neural events. Hume might also wish to argue that just as we are

subject to a propensity to add the relation of conjunction in place to those

other relations which do obtain between taste and the extended object to

which it belongs (T, 1.4.5.12), we may also be prone to ascribe a conjunction

in place to conscious states and the neural events on which they depend.10 This

tendency to feign a conjunction in place as a way of strengthening relations of

resemblance, contiguity and causation, is something against which we need

philosophically to be on our guard; and recognising it for what it is – a source

of absurdity arising directly from the imagination or fancy – should dispel the

air of impenetrable metaphysical mystery which surrounds the relation

between thought and extension.

Hume not only rejects dualism as a form of substance theory, he also

rejects the non-dualist alternative provided by Spinoza according to which

there is one kind of substance which is neither material nor immaterial but

something to which both thought and extension may belong (1993: Part I,

Prop. X).11 In fact, Hume likens Spinoza’s doctrine of the simplicity and

unity of the universe considered as a substance to that of the immateriality of

the soul (T, 1.4.5.19).Whether we regard material objects as modes of a

simple and indivisible substance, or thoughts as modifications of a simple

and indivisible substance, we talk in ways which are equally unintelligible

(T, 1.4.5.21). The question obviously remains as to how we should understand

Hume’s own position on the mind/body relation, given his rejection of these


54

various forms of substance theory. As we have seen, Hume himself appears

committed to a dualistic distinction between objects which belong to funda-

mentally different ontological categories: namely, those which are spatially

located and those which are not. I shall be concerned later, in Section III, with

the rather complex issue of how this bears on his view of the mind and its

relation to body. First, however, there is another important aspect of Hume’s

account of this relation to be considered, and one which brings out a further

point of disagreement with Spinoza.

II

HUME AND THE CAUSAL RELATIONS BETWEEN

MIND AND BODY

A key principle for understanding Hume’s treatment of the mind/body relation

is the following: ‘. . . we must separate the question concerning the substance

of the mind from that concerning the cause of its thought’ (T, 1.4.5.30). So far

we have seen what Hume has to say on the former topic; the time has now

come to consider his position on the question of the cause, or causes, of

thought.

Hume seems clearly committed to the view that our thoughts and percep-

tions have material causes. In effect his argument on this point proceeds in two

stages: first, that there is nothing in the ideas themselves (i.e. thought and

matter) to preclude the possibility of any such relationship; and second, that

experience suffices to establish that a relationship of this kind does in fact

exist. More precisely, experience reveals that thought and material motion are

constantly conjoined, and to this extent that matter in motion is the cause of

thought and perception. This brings Hume directly into conflict with the

scholastic argument which infers the impossibility of thought being caused by

matter from the fact that none of the changes of which matter is susceptible

provide us with any idea of thought or perception. According to this type of

argument, events may be related as cause and effect only where we discern

some sort of connection between them. Hume has previously established, how-

ever, that we are never aware of any such connection and that our knowledge

of cause and effect depends entirely upon experience of a constant conjunction

between the objects or events in question (esp. T, 1.3.14). His point, in the pre-

sent context, is that since no objects are, as such, contrary to each other, there

is no reason why any object may or may not be the cause of another whatever

the degree to which they resemble or differ from each other. Thus, ‘to consider

the matter a priori, any thing may produce any thing’ (T, 1.4.5.30; also T,

1.3.15.1). The absence of any apparent connection between motion and

thought fails to distinguish this case from any other instance of the relation of

cause and effect. The only relevant question is whether we do in fact experience

55


a relation of constant conjunction between thought and motion: a question

which Hume wishes to answer in the affirmative. Thus, having argued that the

absence of any intelligible connection between thought and motion does not

prevent them from being causally related, Hume goes on to claim that experi-

ence reveals that motion ‘actually is, the cause of thought and perception’ (T,

1.4.5.30).12

Hume’s claim about the cause of thought provides his other principal point

of disagreement with Spinoza who appears to endorse what might be

described as the ‘causal similarity principle’ (Cottingham 1988: 91), i.e. that

there must be some rationally accessible similarity between cause and effect

(Spinoza 1993: Part I, Prop. III). This of course has implications for the

mind/body relation – and, in particular, for the Cartesian notion of interaction

between immaterial spirit and the pineal gland. If two substances are distinct

they will have nothing in common and there can be no basis for any causal

connection between them. Hence, for Spinoza, while mind (as a mode of

thought) and body (as a mode of extension) are different attributes of one and

the same substance, there are no causal connections between these attributes

(Spinoza 1993: Part III, Prop. II). Hume is evidently committed to rejecting

the causal similarity principle: so far as reason is concerned, anything may be

the cause of anything, and experience reveals that thought and extension are

in fact causally related. We may note, incidentally, that Hume’s position on this

point also bears on more recent discussions of the MBP. From McGinn’s

point of view, for example, the MBP has to do essentially with how it is pos-

sible for conscious states to depend upon brain states. We lack any

understanding of how the brain can provide the causal basis of conscious-

ness – in fact, we can only regard what is involved as a kind of miracle in which

the water of the physical brain is turned into the wine of consciousness

(McGinn 1989: 349). From a Humean perspective, however, this way of

regarding the MBP reflects the pernicious influence of something like the

causal similarity principle. No causal relationship, considered as such, is any

more or less intelligible than any other. If we have evidence – as we do – of the

constant conjunction of thought and motion, then the causal relation of the

brain to thought or consciousness is established with no further question

remaining as to how any such relation is possible. Any problem of intelligibil-

ity arises only when we confuse the issue of the cause of thought with that of

the substance of the mind.13

Hume’s position here also contrasts interestingly with that of Locke, who

maintains an essentially non-committal stance on the relation between matter

and thought. According to Locke, we cannot say either that matter does give

rise to thought or that it does not in so far as God may conceivably have given

this power to certain systems of matter (Essay IV iii 6). Our knowledge does

not extend to the nature of thought itself, nor does it enable us to determine

whether thought might have been added to matter or to a different kind of

substance.14 While it is beyond question, for Locke, that there is something in


56

us that thinks, we must resign ourselves to ignorance as to whether it is

extended or otherwise. But apart from Locke’s refusal to allow that thought

may be shown to arise from matter, the other point on which his position dif-

fers crucially from that of Hume is his insistence that any such possibility

would depend upon the intervention of God. Thus, Locke goes on to write

that ‘it is impossible to conceive that Matter either with or without Motion

could have originally in and from itself Sense, Perception, and Knowledge’

(Essay IV x 10).15 We should notice, incidentally, that in Locke’s view the pos-

sibility of matter giving rise to motion is equally problematic, ‘matter, as is

evident, having not power to produce motion in itself ’. Hume’s principle that

‘Any thing may be the cause or effect of any thing’ (T, 1.4.5.32) is of crucial

importance here, since it leads to the conclusion that ‘The beginning of

motion in matter itself is as conceivable a priori as its communication from

mind or intelligence’ (Dialogues, 8, 85).16

We might reasonably take Hume’s position to be that all mental events have

physical (or, more especially, neuro-physiological) causes, and this is directly

reflected in his treatment of both impressions of sensation and also ideas in so

far as they are associated in a way that depends on corresponding traces in the

brain (T, 1.2.5.20). It appears that, for Hume, mental functioning may in gen-

eral be linked to neural events (T, 1.4.7.8, 10, 2.2.8.3). Hume is also clearly

committed to the view that some mental events, at least, give rise to physical or

physiological changes. In other words, Hume is no epiphenomenalist: the

mind is not causally inert in relation to the body. This emerges most clearly

from Hume’s treatment of voluntary action as involving a connection between

an act of volition and a motion of the body (T, 1.3.14.12). This appears to be

another case in which experience reveals something like a constant conjunc-

tion rather than an intelligible connection – but in this respect, mental

causation is on a par with causation in the physical realm.17 Volition is only

one element in what might be described as Hume’s psychology of action. In

general, the picture with which Hume provides us is that action originates in

pain or pleasure, or our anticipation of their occurrence, as the ‘chief spring or

actuating principle of the human mind’ (T, 3.3.1.2, 1.3.10.2). The immediate

effects of pain and pleasure comprise not only volition (T, 2.3.1.2), but also

what Hume describes as the direct passions, including desire and aversion

(T, 2.3.9.1–2). All these are elements in the causation of action, on Hume’s

account, along with those of our indirect passions (like love and hatred) which

are immediately motivating through their connection with desire (T, 2.2.6.3).

Even our ideas – in particular, those associated with belief – may be counted

among the ‘governing principles of all our actions’ (T, 1.3.7.7), though their

motivating influence depends, for Hume, upon the presence of passions which

can directly affect the will (Treatise 2.3.3). Without going further into the

details of Hume’s rather complex account of the mental antecedents of action,

we can see that it is one which allows for a two-way relation of cause and effect

between mental and physical events.18

57


It would be of interest to consider Hume’s position in regard to the phenom-

enon of mental causation in rather more detail. We should note, for example,

that in the context of his discussion of volition he explicitly rejects the alterna-

tive provided by the occasionalist view of Malebranche. On this view, according

to Hume, ‘. . . it is not any energy in the will that produces local motion in our

members: It is God himself, who is pleased to second our will, in itself impotent,

and to command that motion which we erroneously attribute to our own power

and efficacy’ (EHU, 7.21).19 As Hume points out in reply, however, if we are notaware of any energy or power in ourselves by which bodily movements are pro-

duced, then we are in no position to ascribe any such faculty to the supreme

mind. Of course, Hume would agree that our experience of volition – whether

in regard to the operations of the mind itself or our bodily behaviour – fails to

provide any awareness of the means, in the form of power or energy, by which

the will is able to achieve its effects (EHU, 7.10). In this respect, there is a direct

parallel with our experience of the operations of bodies or external objects.

What we find in each case is that one kind of object or event is regularly followed

by another – it is this that enables us to recognise a relation of causation between

them. So far as volition is concerned, we are in a position to say that it gives rise

to bodily movement, for example, even if it does so only via various physical or

physiological occurrences which do not themselves form the immediate (inten-

tional) object of volition (EHU, 7.14). Hume’s position here reflects his

commitment to a general principle concerning mental and physical causation:

what might be described as the homogeneity principle (Crane 1995: 219). In

other words, the notion of causation is to be understood in the same way

whether applied to mental events or to physical ones. As Hume himself writes,

‘. . . all causes are of the same kind’, adding that ‘. . . there is but one kind of

necessity, as there is but one kind of cause, and . . . the common distinction

betwixt moral and physical necessity is without any foundation in nature’

(T, 1.3.14.32–3). Thus, in his discussions of liberty and necessity Hume stresses

the similarities and continuities between what he calls ‘natural’ and ‘moral’ evi-

dence, the role of experimental inference and reasoning in each context, and the

uniformity (the ‘very essence of necessity’) to be found in both human behaviour

and the operations of body (EHU, 8; Treatise 2.3.1).20 This, we might note, is

what makes possible the science of moral philosophy: the very project to which

the Treatise is devoted.

Now these aspects of Hume’s position are worthy of comment in view of

the fact that dualism is often considered to be incompatible with the possi-

bility of mental causation, especially if the latter is supposed to involve the

same notion of causation that applies in the case of the physical realm. It is

sometimes suggested, for example, that while in the case of physical events it

makes sense, at least, to look for the mechanism by which one event of this

kind gives rise to another, there is simply no possibility of identifying any

kind of mechanism by which a non-physical event might give rise to a physi-

cal one (or, presumably, vice-versa) (Smith and Jones 1986: 53–4). The


58

Humean response to this, however, would surely be that the idea of identify-

ing something which would enable us to understand how certain events are

causally related itself reflects a mistaken ‘rationalistic’ conception of the rela-

tion of cause and effect. All that matters here is whether the events in

question are constantly conjoined – there does not have to be, and in fact

there never is, any discoverable connection between them. Thus, ‘. . . tho’

there appear no manner of connexion betwixt motion or thought, the case is

the same with all other causes and effects’ (T, 1.4.5.30).21 If Hume’s opponent

insists on the possibility of identifying the underlying linkages which would

explain the supposed causal relations between mental and physical events

(Smith and Jones 1986: 56), he is continuing to appeal to an idea whose very

significance is in question for Hume.

The worry about mental causation, as a view which is combined with some

form of dualism, might arise from another assumption about the nature of cau-

sation in the physical world, namely, that this is always a matter of force or

energy flowing from one object or event to another. This appears to be reflected

in the familiar claim that the idea of mental causation comes into conflict with

the principle of the conservation of energy: the physical world is a kind of

closed system in which energy remains constant though it may be redistributed

by the changes that take place within it, and so energy cannot flow into the

system as the hypothesis of mental causation would apparently require. One

problem with this kind of argument lies with its claim about the physical world

as a causally closed system. As Broad pointed out, there are familiar examples

of systems in which, so it appears, energy is conserved but redistributed by

things acting upon them (as in the case of the weight whose movements are

affected by the pull of the string from which it is suspended though the total

energy of the weight remains the same – Broad 1962: 107–8). But it is also pos-

sible to call into question the assumption made in the argument about the

nature of physical causation, namely, that causation involves something like the

flow of force or energy among the objects or events concerned. It is obvious

that, from Hume’s point of view, the very idea of causal force or energy is itself

a problematic one whose intelligibility cannot be taken for granted. We know

that ‘energy’ and ‘force’ are, for Hume, near synonyms for other terms like

‘necessity’, ‘power’ and ‘agency’ (T, 1.3.14.4), and that they fall within the

scope of his critical treatment of the idea of necessary connection. Hume refers

scathingly to ‘those philosophers, who have pretended to explain the secret

force and energy of causes’ (T, 1.3.14.7). In fact, we have no idea of anything

like power or efficacy in objects themselves, even though we may delude our-

selves into supposing otherwise (T, 1.3.14.27). All that corresponds objectively

to this kind of idea is the constant conjunction of certain objects: it is this,

along with the associated ‘determination of the mind’, that constitutes physical

necessity (T, 1.3.14.33). Even the Newtonian theory of gravity fails to provide

support for the idea of causal force and energy (EHU, 7.25n). But if this is so,

then it has still to be shown that there is something about the idea of mental

59


causation which makes it more problematic than that of causation as a relation

among physical objects or events.

Hume’s position on the mental/physical relation requires that some physical

events – in particular, overt bodily actions – number among their causes

mental events, such as intentions or volitions, as well as their various physio-

logical antecedents. This kind of position is sometimes rejected on the basis

that physical events are determined by their physical causes alone. But this

premise concerning the causation of physical events merely begs the question

so far as the issue of mental causation is concerned (Lowe 1993: 633). The

bodily movements involved in our intentional or voluntary actions do have

physical causes (for example, in the form of muscular contractions), as we have

seen; but this is consistent with the possibility that the physical processes

which result in our bodily actions are themselves the product of mental events

such as intentions or volitions (Lowe 1992: 271–4). Of course, we may wish to

ask how mental events are able to produce such effects – but in doing so we are,

for Hume, posing a question which is no more legitimate than it would be in

the case of those causal relations involving purely physical events. This is not

to deny that we may legitimately raise the question of the causes of these

mental events themselves. Indeed, a crucial feature of Hume’s discussion of

liberty and necessity is his insistence that the principle of causal necessity –

when understood in his own terms – applies to the will itself. Even in the con-

text of voluntary action we are unable to ‘free ourselves from the bonds of

necessity’ (T, 2.3.2.2). In other words, it is possible to identify those influ-

ences, in the form of our motives and characters, to which the will is subject;

and we may be able to identify some of the factors which would help to

explain these dispositions of the agent (in the form of both ‘moral’ as well as

‘physical’ causes – see ‘Of National Characters’, Essays 197–215). Without

pursuing these various aspects of the causal role of mental events in further

detail, we may see why, for Hume, there is nothing especially problematic

about the idea of their occupying such a role. This is not to say, however, that

there are no problems concerning the nature of mental events themselves, as

Hume conceives of them; and I therefore turn next to these and other related

problems arising from Hume’s dualism.

III

HUME’S DUALISM

What I have said so far about Hume’s position on the relation between mind

and body does leave some difficult ontological issues to be resolved. On the

face of it, Hume appears committed to the existence of two different kinds of

event or process, mental and physical, even if neither of them is to be ascribed

to any separate kind of substance. This, in turn, seems to imply that mind is


60

no more than a collection of perceptions, and body – whose motions provide

the cause of these perceptions – a collection of sensible qualities. The result

is apparently a kind of twofold dualism: between the spatial and non-spatial

perceptions which make up the mind, and between perceptions themselves

and the sensible qualities which constitute body. It would therefore be mis-

leading, at least, to represent the former distinction as amounting to Hume’s

version of mental/physical dualism.22 Experience reveals that even those of

our perceptions which are extended are still, like perceptions in general,

dependent upon the body for their existence (thus, the ‘experiments’ to which

Hume appeals – T, 1.4.2.45 – include reference to the apparent shapes and

sizes of objects).23 Implicitly, at least, Hume appears to distinguish both

extended as well as unextended perceptions from the body on whose existence

and functioning they depend. Hume’s apparent commitment to the view of

mind itself as a collection of perceptions emerges most clearly in Treatise1.4.6. where, as we have seen, Hume elaborates on his bundle theory by com-

paring the mind to a theatre where perceptions appear and reappear

(T, 1.4.6.4). As we have also seen, he immediately qualifies this analogy by

saying that ‘The comparison of the theatre must not mislead us. They are thesuccessive perceptions only, that constitute the mind; nor have we the most dis-

tant notion of the place, where these scenes are represented, or of the

materials, of which it is compos’d’ (my italics).24

It is plain from Hume’s account that we not only conceive of body as some-

thing which has an external and independent existence, but that we also find

ourselves irresistibly disposed to believe that body, so conceived, exists

(T, 1.4.2.1). Yet this belief must be considered problematic from Hume’s per-

spective, given his observation about the ‘absurdity’ of ‘the notion of external

existence, when taken for something specifically different from our percep-

tions’ (T, 1.4.2.2). As Hume indicates, he is here alluding to his earlier

treatment of the idea of external existence in Treatise 1.2.6. The point he

makes there is that since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions,

we are unable to form an idea of anything specifically different from ideas and

impressions (T, 1.2.6.8). But this does not apparently prevent us from forming

an idea of external objects as being numerically different from perceptions

themselves. Hume returns to the issue in the section with which we are specif-

ically concerned, i.e. Treatise 1.4.5, where he reaffirms that since every idea is

derived from a preceding perception, ‘’tis impossible our idea of a perception,

and that of an object or external existence can ever represent what are specif-

ically different from each other’ (T, 1.4.5.19). But once again it appears that we

can form some conception of an external object as something numerically dis-

tinct from a perception or impression, even if this can amount to little more

than that of ‘a relation without a relative’.

Even if Hume has succeeded in explaining how we may conceive of body as

something distinct from our perceptions, considerable puzzles remain as to

what sort of account Hume wishes to provide of the nature of body itself (as,

61


indeed, the preceding remarks would suggest). If we are unable to form any

significant idea of a material substratum of the sensible qualities we experi-

ence, it might appear that body must be for Hume a kind of collection of such

qualities. But then we must remember that, according to Hume, some of the

sensible qualities of bodies or objects are not themselves spatially located.

Nevertheless, these qualities are inseparable from the extended qualities of

colour and tangibility (T, 1.4.5.12), and to this extent must also be counted

among the sensible qualities which belong to body. What, however, are we to

make of the fact that Hume employs the distinction between extended and

non-extended at the level of both perceptions and qualities? This might seem

to involve a rather perplexing duplication of entities. Even if we are able to

construct, on Hume’s behalf, some account of the relation between an

extended perception and the corresponding quality of an extended object, it is

hard to see what could really be said about the relation between qualities

which exist nowhere and our perceptions of those qualities (supposing that we

could attach any meaning to the idea of such a relation).

It may be that we can avoid some of these problems according to how we

understand Hume’s claim that some of our perceptions are extended. Rather

than taking this to mean, for example, that they are spatially located in the

brain, perhaps we should consider the possibility that extension in this case

may be non-material. Thus, some perceptions might have phenomenal exten-

sion, to the extent that they occupy a certain portion of the corresponding

sensory field (Yolton 1984: 199–200). It is a fact about our experience of

colour, for example, that typically the colour-appearances of things take up

various expanses of our visual field, and that this is partly determined by

factors (such as distance and orientation) which do not bear on the colours

of things themselves.25 If we wish to talk about some perceptions being

extended in this sense, this should be distinguished from the position to

which Hume appears to be committed that there are perceptions which are

in a literal sense extended (and therefore have a location in space). While it

seems that ultimately it would be in Hume’s interest to abandon this posi-

tion, it should be acknowledged that this would have important

ramifications for his philosophy generally. Apart from the repercussions

noted below, there are certain metaphysical principles of Hume’s to be taken

into consideration. One of these, for example, concerns the relation of rep-

resentation. For Hume, in so far as a perception represents something, it

does so by copying what is represented. Thus, just as an object like a table is

extended, so also is the perception (or ‘impression’, to use Hume’s term) by

which it is represented: the latter consists of parts. Since the idea of exten-

sion itself is copied from an impression it must also possess the qualities

which belong to the corresponding impression. In short, ‘To say the idea of

extension agrees to any thing, is to say it is extended’ (T, 1.4.5.15). What I

have suggested is that one can, in a way, accept what Hume says about the

perception (=impression) of what is in fact extended (i.e. that it may have a


62

kind of phenomenal extension). But this, in itself, would obviously fail to

provide any basis for regarding the corresponding idea as something which

is in any sense extended. Thus, strictly speaking, no perception may, as such,

be classified as something which exists with any place – or, to put it another

way, perceptions in general belong to that category of things which, accord-

ing to Hume, may exist and yet be nowhere.

There is, however, the further matter to be considered of those sensible qual-

ities which are supposed to exist without any place. Certainly, there seem to be

analogues, at least, in the case of such qualities as sound, taste and smell to

extension and/or spatial location (Urmson 1968). Both sounds and smells, for

example, can fill a volume of space, even if we would not wish to impose pre-

cise boundaries on their existence – i.e. in Hume’s terms, ascribe a figure or size

to them. (We would not, on the other hand, think of the corresponding audi-

tory or olfactory sensations as having any space-occupying characteristics.)

And the taste of something can be a more or less pervasive feature of the

object even if, as Hume argues, we would not wish to ascribe to it a precise loca-

tion. There is therefore some reason for resisting Hume’s claim about those

sensible qualities which are supposed to exist without any place. This, together

with what has just been said about perceptions, suggests that the difficulties

associated with Hume’s twofold dualism might be avoided by applying his

principle that something may exist without any place to perceptions in general,

while recognising that all sensible qualities are space-occupying even if there are

some which lack any determinate location (or ‘particular place’, as Hume puts

it). It is true that this would deprive Hume of one of his objections to immate-

rialism (i.e. concerning the impossibility of conjoining extended perceptions

with immaterial substance), but it would leave him with an effective reply to the

‘remarkable’ argument for immaterialism and his response to materialism

would be unaffected. It also leaves Hume with his principal point concerning

the debate between materialism and immaterialism, namely, that it is a distrac-

tion from the only meaningful issue to be pursued here, which is that of the

nature of the causes of our thoughts and perceptions.

Three questions about perceptions

As Hume himself indicates, his discussion in T, 1.4.5 is devoted to three kinds

of question concerning our perceptions (T, 1.4.5.29). One of these has to do

with substance, another with local conjunction, and the third with the cause of

our perceptions. The first provides the context for Hume’s treatment of the dis-

pute between materialism and immaterialism. It comes as no surprise that

Hume’s verdict on this dispute is that it should be condemned in so far as it

assumes the intelligibility of the notion of substance. But the use he makes of

the principle concerning local conjunction – namely, that something may exist

without any place – provides a novel perspective on the issues which arise

here. The issue which is of particular concern to Hume is that of the relation

63


of thought to extension: something which, as I have indicated, figures also in

current discussion of the MBP. His view is that our perceptions in general lack

any of the qualities associated with extension – and, indeed, that it is absurd

to ascribe such qualities to them. But this does not, for Hume, create any

problem concerning their relation to what is extended. Given that this relation

cannot be one of conjunction in place, the only question which remains is that

of the other forms which it might take. And here experience provides the

answer that it may be one of both temporal contiguity and causation. From

Hume’s point of view, those philosophers who suppose that there is a specialproblem about the relation of conscious states to the brain, for example, have

mistakenly assumed that a relation of causation and contiguity in time must be

supplemented by that of a conjunction in place. Of course, Hume’s claim that

our perceptions generally are incapable of local conjunction (a claim which, I

have argued, he should have extended to all perceptions), might be considered

problematic in its own right. But, as he indicates, anyone who thinks there isa genuine possibility of our mental states being spatially located at least faces

the challenge of explaining how it might make sense to ascribe to them such

characteristics as figure and quantity. For Hume is surely right that we would

normally find this absurd in spite of the evident reality of the states in ques-

tion. Thus, we are apparently left with no alternative but to suppose that they

are beings which exist without any place (T, 1.4.5.14).

In distinguishing these various issues concerning our perceptions, Hume

makes it clear that the most important is that of their cause. Having distin-

guished this from the question about substance, Hume has prepared the way

for an account which identifies material motion as the cause of thought and

perception. Hume is obviously aware of the kind of philosophical resistance

which such an account is likely to encounter, but traces this to a mistaken con-

ception of the causal relation itself. In essence, the mistake consists in the

supposition that any such relation must be rationally intelligible. Experience,

rather than reason, determines when a relation of this kind obtains. This has

profound implications for the idea that there is more to the question of the

mind/body relation than, for example, that of the sorts of physical cause we

might be able to identify for our mental states. For the idea that there is any

further question to be resolved depends on the assumption that a relation of

this kind must make sense to us – an assumption which fails to apply, on

Hume’s view, to any instance of the relation of cause and effect. There is,

therefore, no obstacle to recognising the existence of causal relations between

mind and body – and, indeed, ones which run in both directions – provided

that experience reveals a constant conjunction between the different kinds of

object or event involved. The idea that there is a special problem in this case

with the idea of mental causation provides another instance in which philoso-

phers have fallen victim to mistaken conceptions of causation – such as, for

example, the assumption that some identifiable mechanism must be involved,

or that energy must somehow flow from the one object or event to the other,


64

or that physical events must be determined by their physical causes alone.

Hume thus arrives at a version of dualism which arguably reflects much of

our common sense thinking about mental states and their relation to the body:

in particular, that what are involved are different kinds of thing – but not dif-

ferent kinds of substance, in the philosophical sense of this notion – which

nevertheless stand in causal relations to each other. At the same time, the dif-

ficulties which are often thought to attend this kind of position are met by

certain crucial philosophical principles which explain why, for Hume, there is

really no such a thing as the mind/body problem but only questions about the

relation between the different kinds of state involved which are to be settled by

reference to experience. This last point, more than anything else, marks the

originality and interest of Hume’s treatment of the mind/body relation.

I referred at the end of the previous chapter to Hume’s remarks in the

Appendix to the Treatise about the difficulty in which he finds himself on

reviewing his discussion of personal identity in T, 1.4.6. The following chap-

ter provides a relatively brief survey of the issues of interpretation raised by

these remarks, and it also explores a problem which may help to account for

these second thoughts about personal identity.

65


4

HUME’S SECOND THOUGHTS

ABOUT PERSONAL IDENTITY

I turn now to the vexed issue of how we are to understand Hume’s remarks

about personal identity in the Appendix to the Treatise: remarks which

appear to amount to a retraction of his earlier account of the self and its

identity. As I have indicated, my principal concern is to provide a brief dis-

cussion of the issues of interpretation which arise in this context; but I shall

also make a suggestion about the kind of problem which might help to

account for Hume’s references to error and inconsistency. It is worth noting

that personal identity is identified by Hume as the ‘one article’ in which he

has been able to discover a considerable mistake in his reasoning (App. 1),

and he goes on to confess his inability to reconcile the contradictions which

arise here (App. 21). This shows that whatever the source of Hume’s second

thoughts about personal identity might be it is not something that infects his

treatment of the other issues with which he is concerned in Book 1 of the

Treatise. This, in turn, provides an important constraint on any interpretation

of these second thoughts, along with other constraints such as the need to

identify problems which might have been of concern to Hume himself as well

as being ones which would account for the way in which he describes his

second thoughts.

I

How, then, does Hume express the difficulty with which he is concerned in the

Appendix? He says that his account of personal identity fails to explain the

principles which bind our perceptions together ‘and make us attribute to them

a real simplicity and identity’ (App. 20).1 Hume provides his own summary of

what was said about this in T, 1.4.6 as follows:

. . . the thought alone finds personal identity, when reflecting on the

train of past perceptions, that compose a mind, the ideas of them are

felt to be connected together, and naturally introduce each other

(App. ibid.).

66

So far, according to Hume, his philosophy has a ‘promising aspect’. But he

declares himself unable to find any theory which will satisfactorily ‘explain the

principles, that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or conscious-

ness’. And he continues thus:

In short there are two principles, which I cannot render consistent;

nor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz. that all our dis-tinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind neverperceives any real connexion among distinct existences. Did our per-

ceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or did the

mind perceive some real connexion among them, there wou’d be no

difficulty in the case (App. 21).

Hume appears to be suggesting that the problem to which he is referring here

would not arise if our perceptions did inhere in something simple and individual,

or if the mind did perceive some ‘real connexion’ among them; for the latter, in

particular, would explain our attribution of a simplicity and identity to these

perceptions. As it is, this attribution is supposed to occur in spite of the absence

of any ‘real connexion’ among our perceptions as ‘distinct existences’.

Before going any further I should say something about Hume’s two princi-

ples, which might be characterised respectively as the ‘distinctness’ and ‘real

connexion’ principles. I have referred previously to these principles and the

part they play in Hume’s argument for the possibility of perceptions existing

independently of the mind to which they belong.2 It is obvious that they are

not inconsistent with each other and that Hume himself could not have

thought that they were. They are, in fact, complementary: the real connexion

principle applies to perceptions in so far as they satisfy the distinctness prin-

ciple. Furthermore these principles lie at the heart of Hume’s philosophy in

Book 1 of the Treatise and neither could be renounced without abandoning

that philosophy. A pervasive theme of Hume’s discussion of the idea of an

external existence in Treatise 1.4.2 is the broken and interrupted character of

our perceptions (T, 1.4.2.25). We have seen previously that Hume’s view of the

distinctness and separability of our perceptions is also central to his treatment

of the Cartesian treatment of the mind as an immaterial substance (T, 1.4.5.5,

27). And all this is repeated in Hume’s discussion of personal identity (T,

1.4.6.3, 16). Hume himself clearly sees this distinctness principle as one which

is intimately related to the real connexion principle. In his discussion of causal

inference, for example, he declares that ‘There is no object, which implies the

existence of any other if we consider these objects in themselves, and never

look beyond the ideas which we formof them’ (T,1.3.6.1; cf. 1.3.12.20). When

he says that there can be no ‘real connexion’ among distinct existences he

seems to be referring precisely to the impossibility of deducing from the idea

of one object its connection with any other (T, 1.3.14.13). If we think that we

are able to discern a connection between certain things such that the one must

67

HUME'S SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT PERSONAL IDENTITY

be accompanied by the other, this only reflects the influence of experience of

constant conjunction on the imagination. The understanding itself ‘never

observes any real connexion among objects’ (T, 1.4.6.16). Given the mutual

consistency of the distinctness and real connexion principles Hume’s diffi-

culty must presumably concern their compatibility with his earlier account of

the simplicity and identity ascribed to our perceptions.

How, then, are we to understand Hume’s remarks about his difficulty with

this earlier account? In attempting to deal with this issue there are two dis-

tinctions to be borne in mind. One of these is the distinction between the

question of what the self is and that of our idea of the self; and the other is

the distinction between the question of the simplicity (or synchronic unity) of

the self and that of its identity (or diachronic unity). These distinctions evi-

dently cut across each other: we may distinguish between the question of

whether the self is simple (and/or identical) and the question of how our ideaof the self as something simple (and/or identical) is to be accounted for. We

are aware that in T, 1.4.6 Hume attempts to answer questions both about the

nature of the self and its supposed simplicity and identity, and also about the

explanation of our idea of a simple and identical mind or self. It remains to

be seen which sort of question provides the focus of his second thoughts in

the Appendix.3

Without attempting to argue the point in detail I would suggest that

Hume’s second thoughts concern his account of our acquisition of the (fic-

titious) idea of personal identity, together with the corresponding belief,

and that they are not directed to his account of the mind or self as a bundle

of perceptions.4 Thus, Hume reiterates in the Appendix his view of the self

as something that is composed of perceptions (App. 15); and, what is more,

he links this view once again with the denial of material substance. In other

words, just as ‘we have no idea of external substance, distinct from the ideasof particular qualities’, so ‘we have no notion of [the mind] , distinct from theparticular perceptions’ (App. 19).5 As I have argued previously, Hume’s rejec-

tion of any account of the mind or self as a substance (whether material or

immaterial) to which perceptions belong commits him to an alternative

conception of the mind or self as a bundle or system of perceptions. Far

from Hume retracting this account of the self in the Appendix, he appears,

if anything, to endorse it. This immediately undermines a number of inter-

pretations of Hume’s remarks. Among these are claims to the effect that the

Appendix provides belated recognition of the need for an independent self

to act as observer of its perceptions and hence to arrive at the idea of its

own simplicity and identity (Kemp Smith 1949: 73; Passmore 1952: 82–3;

Johnson 1995: 298).6 I have attempted in Chapter 2 to respond to those who

have rejected the bundle account of mind on this kind of basis; it is perhaps

enough to say here that whatever the resources of this account, there seems

little if any basis for supposing that Hume wishes to repudiate it in the

Appendix.7


68

For this kind of reason we should also reject those interpretations which

locate Hume’s difficulty in his account of the relations among perceptions in

virtue of which they belong to particular bundles or systems.8 There is, per-

haps, one line of argument associated with interpretations of this latter kind

which requires further comment. It amounts to the claim that Hume’s problem

has essentially to do with individuation, i.e. with the question of what differ-

entiates one mind or self from another. Thus, it has recently been argued that

Hume can do no more than accept as a kind of basic fact about a person’s per-

ceptions that they occur in a separate bundle and so make it possible for him

to form various ideas and beliefs including those of himself as something

possessing both unity and identity. But given that each perception is capable of

existing independently of every other, this fact is one for which Hume is unable

to account: it remains ‘unintelligible and mysterious’ that one is conscious only

of a particular collection of perceptions in the way that the formation of the

idea of the self or mind apparently requires (Stroud 1977: 138). If, on the other

hand, one’s perceptions inhered in a spiritual substance, or in some other way

manifested ‘real’ connections, this would explain why one’s experience is lim-

ited to a particular bundle or collection of perceptions. As it is, we encounter

here an aspect of experience for which Hume’s theory of ideas is unable to

cater.9 I shall be concerned in Part II (in Chapter 8) with the question of what

account, if any, Hume is able to provide of the self’s relation to others; but the

relevant point, in this context, is that even if it is true that Hume is unable to

explain the fact that we are separate bundles of perceptions, it is hard to see

why he would be any more concerned about this than he is, for example, about

the absence of any ultimate explanation for the relations that obtain among

our perceptions (T, 1.1.4.6).10

Hume’s bundle or system account of the mind provides the basis for his

explanation of the way in which we come by the belief (one which is mistaken

in his view) that we, or our minds, possess a genuine unity and identity. The

principle of explanation to which Hume appeals in this context is one that is

employed previously in the Treatise. In his discussion of belief in the existence

of body (in T, 1.4.2) Hume finds it necessary to explain how it is possible for us

to ascribe a numerical identity to our perceptions notwithstanding interrup-

tions in them. The ‘general rule’ on which he relies for this purpose is ‘that

whatever ideas place the mind in the same disposition or in similar ones, are

very apt to be confounded’. Hume then goes on to claim that ‘a succession of

related objects’ places the mind in the same disposition when it considers them

as objects which are identical (T, 1.4.2.32, 34). We find a similar pattern of

argument in Hume’s treatment of the philosophical idea of material substance

(in T, 1.4.3). In this case ‘the ideas of the several distinct successive qualities of

objects are united together by a very close relation’; and ‘any such succession of

related qualities is readily consider’d as one continu’d object, existing without

any variation’ (T, 1.4.3.3). Without pursuing the question of how Hume’s ‘gen-

eral rule’ enables him to explain the beliefs in external existence and ‘first

69


matter’ respectively, we can see that the principle involved is the same one to

which he appeals in his account of the way in which we come by the idea of an

identical and substantial self. Thus, we find again the suggestion that the dis-

tinct ideas of identity and of a succession of related objects are generally

confounded in our ordinary way of thinking; and while we attempt to correct

this bias of the imagination, as Hume describes it, our propensity to confound

identity with relation is so great that it leads us to posit a soul, self, substance,

or even just ‘something unknown and mysterious’ which connects our inter-

rupted perceptions (T, 1.4.6.6). We may infer from this that Hume’s second

thoughts cannot be directed to the general principle of explanation employed

in these different cases (in essence, the principle that relation is apt to be con-

founded with identity); for his worries about personal identity are not extended

to his account of the idea of external existence or the philosophical idea of

material substance. Rather, it is the application of this principle to the succes-

sive perceptions of the mind in accounting for the idea of an identical and

substantial self that is the focus of Hume’s concern. The problem we face is to

see why Hume would suppose that this case is relevantly different from the

other cases in which his principle of explanation is employed.11

It is, then, in the matter of what makes us attribute a ‘real simplicity and

identity’ to our perceptions that Hume finds his discussion of personal identity

to be ‘defective’ (App. 20). Again, Hume finds himself unable to explain satis-

factorily ‘the principles, that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or

consciousness’ (ibid.). Now the use of the word ‘successive’ indicates that Hume

is concerned here, in particular, with our belief in the identity of the mind over

time, i.e. in terms of the distinction employed earlier, its diachronic unity or

identity. This is reflected in Hume’s remark that ‘the thought alone finds per-

sonal identity, when reflecting on the train of past perceptions, that compose amind, the ideas of them are felt to be connected together’ (ibid., my emphasis).

It may be true, of course, that Hume would also find difficulties in his account

of our belief in the simplicity (or synchronic unity) of the mind; but just as the

bulk of his discussion in T, 1.4.6 is devoted to the issue of the mind’s diachronic

identity, so also, it would seem, the Appendix remarks are directed towards this

particular issue. This is another factor that needs to be taken into account

when assessing suggested solutions to the puzzle raised by Hume’s discussion of

personal identity in the Appendix. Consider, for example, Penelhum’s recent

contribution to this debate (2000: 115–19). The gist of this is that Hume’s

problem lies with the requirement that we should be able to hold in conscious-

ness the perceptions to which we attribute an identity when we survey them in

memory. The problem thus consists in the synchronic unity required for us to

attribute a diachronic unity to our past perceptions. Yet, as Penelhum himself

points out, there is no obvious reason why Hume should now be concerned

about his ability to explain our possession of the idea of a simple mind or self,

or one that has a synchronic unity. For this will be a matter of a group of simul-

taneous perceptions, including ideas of memory (i.e. ideas of past perceptions)


70

as well as our current impressions and ideas, being so related that we ascribe a

unity to them in the way briefly described by Hume in T, 1.4.6.22. In this case,

however, it is difficult to see how such an interpretation can account for Hume’s

references to contradiction and inconsistency; and I shall pursue below the

obvious alternative that it is our attribution of a diachronic identity to the

perceptions constituting the mind that is the focus of Hume’s concern.

II

HUME AND THE CAUSAL RELATIONS AMONG

OUR PERCEPTIONS

In attempting to provide an interpretation of Hume’s remarks in the Appendix

it should be acknowledged that this is a matter on which the text is underde-

termined (Fogelin 1985: 100). It is necessary also to bear in mind the various

criteria which any such interpretation might be expected to satisfy: such as, for

example, that the worry which is identified should be one which would have

been of concern to Hume himself; that it should account for his use of words

like ‘contradiction’; that it should reflect the distinctions to which I have

referred above; and that it should arise in a distinctive way in regard to the case

of personal identity. This last point requires some further comment. There is

no reason why the problem Hume has in mind in the Appendix should be of

a kind which has no precedent in the rest of his philosophy; but it is one

which evidently bears on his account of personal identity with special force, so

as to render that account untenable if not accounts given of other ideas and

beliefs to which the problem is relevant. There is a possible problem which

comes into this category, i.e. it is of a sort which arises in a different context

elsewhere in the Treatise, but it applies especially to Hume’s account of our

idea of a diachronically identical self. We have seen that the crucial relation

among the perceptions which go to make up the mind is that of cause and

effect. It is true that there is also the relation of resemblance – a relation which

is itself the product of memory – but this appears to be of lesser importance

to the extent that we evidently extend the idea of identity to those parts of a

person’s life that he is no longer able to remember.12 Indeed, precisely what

enables us to do this is the presumed relation of causation between the per-

ceptions of the past and present self. From this point of view memory

discovers personal identity by, so to speak, informing us of the relations of

cause and effect which obtain among our perceptions (T, 1.4.6.20). Now these

relations also play a crucial part in Hume’s explanation of the way in which we

acquire the idea of personal identity. This explanation reflects Hume’s claim

that the idea itself is a fictitious one, and that since there are no real ties or

connections among our perceptions the attribution to them of an identity

must arise from ‘the union of their ideas in the imagination, when we reflect

71


upon them’ (T, 1.4.6.16). Thus, the relations of cause and effect among our

perceptions facilitate the transition of the imagination from one correspond-

ing idea to another, with the result that we substitute the notion of identity for

that of diversity.

Now it is worthwhile comparing the role that causation plays here, as a

relation among perceptions which results in a fiction of the imagination, with

the rather similar use to which it is put earlier, in Treatise 1.4.2, in accounting

for the idea of an external existence. An essential part of what we understand

by the notion of body, according to Hume, is that it is something which has a

continued existence, and in this sense is external to and independent of us. It

turns out that this aspect of our notion of body can be accounted for by ref-

erence neither to the senses nor to reason, and must therefore be ascribed to

the imagination. In other words, there are certain features of our perceptions

which, according to Hume, make us attribute to them a continued existence.13

The features in question involve the relations both of resemblance and causa-

tion, being those of, on the one hand, constancy and, on the other, coherence.

What Hume has in mind in the latter case is that those bodies which by their

very nature are liable to change nevertheless preserve a coherence to the extent

that these changes have a causal dependence on each other. There is an obvi-

ous point of comparison here with the case of personal identity, because

persons by their nature undergo continuous changes and it is the causal rela-

tions which hold among their changing states which apparently enable us to

regard them as remaining the same. In the case of bodies, however, Hume

finds a problem with the appeal to coherence. This problem arises from the

fact that the relevant relations of coherence are ones which occur among our

impressions, for it is precisely from relations among impressions that our idea

of body itself is supposed to originate. The problem, then, is this. It would

seem that the coherence of impressions or appearances gives rise to a kind of

reasoning from causation in which we connect the changes they undergo by

attributing these changes to a continuously existing body or object. But this

cannot be regarded as a straightforward piece of causal reasoning derived

from custom and regulated by past experience (of the kind with which Treatise1.3 is concerned), simply because in this instance we are ascribing a greaterregularity to objects themselves than is to be found in our perceptions. It is a

matter of the mind being so influenced by the coherence which objects have as

they appear to the senses that it renders their uniformity as great as possible by

the supposition of a continued existence. But this, Hume declares, is a princi-

ple which is ‘too weak to support alone so vast an edifice, as is that of the

continu’d existence of all external bodies’ (T, 1.4.2.23).

The reason why the relation of causation among our perceptions is not suffi-

cient to account for the idea of body is that our perceptions fail to exhibit the

regularity which would lead, without some further propensity of the imagination,

to the supposition of a continued and distinct existence. With this in mind let us

go back to Hume’s account of the part played by causation in our acquisition of


72

the idea of personal identity. It seems that the picture which Hume offers here

resembles in crucial respects the one we have found to apply in the case of body.

Once more we are supposed to form the idea of a continued existence – in this

case, of the mind as a bundle or collection of perceptions – on the basis of a

kind of coherence among perceptions which contain evident discontinuities.14 In

fact, the discontinuities in the case of mind seem still greater than those which

obtain in the case of body; for it is not simply that there are irregularities among

our perceptions: they are also separated by intervals during which no percep-

tions occur or are subsequently recalled as having occurred (i.e. in dreamless

sleep).15 It seems that we therefore find here good reason for Hume to doubt that

he had successfully accounted for the idea of the self as something that remains

the same throughout the changes it undergoes. For the uniting principle among

our successive perceptions to which Hume appeals in T, 1.4.6.19 cannot, after

all, account for our propensity to ascribe a continued identical existence to

these perceptions.16 It is, of course, a further question – and one which it is prob-

ably pointless to pursue – whether this is what Hume has in mind in the

reservations expressed in the Appendix. But the fact that the problem we have

discovered has a precedent in Hume’s own philosophy does at least confirm that

it is the kind of problem which would have been of concern to Hume himself. We

should note, too, that it is a problem which reflects the nature of the relations

among our perceptions and the fact that these relations do not amount to any

‘real connection’ among the perceptions considered as distinct existences. If, on

the other hand, our perceptions belonged to some simple and individual sub-

stance, this might be taken to account for our beliefs about the simplicity and

identity of the mind.

There is another important point to be considered here. In spite of Hume’s

obvious reservations about his account of the idea of body, he does think that

it is possible to supplement his appeal to causation (and the coherence among

our perceptions) in this case with one to resemblance (and the constancy

among our perceptions). Indeed, it is the latter on which his account of the

origin of the idea of body is ultimately based (T, 1.4.2.23ff.). But this option

is not available to Hume in the case of the mind, where resemblance has to be

regarded as a relation which is subordinate to that of causation in explaining

the idea itself. In fact, the difference we find here between the ideas of mind

and body calls for further comment. In the case of body we are supposed to

ascribe a ‘perfect numerical identity’ to perceptions which possess one of the

essential features of identity, invariableness, while lacking the other, uninter-

ruptedness; in the case of mind, however, we regard different related objects as

the same even when they are both interrupted and variable. To this extent our

ascription of an identity to the mind is acknowledged by Hume to involve us

in an ‘absurdity’: one that we try to justify to ourselves by feigning the exis-

tence of some ‘unintelligible principle’ which connects the objects and

‘prevents their interruption and variation’ (T, 1.4.6.6). We can now see, how-

ever, that the relevant principle of explanation, i.e. that relation is apt to be

73


confounded with identity, cannot be applied unproblematically in this context,

simply because the objects involved – our variable and interrupted percep-

tions – are not so related that their ideas are liable to be conflated with that of

something simple and identical.

This, then, is my suggestion as to the kind of problem Hume might have had

in mind in referring to his inability to ‘explain the principles, that unite our

successive perceptions in thought and consciousness’ (App. 20).17 When Hume

remarks in this context on his inability to reconcile ‘those contradictions’

which arise from his commitment to the distinctness and real connexion prin-

ciples (App. 21), this should be seen against the background of his earlier

claim that the intellectual world is free of those contradictions to be discovered

in the natural world (T, 1.4.5.1). Hume goes on to expand on this claim by

ascribing the contradictions and absurdities of our reasoning in this latter

case to the fact that ‘The essence and composition of external bodies are so

obscure’; while ‘as the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known’ we may

hope to stay clear of contradiction in their case (T, 2.2.6.2). In the Appendix,

however, Hume is forced to abandon this point of contrast between the intel-

lectual and natural world (App. 10). Now, the contradictions in our reasoning

about the natural world to which Hume had referred earlier are associated

with the distinction drawn in the ‘modern philosophy’ (for example, by Locke)

between the secondary and primary qualities. Causal reasoning leads to the

conclusion that qualities like colour, sound and taste have no continued or

independent existence; yet, since this would also prevent qualities like motion,

extension and solidity from having such an existence, the result is that instead

of explaining external objects ‘we utterly annihilate’ them (T, 1.4.4.6, 15). It is

in this respect that our reasoning involves us in contradiction. The parallel

which Hume appears to find in the Appendix is that we cannot both subscribe

to the distinctness and real connexion principles and yet also account for our

belief in the simplicity and, especially, identity of the mind. There is the dif-

ference that we do not thereby annihilate the mind; but our position might be

described as contradictory to the extent that we find ourselves committed to

principles which prevent us from providing the kind of explanation which is

the very purpose of the science of man.

There is obviously a great deal more that might be said about this, but I will

confine myself to just a few concluding observations. The problem, I have sug-

gested, consists essentially in the fact that while the idea of personal identity

is supposed to arise from relations of causation among our perceptions, the

discontinuities between the perceptions experienced by the mind at different

times would undermine the process of association to which Hume refers. Now

if, per impossibile, we were able to see into the breast of another and observe

the succession of perceptions which is supposed to constitute his mind, then

we might become aware of such discontinuities. But surely – it might be

objected – the person himself cannot be aware of them in the same way: he

cannot, for example, be conscious of not experiencing perceptions while sound


74

asleep, or he would, after all, be having perceptions at such times! In this

respect, the case of mind appears to differ crucially from that of body. For I

cannot fail to be aware in the latter case of the fact that my perceptions are

broken and interrupted, even if their constancy and coherence leads to the fic-

tion of identity. But it would seem that I do not – indeed, cannot – recognise

in the same way interruptions in the succession of perceptions which goes to

make up my mind.18 It seems open to Hume to claim, however, that apart from

changes in my environment and/or bodily state from which I might infer the

existence of a gap in consciousness, it is also possible for me to form the idea

of a time-interval during which no perceptions occurred by remembering the

perceptions of which I was last conscious and recognising their discontinuity

with those of which I am now aware. I might not have experienced the gap asa gap, but it seems that I might nevertheless come to recognise its existence in

these different kinds of way.

The kind of problem to which I have referred may point to a deeper diffi-

culty with Hume’s conception of what it is to be conscious of the successive

perceptions to which an identity is ascribed. For Hume, as we have seen, this

is a matter of having various ideas of memory which represent the ‘train of

past perceptions’ that compose the mind (App. 20; cf. Abs. 28). Now this way

of describing what is involved reflects the assumption that experience is made

up of discrete and unconnected items (‘perceptions’), so that Hume’s task is

then to identify relations among these items which would account for our

tendency to regard them as simple and identical. Perhaps, however, we should

question the assumption itself – and, therefore, Hume’s conception of the

problem involved in ascribing a simplicity and identity to the mind. I have in

mind here the well-known claim of William James that, contrary to Hume’s

view of thought as being composed of separate independent parts, it is, rather,

a ‘sensibly continuous stream’ (1980, vol. I, 237–9). As James himself says, the

metaphor of a stream or river seems a much more natural way of capturing

the nature of our ordinary conscious experience than that of a ‘chain’ or

‘train’. Consciousness flows. Of course, Hume takes himself to have shown

why we should mistakenly think of conscious experience in this kind of way;

but in view of the mental contortions to which this commits us, and the con-

sequent strains in Hume’s explanation of what is involved, we might find it

preferable to reject the atomistic view of experience to which Hume is com-

mitted. This, however, would be to reject the whole framework within which

his account of human nature in the Treatise is developed.

Postscript

Earlier in the chapter I referred to Penelhum’s view (2000: 116) that the prob-

lem to which Hume is referring in the Appendix is that of explaining how we

are able to hold in consciousness the perceptions to which we ascribe a syn-

chronic unity or identity. He credits this interpretation of Hume’s problem to

75


Donald Ainslie (2001), whose paper on this topic was published after this

chapter had been written. Since Ainslie’s paper provides an interpretation

which is at odds with my own approach to the Appendix (as well as with my

account of T, 1.4.6 in Chapter 1), and since it would not, in any case, have

been possible to do justice to it within the above survey of interpretations of

the Appendix, I should like here to take up some of the important issues

raised by this paper.

I will begin by providing a brief summary of Ainslie’s position. According

to Ainslie, Hume’s project in T, 1.4.6 is to explain a belief – i.e. in the sim-

plicity and identity of the mind as a bundle of perceptions – that arises

primarily within a philosophical context (2001: 558). It is philosophical

observation of the mind that leads to the problem with which Hume is con-

cerned in the Appendix. Such observation involves the occurrence of

reflective ideas of the perceptions of the mind: ideas which are so associated

that philosophers ascribe a simplicity and identity to their perceptions. Now

a crucial claim of Ainslie’s is that Hume’s discussion of this ‘abstruse’ belief

in the identity of the mind occurs at a level once removed from his discussion

in T, 1.4.2 of our ordinary ascriptions of identity to external objects (564).

In the latter case we are concerned with beliefs about objects like trees which

involve associations of the corresponding perceptions of observers. But in

the former case it is a matter of ideas of perceptions themselves being asso-

ciated together because of the causal and resemblance relations among the

‘primary’ perceptions. It is, then, associations among these ‘secondary’ ideas

which account for the philosophical belief in the identity and simplicity of

the mind (566).

Now this provides Ainslie with his account of Hume’s problem in the

Appendix. On the one hand, Hume’s explanation of this philosophical belief

invokes mental items – secondary ideas – which are also taken to be part of the

mind; on the other, Hume is unable to account for the belief in the unity of

these ideas with the rest of the mind (and, hence, belief in the simplicity of the

mind). The reason Hume is unable to account for this latter belief is because

this would depend on the secondary ideas being observed so that ideas of

them might be associated in certain ways, while no such ‘tertiary’ ideas are

available to make possible the associative integration of the secondary ideas

into the rest of what is taken to be a simple and identical mind (569). Even if

Hume could avail himself of tertiary ideas this still would not explain how we

could get all of our perceptions into the mind at once, and thus arrive at belief

in its unity or simplicity at a time. As Hume indicates in the Appendix, his

problem with belief in personal identity would be avoided if, for example, the

various perceptions which belong to the mind at a time were united by some

‘real connexion’, for belief in this unity would not then depend upon an asso-

ciation of their secondary ideas (571).

It will, I think, be recognised that Ainslie’s interpretation is both original

and also rather plausible given that one accepts the crucial claim that the


76

beliefs for which Hume is trying to account in T, 1.4.6 are the product of

philosophical reflection and, in this respect, to be contrasted with the belief

in the identity of external objects with which Hume is concerned in T, 1.4.2.

Contrary to this claim I suggested in Chapter 1 (Section II) that the discus-

sion of T, 1.4.6 might usefully be compared with that of T, 1.4.2: in

particular, in respect of the distinction between philosophers and the vulgar.

In the context of T, 1.4.2 this has to do with the fact that while philosophers

distinguish between external objects and the sense-perceptions of which we

are immediately aware, the vulgar do not recognise this distinction. Hence,

their belief in the existence of objects which possess a distinct and continued

existence has to be explained by reference to relations among the perceptions

of which they are aware even though they do not construe the immediate

objects of sensory awareness in this way. (We should of course remember

that philosophers themselves may be included among the vulgar when they

are not engaged in philosophical reflection.) Now it seems to me that while

Hume does not invoke the distinction between philosophers and the vulgar

in the context of his discussion of belief in personal identity, he nevertheless

intends a similar kind of distinction to apply. As I suggested earlier, the

result is that we may distinguish between the vulgar belief in the self as

‘something unknown and mysterious’ (T, 1.4.6.6) which so relates the per-

ceptions of the mind that they are both simple and identical, and the

philosophical belief in the self as a soul or substance which provides the uni-

fying principle among our perceptions and so appears to reconcile belief in

their simplicity and identity with the variations and interruptions among the

perceptions themselves.

How, then, is one to respond to Ainslie’s point that belief in the simplicity

and identity of the mind as a bundle of perceptions is an abstruse one which

cannot be credited to the vulgar who rarely if ever engage in the kind of

mental observation which would lead them to think of their perceptions?

Once again it would help to remind ourselves of what is going on in T, 1.4.2.

The belief with which Hume is concerned there belongs to the vulgar who

‘confound perceptions and objects’ (T, 1.4.2.14). This way of characterising

the position of the vulgar reflects the philosophical view – one apparently

endorsed by Hume himself (T, 1.4.2.21; EHU, 12.9) – that what we perceive

immediately are perceptions. Thus, belief in the existence of external objects is

supposed to arise from relations among perceptions which result in associa-

tions amongst the corresponding ideas. It is impressions as ‘internal and

perishing existences’ to which we – i.e. all of us, at least in our non-philo-

sophical moments – attribute a distinct and continued existence (T, 1.4.2.15,

20). The ‘ideas of these interrupted perceptions’ are connected together by ‘the

strongest relation’, such as resemblance; and it is the passage of the imagina-

tion along the ideas of the resembling perceptions that makes us ascribe a

perfect identity to them (T, 1.4.2.35–6). Note the parallel with what is said

about belief in the identity of the mind or self in T, 1.4.6: just as in that case,

77


explanation of the belief in question makes reference to an association among

ideas corresponding to certain perceptions. (This point is obscured in Ainslie’s

discussion by the suggestion that the ideas involved in explaining belief in the

identity of external objects are ideas of familiar objects like trees – 2001: 564.

But, of course, it is the belief that there are indeed such things as trees, i.e.

objects which, unlike perceptions themselves, enjoy a distinct and continued

existence, for which Hume is trying to account in T, 1.4.2; although Hume

himself is not always consistent on this point, the belief can be explained only

by reference to an association of ideas the objects of which are interrupted but

resembling perceptions – T, 1.4.2.43.)

Given the above account of the vulgar belief in the identity of external

objects, Hume might appear to have left himself open to the objection that

what they are required to believe, i.e. that identity is to be ascribed to their

resembling perceptions, is something sufficiently abstruse that it could be

credited only to philosophers who conceive of the objects of sense in that

way. The fact, however, that the belief of the vulgar in a continued existence

depends upon associative relations among their interrupted sense-percep-

tions does not assume that they think of the immediate objects of perception

in accordance with this way of characterising them. When they are said to

suppose that these immediate objects possess a distinct continued existence

this is to be regarded as a de re attribution of belief. In other words, the truth

of the attribution does not depend on the way to which the objects in ques-

tion are referred (as Hume perhaps means to indicate when he refers to ‘a

single existence, which I shall call indifferently object or perception . . . under-

standing by both of them what any common man means by a hat, or shoe, or

stone, or any other impression, convey’d to him by his senses’ – 1.4.2.31; final

emphasis mine). This is to be contrasted with the account of the immediate

objects of perception provided by the philosophical system, which involves dedicto attributions of belief concerning the nature of these objects (i.e. where

the character of these objects as broken and interrupted perceptions is explic-

itly acknowledged). We may distinguish in a similar way between vulgar and

philosophical beliefs about the mind. In each case they derive from relations

among the ideas of the perceptions involved, but only in the philosophical

case are the objects of these ideas thought of in such terms. We might put this

in another way by saying that the vulgar belief in a simple and identical mind

or self is generated by relations among their perceptions, in so far as this

results in associations among the corresponding ideas, even though we may

agree that the vulgar are not given to reflection upon their minds considered

as bundles of perceptions. (They are not, in general, given to reflection on the

nature of the immediate objects of perception, and whatever views they hold

about the nature of perception and its objects these views are not the product

of reasoning – T, 1.4.2.14. Nevertheless, the vulgar belief in a continued exis-

tence depends on relations among sense-impressions as the immediate objects

of perception.)


78

Contrary to Ainslie, then, I am claiming that Hume’s discussion in T, 1.4.6

may be understood on analogy with that of T, 1.4.2. In each case Hume is

dealing with a belief which may be credited to the vulgar as well as to philoso-

phers; and in each case the belief is to be explained on the basis of relations

among our perceptions, either our sense-impressions in particular or more

generally the perceptions which constitute the mind or self. We might note,

too, that in each case the outcome is a kind of fiction of the imagination. The

‘fiction of a continu’d existence’ results from the attempt to reconcile the

ascription of an identity to our sense-impressions with their interrupted

appearance (T, 1.4.2.36); and the fiction of an identical mind or self results

from the attempt to reconcile the ascription of a ‘perfect identity’ to the per-

ceptions which make up our minds with their variable and interrupted

character (T, 1.4.6.6). How, then, does this bear on Ainslie’s claim that Hume’s

problem in the Appendix has to do with the simplicity (or synchronic identity)

of the mind? I have already given reasons earlier in this chapter for supposing

that Hume is in fact concerned in the Appendix with the problem of

diachronic identity as a relation ascribed to our successive perceptions. This is

not to deny, of course, that there may also be a problem with accounting for

belief in the mind’s simplicity; and from a philosophical perspective the rela-

tion of ‘secondary’ ideas to the rest of our perceptions may indeed prevent us

from regarding the mind as simple and unified. But whatever problems the

philosopher finds with belief in the mind’s simplicity, he will slip back into this

belief as soon as he abandons his refined reflections to engage in the common

affairs of life (T, 1.4.7.7–10 describes this sort of tendency). In this respect,

belief in a simple and identical self should be no more problematic, from

Hume’s point of view, than any other natural belief which fails to stand up to

philosophical scrutiny. The problem with which he is concerned in the

Appendix cannot, therefore, concern the philosophical perspective on beliefs

about the simplicity or identity of the self.

In so far as Hume is concerned in the Appendix with a vulgar belief about

the identity and simplicity of the mind there is no reason why the difficulty

identified by Ainslie should arise. Hume’s view appears to be that at any given

moment we have an intimate consciousness of ourselves in the form of a com-

plex idea or even impression (T, 2.1.11.4, 2.1.2.2, 2.2.2.15). What is required for

the simplicity belief is that the objects of this idea – the perceptions of the mind

of which we are thereby conscious – should be so related that their effect on the

imagination is the same as that of something which is simple and indivisible (T,

1.4.2.22). Given that the relevant relations obtain, we come by the belief in the

simplicity of the mind in much the same kind of way as we come to believe that

body is something simple in spite of the fact that it consists in a kind of col-

lection of sensible qualities (T, 1.4.3.2, 5). Of course, if the vulgar were to

become concerned with the issue of how the reflective idea of consciousness is

to be regarded together with the corresponding perceptions as part of the same

simple mind or self, then they would run into the difficulty to which Ainslie

79


refers. But we might readily agree with Ainslie himself that this is the kind of

issue that would arise only for a philosopher concerned from his non-vulgar

perspective with the simplicity of the mind or self. 19 If, then, Hume’s problem

in the Appendix concerns a belief which belongs to the vulgar or non-philo-

sophical consciousness, as I have argued, he cannot be concerned there with the

specific need to explain how ideas of the mind’s perceptions are themselves to

be regarded as part of that same simple mind or self.

At this point we leave what I have referred to as the mental aspect of Hume’s

account of the self where the focus has been on the mind itself (and its relation

to body). I turn next to the ‘agency’ aspect of what Hume has to say about the

self where we are concerned, amongst other things, with the principles of mind

which are revealed in those actions for which we are morally responsible. These

principles are referred to collectively, by Hume, under the heading of ‘charac-

ter’, and this provides the central topic of the next chapter.


80

Part II

THE AGENCY ASPECT OF

PERSONAL IDENTITY

5

HUME ON CHARACTER AND

THE SELF

The concept of character provides a connecting link between the mental and

the agency aspects of the self (‘personal identity, as it regards our thought or

imagination, and as it regards our passions or the concern we take in our-

selves’ – T, 1.4.6.5). Character has to do with our possession of certain kinds

of mental quality for which a place must be found in the account of the mind

or self provided in T, 1.4.6; but it also has a crucial part to play both in the

explanations we provide of people’s actions and also our evaluations of those

actions. What Hume has to say about character bears directly upon issues with

which we are concerned in Chapters 6–8: the relation between human and

animal nature; the nature of agency; and our knowledge or awareness of the

mental states of others. The notion of character is also central to Hume’s

position on the familiar philosophical problem of freedom (‘liberty’) and

determinism (‘necessity’) as well as to his account of virtue and vice. It will

therefore be important to show that his account of this concept is consistent

with what he has said about the mental aspect of personal identity: the topic

of my discussion in the previous four chapters. I shall also be concerned with

the implications of Hume’s account of character, and the related conception

of persons as narrative existences, for his position on moral responsibility.

Since, however, Hume fails to provide a systematic account of the concept of

character, in spite of its importance for his philosophical position generally, I

shall have to review the scattered remarks that Hume does make about char-

acter in order to see what sort of account he wishes to provide of this notion.1

I

CHARACTER AND PERSONAL IDENTITY

Before considering what Hume has to say about character, I should note that

this topic has a direct bearing on Hume’s discussion of personal identity. As

we have seen, Hume suggests that we ascribe an identity to ourselves – or,

more specifically, to our minds – as a result of the effects on the imagination

83

THE AGENCY ASPECT OF PERSONAL IDENTITY

84

of certain kinds of relation among our perceptions. Given that these percep-

tions are incapable of a ‘strict’ identity, the identity we ascribe to ourselves as

well as to other things is of an ‘imperfect’ kind (T, 1.4.6.9). In considering the

circumstances under which we are prepared to ascribe this allegedly imperfect

kind of identity to ourselves as persons, we find, according to Hume, that we

regard someone as being still the same person even when he has undergone a

significant change of character (T, 1.4.6.19). Analogously, we allow for the

possibility that the same republic may change its laws and constitutions as well

as its members. Personal identity may thus survive a change in the habits and

dispositions of the mind as well as – inevitably – in the individual perceptions

which go to make up the mind itself. Now Hume’s position on this point

might appear puzzling. On the account of the mind as a substance we can

understand how it would remain the same in spite of changes in its properties

for this is part of what is meant by the notion of substance itself. But if we dis-

pense with this notion in favour of the kind of bundle or system view of the

mind advocated by Hume, there is an obvious question as to what could be

meant by saying that the mind, so understood, remains the same when there

are changes both in its constituents and also in its various dispositions and

traits. The answer appears to lie with the point that whatever changes of these

different kinds the mind or self undergoes, its different parts ‘are still con-

nected by the relation of causation’ (T, 1.4.6.19). There is, in other words, a

certain kind of continuity that belongs to a person’s mind in virtue of which we

regard that person as remaining the same, but not one that requires either that

the person should have a continuing consciousness, in the form of memory, of

each of his past perceptions or actions, or that he should retain the same sorts

of mental disposition. (Nor, of course, does it require that the mind itself

should be some kind of substance.) Hume indicates what he has in mind when

he goes on to say that ‘in this view our identity with regard to our passions

serves to corroborate that with regard to the imagination’: for example, ‘by

giving us a present concern for our past or future pains or pleasures’. When I

recall my past experiences they are still able to affect me by producing ‘new

impressions of desire and aversion, hope and fear’ (T, 1.1.2.1), and when, for

example, I anticipate some especially painful event – even as a mere possibil-

ity – it is liable to produce fear (T, 2.3.9.22). Thus, there are various kinds of

causal connection among the perceptions that make up my mind at different

times and it is the existence of these connections that leads us to ascribe an

identity to that mind. The existence of such connections does not require that

I should continue to possess whatever traits or dispositions are distinctive of

me as a person and, to this extent, my identity is independent of continuity of

character.

The contrast drawn by Hume between a person’s identity and their char-

acter might be considered problematic for another reason. It is sometimes

said that each of us has a sense of our own identity as a person: an identity

which is dependent on retaining certain sorts of trait or disposition. What

85

HUME ON CHARACTER AND THE SELF

makes me me, as I might perhaps say, is not just what I am able to remember,

or what experiences in the future I am able to anticipate; it is also the fact that

I am a certain sort of person, with traits which, for better or worse, I recog-

nise as being manifested in my behaviour at different times and in different

sorts of context. From this perspective I may find it difficult to imagine what

it is like to be a different sort of person, one whose propensities are evidently

very different from my own – and, even more so, to imagine what it would be

like for me to be that kind of person. Any change of this kind would evidently

bear on one’s sense of oneself as a certain kind of person. Thus, there does

appear to be a sense in which a person’s identity is bound up with the kinds

of values and projects associated with his possession of a certain sort of

character.2 It seems clear, nevertheless, that there is a distinction to be drawn

between identity in this sense – i.e. where it has to do with remaining the same

sort of person over time – and personal identity in the sense with which

Hume is concerned in T, 1.4.6. Thus, I find it hard to relate now to the child

I once was because I have little sense of what it was like to be that child; but

to the extent that I am able to remember various things about my childhood

and, indeed, still to be affected by them I may not think that I am really a dif-

ferent person from that child. It seems, therefore, that we should distinguish

between the identity I may ascribe to myself as a person over time notwith-

standing the many changes I undergo; and, on the other hand, my sense of

what makes me the person I am which arises from reflecting on the various

traits which go to make up my character at different times.3 It would be

useful to have labels to mark this distinction between the different ways in

which the notion of the identity of a person or self might be understood. I

shall follow Hume by continuing to refer to the former simply as personal

identity; and I shall refer to the latter as ‘character identity’ (bearing in mind

that this too might be thought to constitute a certain kind of personal iden-

tity). Before I look in more detail at what is involved in character identity I

will consider Hume’s account of the notion of character itself.

Hume on character

The issues with which Hume’s account of character is concerned may be dis-

tinguished as follows. First, there is the nature of traits of character, both as

distinguishing features of persons and also as features which belong to persons

collectively. Second, there is the relation of these traits to the perceptions of

the mind as they are categorised by Hume. And third, there is the contribution

of these traits to what might be described as one’s sense of self.

We should begin by noting that the notion of character may be employed in

a more or less inclusive sense; and this, indeed, is reflected in Hume’s own

remarks on the subject.4 As we have seen, reference to a person’s character may

have to do with what sort of person he is. This is reflected in the way that

Hume links the notions of character and reputation: ‘Our reputation, our

character, our name are considerations of vast weight and importance’

(T, 2.1.11.1; cf. EPM, 8.11). A person’s character in this sense is subject to

moral approval or disapproval. For example, ‘Where a person is possess’d of a

character, that in its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him

virtuous’ (T, 3.3.1.19). Hume also has this sense in mind when he provides

appraisals – in the form of what is described as a ‘character’ – of the subjects

of his historical writings. A person’s character, in this inclusive sense, is made

up of various principles or qualities of mind. It is precisely in respect of their

relation to such principles that actions may be appraised as virtuous or vicious

(T, 3.3.1.4). In fact, we are responsible only for those actions which are an

expression of our character (T, 2.3.2.6) and epithets such as ‘criminal’ are

applied to actions only in so far as they reflect certain principles of mind

(T, 2.3.2.7). The word ‘character’ may therefore be understood to refer to the

mental qualities or principles which, collectively, make someone the kind of

person he is and establish him as a moral agent. Hume also employs it, how-

ever, to pick out particular mental qualities – as when he refers, for example,

to ‘the character of eloquence’ (T, 2.1.11.13) and ‘the character for judge-

ment and veracity’ (EHU, 10.25). In these cases he is referring to specific traits

of character and the question naturally arises as to what kinds of mental

quality Hume has in mind here.

There is a close connection, at least, between the qualities which, for Hume,

make up an agent’s character and his categories of virtue and vice. In other

words, these qualities will – in many cases, anyway – consist in traits of which

we approve, in the case of virtue, on account of their agreeableness or utility,

and disapprove, in the case of vice, on account of their contrary tendencies.

Hume includes among these traits what might be described as epistemic virtue

and vice, where the latter, for example, is exemplified by a blundering under-

standing which amounts to an imperfection of character (T, 3.3.1.24).5 What

Hume calls personal merit will also include the ‘companiable virtues’ of good

manners and wit (EPM, 9.18; EPM 8.3, 14), together with eloquence and

sound reasoning (EPM, 8.7). A person’s character will also depend in part on

the degree to which he possesses delicacy of taste and sentiment as the capac-

ities to discern beauty and deformity in objects (EPM, 7.28) and virtue and

vice in other persons (T, 3.1.2.4). As we should expect, there is an important

connection for Hume between character and temperament. A person’s char-

acter will be determined in part by his emotional propensities (EPM, 72n).

These features of temperament provide further respects in which people are

liable to differ from each other (T, 3.2.1.12). One’s character reflects not only

the particular kinds of passion by which one is motivated, but also the way in

which these passions are experienced, with one’s state of happiness dependent

on achieving a mean between violence of passion and indifference (‘The

Sceptic’, Essays 167; cf. EPM, 7.22).6

While there are aspects of character which distinguish one person from

another (what Hume refers to as a ‘personal’ character, ‘peculiar to each


86

individual’ – ‘Of National Characters’, 203), there are also traits of character

which are more or less universal and appear to belong to human nature as

such. They include, for example, curiosity, i.e. the general desire of the mind

for exercise and employment (‘Of Interest’, Essays 300); and avarice, a uni-

versal vicious passion (‘The Rise of Arts and Sciences’, Essays 113) which is

associated with selfishness as a universal human trait (T, 3.2.2.5–6). Hume

also represents ambition, vanity, friendship and generosity as universal pas-

sions (EHU, 8.7). The fact that there are these common features of human

nature is of importance to Hume as historian, as well as philosopher, for

records of human beings in a wide variety of circumstances provide evidence

of ‘the constant and universal principles of human nature . . . the regular

springs of human action and behaviour’ (ibid.). This kind of evidence may be

employed in moral philosophy rather as experiments involving ‘external

objects’ contribute to the discoveries of natural philosophy. It remains true,

however, that people differ from each other in the degree to which they are

influenced by such passions as curiosity, selfishness and generosity. Indeed,

this is an important part of the basis for the distinction between the natural

virtues and vices.

There is, on Hume’s account, a significant social dimension to character. In

addition to those features of character which distinguish a person from others

by making him the kind of person he is, there are other features which may be

common to the group (or groups) to which that person belongs. Thus, there

are national characters: while Hume warns that the vulgar are apt to carry

national characters to extremes (‘Of National Characters’, Essays 197; cf.

T, 1.3.13.7), he evidently believes that certain qualities of character are more

closely associated with some nationalities than with others (T, 2.3.1.10). There

is an important question as to what accounts for the differences in character

between different nationalities (one which bears on further issues to be pur-

sued below). According to Hume these differences are due either to ‘moral’

causes (like the nature of a country’s government, the country’s economic sit-

uation and its relation to its neighbours) or ‘physical’ causes (in particular,

climate). In the former case we are concerned with factors which ‘work on the

mind as motives or reasons’, in the latter case, with factors which ‘are sup-

posed to work insensibly on the temper’. Hume’s own conclusion is that

causes of the former kind predominate: nations which are immediately adja-

cent, for example, may exhibit obvious differences in character

notwithstanding the fact that they share the same climate (‘Of National

Characters’, Essays 202–4; T, 2.1.11.2).7 Consequently, the character of a

nation may change as its government alters, or as it is influenced by the

people of other nations, for example, as a result of conquest (‘Of National

Characters’, Essays 206). Thus, national character, unlike the universal char-

acters to which Hume refers, is mutable.8

There are other kinds of character trait which Hume appears to associate

with persons classified as groups. He sometimes suggests, for example, that

87


differences in character may relate to gender (‘The Rise of Arts and Sciences’,

Essays 133; cf. EHU, 8.11). Leaving aside tendentious claims of this sort (and

similar claims about the characters of different races – ‘Of National

Characters’, 208n), there are also the differences in character associated with

different professions. The philosopher – whose character is described in some

detail in T, 1.4.7 – is someone possessed of a natural inclination to enquire into

the basis of our ordinary beliefs, the governing principles of our actions, and

the distinction between moral good and evil. The sentiments which belong

naturally to his disposition are those of curiosity and an ambition to con-

tribute to the advancement of knowledge. Curiosity is apparently to be

identified with the love of truth (T, 2.3.10). Philosophers are motivated to

pursue truth mainly because of the exercise of understanding which is neces-

sarily involved in this project. Hence the comparison which Hume draws

between the passions of philosophy and hunting: in each case the outcome is

uncertain and pursued with some difficulty, while the activity and its end are

themselves ascribed a certain worth or value (T, 2.3.10.8).

Character and the perceptions of the mind

We have seen that there is a wide variety of features which, on Hume’s account,

fall under the general heading of ‘character’. It is natural to consider how these

features are to be accommodated within Hume’s view of the mind as a bundle

or system of perceptions. There is a particular problem that appears to arise in

this context. Hume refers to character in conjunction with such aspects of per-

sons as their motives, dispositions, mental qualities, and principles of mind. A

distinguishing feature of these principles is their durability as compared with

actions themselves (for example, T, 3.3.1.4). This in part reflects the etymology

of ‘character’, which in its literal sense has to do with the notion of something

being stamped or marked in a certain distinctive way. Figuratively, then, a

person’s character involves relatively permanent features, some of which belong

to human nature generally, and some to the person’s society; but others of which

distinguish that person as being the kind of person he is. Given, however,

Hume’s attempt to provide an exhaustive account of the mind in terms of his

distinction between impressions and ideas, and his treatment of these as differ-

ent kinds of momentary perception, we may wonder how it is possible for

character to involve such relatively permanent qualities of mind.

In terms of Hume’s classification of the perceptions of the mind, traits of

character would in many cases belong to the category of the passions – which,

as we have seen, consist in impressions of reflection, as opposed to the ‘original’

impressions of sensation (T, 2.1.1.1). In fact, some of those features of the mind

to which Hume refers under the heading of ‘character’ are explicitly identified

with passions (McIntyre 1990: 200). This is true of qualities such as vanity

(EHU, 8.7; T, 3.3.2.10), avarice and ambition (EHU, 8.7; EPM, 9.5), and friend-

ship (EHU, 8.7; T, 3.3.3.5; EPM, Appendix 2.4). More generally, Hume classifies


88

certain passions as selfish (EPM, 9.7) in contrast to those which are social and

which include humanity and benevolence (EPM, Appendix 3.2). This suggests

a direct relation between traits of character as involving distinctive kinds of pas-

sion and the virtues and vices. We should note, in this context, the importance

for Hume of the ‘calm’ passions (T, 2.1.1.3, 2.3.3.8). Hume recognises that it is

a ‘natural infirmity’ among human beings to find difficulty in acting according

to their longer-term interests as against those of the present (T, 3.2.7.5; cf. ‘Of

the Origin of Government’, Essays 38). But there is such a thing as strength of

mind, as a general character or disposition, which consists in the prevalence of

the calm passions over the violent (T, 2.3.3.10). In this case, the virtuous trait of

character consists in a certain kind of balance among the passions and desires.9

As I have indicated, virtues are, according to Hume, approved of on account of

their agreeableness or utility. And implicit in the above is a distinction between

the personal virtues, i.e. those which are agreeable or useful to their possessor,

and the social virtues which involve qualities useful or agreeable to others. In

Hume’s own summary, ‘the distinction of virtue and vice arises from the fourprinciples of the advantage and of the pleasure of the person himself, and of

others’ (T, 3.3.2.16). Thus, we see a direct link between traits of character and the

passions, on the one hand, and between the passions and the virtues and vices,

on the other.10

Apart from specific references to qualities of character as passions, it is clear

that Hume is in any case committed to so classifying traits of character in gen-

eral, given that they function as the causes of the actions with which, for

example, our moral appraisals are immediately concerned. For it is a central

feature of Hume’s moral psychology that it is passion, rather than reason, that

acts as a motivating influence on the will (T, 2.3.3). Hume’s commitment to the

causal relation between character and action emerges most clearly from his dis-

cussions of liberty and necessity. It is in this context that Hume argues that we

are responsible for actions only in so far as they proceed from some cause in our

characters (T, 2.3.2.6; EHU, 8.29). Now in so far as traits of character are

themselves passions, this accounts for their causal relation to action. Feelings of

vanity or, say, friendship might well explain why I am acting in certain ways and

they might also provide the objects of emotional responses to those actions.

But, as we have noted, a crucial feature of character traits is their durability as

compared, for example, with the temporary nature of actions themselves. How,

then, can this be reconciled with their (partial, at least) identification with pas-

sions, if the latter consist in the occurrence of certain kinds of perception? For

Hume certainly regards some perceptions – such as, for example, our sense

impressions – as transient and perishing phenomena (T, 1.4.2.15). Perhaps,

though, impressions of reflection differ in this respect from our ‘original’

impressions of sensation. Thus, according to Hume, ‘. . . ’tis not the present

sensation alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the charac-

ter of any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to

the end’ (T, 2.2.9.2). This might be taken to suggest that certain passions, at

89


least, involve perceptions which are comparatively long lasting and resistant to

change (McIntyre 1990: 201). Hume perhaps intends to confirm this by means

of the following analogy:

Now if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that with regard

to the passions, ’tis not of the nature of a wind-instrument of music,

which in running over all the notes immediately loses the sound after

the breath ceases; but rather resembles the string-instrument, where

after each stroke the vibrations still retain some sound, which gradu-

ally and insensibly decays (T, 2.3.9.12).

It is far from clear, however, that Hume intends to suggest in these passages

that the perceptions involved in the passions have genuine duration. In the pas-

sage cited from T, 2.2.9.2, for instance, Hume is drawing a distinction between

indirect passions like pride and humility which are ‘pure sensations’ and those

which are related to action through the presence of desire. Benevolence, for

example, is the desire or ‘appetite’ related to love. In the latter case (T, 2.3.9.12)

Hume is comparing the different responses of the imagination or the under-

standing and of the direct passions to something that is uncertain. His point

appears to be that in these circumstances changes in our passions do not

simply track fluctuating assessments of the probabilities. But in neither case do

we apparently need to suppose that more is involved than a succession of

momentary perceptions. In fact, Hume’s own view of duration (cf. T, 1.2.3.11)

would seem to suggest that this is all that could be involved in these cases; and

presumably something similar would be true of his example of the decaying

sound produced by the string-instrument.11

It seems, then, that character traits as durable features of mind cannot

simply consist in occurrent perceptions as such. Rather, for someone to have

a certain trait of character is for that person to be disposed to experience a dis-

tinctive kind of impression of reflection. In other words, certain kinds of

situation will tend to give rise to certain feelings and, other things being equal,

the person will act accordingly.12 Thus, given that we already know some-

thing about the person’s character on the basis of his past behaviour, we will

acquire expectations about the actions he will perform under certain kinds of

circumstance.13 If character traits essentially involve the presence of certain

dispositions we might speculate as to Hume’s view of the basis of such dispo-

sitions. Hume himself writes that ‘an intention shows certain qualities, which

remaining after the action is perform’d, connect it with the person’ (T, 2.2.3.4).

In what sense, then, may someone’s generosity be said to remain after a gen-

erous action has been performed? We saw in Chapter 3 that Hume is

committed to the view that mental states in general are causally dependent

upon states of the brain. One possibility, therefore, is that our mental disposi-

tions have a categorical basis in the form of neurophysiological states (Bricke

1974: 109). In any event, the crucial point is that Hume should not be


90

interpreted as offering a reductionist account of character traits as consisting,

for example, in certain kinds of behavioural disposition.14 On the contrary, his

view of such traits is a realist one (Bricke 1974: 109; McIntyre 1990: 199–200;

Baier 1991: 194), as, indeed, is indicated by their causal relation to action.

They are mental causes in the form of recurrent perceptions which belong to

the bundles or systems of perceptions in which our minds consist, and they

play a crucial role in providing continuities among these perceptions which

contribute to the sense of self which most of us have. This aspect of charac-

ter in relation to the self is clearly of importance for Hume’s position generally,

and I shall say more about this in a moment.

It is evident from the above that traits of character, on Hume’s account, rep-

resent what might be described as the ‘public’ aspects of a person.15 In general,

a person’s character reflects the fact that he is a social being: even those qual-

ities of character that belong to the mind rather than the body would not, at

least for the most part, exist independently of a person’s relations with others,

relations which depend on a mutual awareness of the bodily behaviour that

persons or selves display. It is because of the external resemblances that this

behaviour provides that it is possible for the minds of men to be ‘mirrors to

one another’ (T, 2.2.5.21), and for qualities or principles of mind therefore to

reflect our essentially social nature. This is true, we should note, of the per-

sonal as well as the social virtues. Thus, the former include qualities – such as

temperance, frugality and industry – which fit a person for business or action

in the social sphere (T, 3.3.4.7), and of which we therefore approve on account

of their utility; while natural abilities, according to Hume, are valued for the

same sort of reason (T, 3.3.1.24, 3.3.4.5). Even the ‘intellectual’ virtues of

prudence and discretion have a considerable influence on conduct (EPM,

Appendix 4.2),16 and qualities such as good sense and judgement relate to the

figure which a person makes in life (EPM, Appendix 4.5). While there are

traits which seem to be valued chiefly as being agreeable to their possessor –

like, for example, good humour – the possession of such traits is part of what

it is for someone to be a good person, to be the sort of person who makes a

welcome companion (T, 3.3.4.8). Few, if any, of the traits which, on Hume’s

account, go to make up a person’s character are therefore independent of that

person’s place in society and his influence on others. In this sense, character

has to do with the public dimension of a person or self as an agent, in contrast

to the essentially private dimension reflected in the mental aspect of personal

identity which depends on relations among the person’s perceptions.

Character and the self

I have indicated above that character contributes a certain kind of continuity to

the bundles or systems of perceptions in which selves consist. Character is cen-

tral to our sense of self – of our remaining the same sort of self or person over

time and so, in this sense, retaining an identity. (Hence the label ‘character

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identity’ as a way of referring to our identity as persons in this sense.) Thus,

while in T, 1.4.6 persons are represented as bundles or collections of percep-

tions, Hume’s subsequent account of character suggests that these bundles or

collections do, after all, possess a certain kind of structure. It may be true that

the traits which go to make up a person’s character are not presumed to be

strictly unified (Rorty 1976: 305); but it is still possible for a person’s character

to have a certain kind of unity.17 This consists in the fact that the various traits

will typically group or cluster to make a distinctive sort of character. Hume

himself makes the point in a number of ways. The notion of personal merit, for

example, is said to refer to a ‘complication of mental qualities’ (EPM, 1.10) –

an estimable character will consist in various qualities belonging to the differ-

ent categories mentioned above, each of which makes the person an object of

affection and esteem. But it is not simply that such qualities happen to occur

together in this kind of way. Hume indicates that a man of taste is typically also

an honest man – this because a ‘serious attention’ to the arts and sciences ‘soft-

ens and humanizes the temper’, thereby augmenting the emotions associated

with virtue and honour (‘The Sceptic’, Essays 170). Delicacy of imagination

and taste are also observed by Hume to depend on good sense (‘Of the

Standard of Taste’, Essays 240; cf. ‘Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion’,

Essays 6). When we talk of someone’s character we are then generally referring

to a cluster of interdependent traits belonging to the various categories identi-

fied earlier, and this enables us to identify someone as representing a certain

sort of character.18 Apart from the way in which traits of character tend to clus-

ter, certain traits may have a particular bearing on what makes someone the

kind of person he is. This is reflected in Hume’s observation that nothing goes

further to fix a character as amiable or odious than the possession of the arti-

ficial virtue of justice, on the one hand, or the artificial vice of injustice on the

other (T, 3.3.1.9). Hume also observes that ‘Almost everyone has a predominant

inclination, to which his other affections and desires submit, and which governs

him, though, perhaps, with some intervals, through the whole course of his life’

(‘The Sceptic’, Essays 160).19

II

PERSONS AS NARRATIVE EXISTENCES

The kind of unity that character gives to the self might be described by saying

that, on Hume’s account, persons or selves emerge as narrative existences.

Hume discusses the notion of narrative in EHU, 3.20 He is concerned here

with the fact that the principles of association (referred to in both T, 1.4.1 and

EHU, 3.1–3) by which our different ideas are connected together also have a

role to play in such different kinds of literary composition as histories, biogra-

phies and fictions (in the form of poetic epics or tragedies). While Hume does


92

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not claim that discussion of the connecting principles employed in these dif-

ferent kinds of narrative may shed light on the nature of the mind or self, he

nevertheless appears to provide the basis for pursuing this claim on his behalf.

In each case we are dealing with items (‘perceptions’ or events and actions)

which are related in the imagination in accordance with the principles of asso-

ciation, and in each case the principal ‘species of connexion’ is provided by the

relation of cause and effect (EHU, 3.9; T, 1.1.4.4, 1.4.6.19). Literary narratives

may employ different techniques in order to engage our passions but the rules

of composition which apply to them reflect the same principles of association

which underlie the connections among the perceptions which make up the

mind itself. Indeed, Hume makes quite explicit the parallel between intentional

human action, on the one hand, and the production of literary compositions

on the other (EHU, 3.4–5). Thus, just as we generally act in accordance with

some purpose or intention, so also in narrative compositions there is more

than merely the recital of facts for there is some plan or object by which the

author is guided. The events or actions described are bound by some tie or con-

nection: in this way they are related in the imagination and form a kind of

unity.21 This enables Hume to account for the notion of unity of action: the his-

torian or biographer connects the events of the life of his subject by showing

their mutual dependence, as also does a poet for whom the subject is the hero

of his narration. In the case of epic poetry, in particular, the connection of

events not only facilitates the passage of the thought or imagination from the

one to another, but also the ‘transfusion of the passions’. Thus, there are types

of narrative composition which reveal the remarkable ‘sympathy between the

passions and imagination’ which is a feature of our mental operations generally

depending as they do on the principles of association (EHU, 3.18).

The notion of the self as a kind of narrative existence or entity – one which

does not merely undergo certain changes, but alters in a way which reflects the

causal interdependence of different aspects of the self and their relation to its

aims and intentions – has obvious implications for our understanding of what

is involved in self-awareness. A person will stand in something like the same rela-

tion to his own life as does a biographer to his subject, a poet to the hero of his

composition, or even a historian to the events with which he is concerned.22 This

is not merely a matter of a person being aware of certain perceptions, or of the

relations among those perceptions, but also – and more importantly – of recog-

nising those qualities or dispositions which provide the dominant motives to his

actions. He does so by occupying a certain temporal point of view made possi-

ble by memory, which contributes towards the connections among his

perceptions if not, strictly speaking, to the various qualities or dispositions

which make up his character. This self-survey is a process which reflects the

essentially social nature of character for, as we shall see, we recognise these fea-

tures of our own character in relation to the way they appear to others.

There is at least one significant difference between a person’s awareness of

himself and, for example, the biographer’s relation to his subject. The unity of

action associated with a biographical or historical narrative – or, indeed, an

epic poem – is due to the fact that a narrative of this kind deals with past

events. It is possible from this perspective to observe a strict canon of narra-

tive unity in which every event is viewed in the light of every other event

(Livingston 1984: 134). As Hume himself puts it:

Not only in any limited portion of life a man’s actions have a depen-

dence on each other, but also during the whole period of his duration

from the cradle to the grave; nor is it possible to strike off one link,

however minute, in this regular chain without affecting the whole

series of events which follow (EHU, 3.10).

Any review of one’s own self, however, is affected by the natural progression of

the thought or imagination from present events to those which lie in the future.

Events equally distant from us in the past and in the future affect the imagi-

nation differently, simply because ‘we conceive the future as flowing every

moment nearer us, and the past as retiring’; the imagination ‘anticipates the

course of things’ (T, 2.3.7.9). We have a natural concern for what is thus antic-

ipated to the extent that these future events will be a source either of pleasure

or of pain. There is, in other words, an important difference between the life

of a person or self taken as a whole and a person’s relation to the past and pre-

sent events of his own life, together with the future events he anticipates.

Given especially that his character may change, and might in fact be expected

to do so with age,23 the person himself will not regard his future as something

fixed although a subsequent biographer may be able to observe the links which

connect the different parts of the person’s life and make a regular chain of

them. The point is neatly summarised in one of Kierkegaard’s journal entries:

It is perfectly true, as philosophers say, that life must be understood

backwards. But they forget the other proposition, that it must be

lived forwards (Wollheim 1984: 1).

We should recall that this narrative conception of the self is related to a par-

ticular sense of the notion of personal identity, namely, that which concerns

the kind of person one is and the extent to which one remains the same in this

respect from one time to another (or, in other words, one’s character identity).

A person’s identity, thus understood, is constituted by the way in which he

conceives of the events which make up his life. The model for understanding

this process is provided by the historical, biographical or even fictional narra-

tive.24 In each case, individual events or episodes take their meaning from

their place in the overall history or narrative. Thus, the various things that

happen to a person are experienced not as isolated events but, rather, as part

of a continuing story which gives these events a particular significance. This is

not to say, of course, that the story is one that the person is expected to spell


94

out either for himself or for others, but we would expect him in general to be

capable of accounting for his thoughts, feelings and actions by relating them

to his likes and dislikes, intentions or goals, as someone possessed of a certain

kind of character (Schechtman 1996: 114). We have to allow here for the pos-

sibility of feelings or actions which are simply inexplicable for the agent and

also for the kinds of rationalisation in which we often engage in trying to make

sense of our thoughts or deeds. But a person’s identity, in the sense of this

notion with which we are presently concerned, does seem to depend upon the

capacity to construct a kind of self-narrative and one which bears some rela-

tion to the person’s circumstances. As we shall see, Hume is able to provide for

this latter point.

Narrative order appears to belong to the moral rather than to the naturalworld (Livingston 1984: 137). There is a parallel here to the point that while

the relations belonging to the perceptions which make up the mind – i.e.

resemblance and causation – are philosophical relations, it is only in so far as

they are also natural relations, producing associations among ideas, that they

give rise to the idea of a unified and identical self. It requires the temporal per-

spective of the historian or biographer to give a narrative order to the events

with which he is concerned by seeing them as having a certain significance in

relation to each other, so that their mutual dependence provides a strict unity

of action. If the moral world is the natural world viewed from this kind of per-

spective, we might say similarly that the person or self is a moral entity whose

experiences are viewed from the perspective of the passions and values asso-

ciated with a certain sort of character. This has a particular bearing upon

those passions – pride and humility – which have the self as their object. We

would expect that in so far as the passions of pride and humility are directed

to the self – ‘that succession of related ideas and impressions, of which we

have an intimate memory and consciousness’ (T, 2.1.2.2) – their causes will

include those particular aspects of the self that relate to its character. In fact,

‘. . . the good and bad qualities of our actions and manners constitute

virtue and vice, and determine our personal character, than which

nothing operates more strongly on these passions [sc. pride and

humility]’ (T, 2.1.5.2).

Pride and humility essentially involve a judgement of one’s own character, a

judgement which will reflect the sentiments of others. What is at stake here is

one’s name or reputation, which becomes as great a source of pride and humil-

ity as the ‘original causes’ of these passions (T, 2.1.11.1). Hume indicates that in

our pursuit of a reputation we survey ourselves ‘in reflection’ by considering

how our conduct appears to others (EPM, 9.10), and that others are unlikely to

have any esteem for us unless we have some sense of our own value (EPM,

7.10n).25 Even the original causes of pride and humility have little influence

unless they are endorsed by the beliefs and sentiments of others. This, again, is

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a reflection of the fact that character presupposes a social context. If, for exam-

ple, someone else praises me for some quality (which would be a source of pride

for him, supposing that he were possessed of it), it will be natural for me to

accept this opinion partly because of my sympathetic awareness of the other

person’s sentiments. This has a particular importance for judgements of our own

worth and character as reflected in our passions of pride and humility

(T, 2.1.11.9). Of course, the approval of the other person will weigh more with

me if he is himself someone of whom I approve, and also if his opinion happens

to agree with my own. As we have seen, his opinion will carry weight at all only

if I at least believe that I possess the quality ascribed to me, however much I

might value that quality in the abstract. The kind of self-survey associated with

pride and humility is intimately linked with a person’s sense of his own identity,

of the kind of person he takes himself to be, as the causes of his pride are

themselves particularly connected with those aspects of the person which belong

to his character (Davie 1985: 343).

It is, then, persons as moral agents who may be described as narrative exis-

tences. In fact, one is reminded here of Locke’s distinction between the concepts

of man and person (Essay II xxvii 7). At one point Hume himself employs the

concept man in something like the way suggested by Locke, as referring to a

living body whose identity is determined in the same kind of way as that of veg-

etables and animals (T, 1.4.6.12). The notion of the person or self as a narrative

existence evidently has to do with our mental rather than physical life. But it

matters what kind of mental life we enjoy. There is a relevant difference in this

respect between normal human adults and young children (Schechtman 1996:

146), and also between ourselves and non-human animals who, on Hume’s

account, share many of our mental capacities but appear to lack just those fea-

tures associated with moral character (T, 2.1.12.5). Thus, Hume indicates that

the self which, in animals, is the object of the passions of pride and humility is

really a bodily one, and that it does not possess the features which belong to

persons as narrative existences and go to make them moral agents by forming

a central part of their character.26

III

CHARACTER AND RESPONSIBILITY

It appears that it is not enough in order to enjoy a narrative existence and

qualify as a moral agent that a being should possess a mind consisting in a

bundle of perceptions. It is crucial that among those perceptions should be ones

which constitute traits of character and which reflect the agency aspect of the

self. As I have noted, Hume claims that responsibility and the associated insti-

tutions of reward and punishment require that actions should proceed from

features of the person’s character, i.e. ones which are ‘durable or constant’


96

(T, 2.3.2.6). There is also a crucial relationship between character identity and

criminal responsibility. Thus, Hume writes that ‘repentance wipes off every

crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of life and manners’

(T, 2.3.2.7; cf. T, 2.2.3.4). It is worth noting, incidentally, that the correspond-

ing passage from the discussion of liberty and necessity in the first Enquiry issubtly different, namely, ‘repentance wipes off every crime, if attended with a

reformation of life and manners’ (EHU, 8.30). The latter suggests that repen-

tance excuses only if it involves reformation.27 For our present purposes the

relevant point is that, for Hume, responsibility for one’s past actions appears to

depend on how far one’s character might have changed in the meantime, with

the presumption being that there is another sense in which one is still the same

person as the one who performed these actions.

My principal concern is what Hume has to say about the relationship between

character and responsibility for action. There is also an issue about the extent to

which a person is responsible for his character (though for Hume this has no

direct bearing on the question of how far he is responsible for actions arising

from it). So far as the issue of responsibility for character is concerned, I note the

following points. First, it seems clear that Hume does not suppose that we orig-

inally choose our character: hence his reference to the moulding effects on

character of custom and education (EHU, 8.11). But, second, it does not follow

that we entirely lack the capacity to change our character in any respect. While

Hume goes so far as to say that to change one’s character is a near impossibil-

ity in view of the involuntary nature of the virtues and vices, as well as those

aspects of the mind – its abilities and general temper – which are natural to it

(T, 3.3.4.3), his acceptance of the possibility of reformation appears to imply the

possibility of a change of character for which the person himself is responsible.

What Hume is denying is the possibility of changing one’s character directly,

simply by willing or choosing to do so; but one may change it indirectly, by hold-

ing in mind a model of the kind of character of which one approves and

allowing oneself to be influenced by this model (Bricke 1974). Provided one is

already ‘tolerably virtuous’ it is possible to aspire to a praiseworthy character

and by its continued pursuit bring about an alteration in one’s own character

(‘The Sceptic’, Essays 170–1). Philosophy itself may indirectly soften and

humanise the temper by pointing out ‘those dispositions which we should

endeavour to attain, by a constant bent of the mind, and by repeated habit’(ibid.). In similar fashion, art and education may at least turn the mind in the

direction of the ‘laudable passions’ even if they cannot directly affect them

(‘The Rise of Arts and Sciences’, Essays 131). Sheer habit is a means by which

‘good dispositions and inclinations may be implanted’: delicacy of taste, for

example, is a talent which may be enhanced by practice in a particular art (‘Of

the Standard of Taste’, Essays 237).28 These various means by which one may

bring about a change in one’s character reflect the fact that the mind does, after

all, exhibit a degree of flexibility, and that it is subject in particular to the influ-

ence of moral causes which not only function as motives or reasons but also

97


‘render a peculiar set of manners habitual to us’ (‘Of National Characters’,

Essays 198).

The more pressing issue is the relation of character to responsibility for

action. It is one thing to regard actions as signs of character, and to ascribe to

us responsibility for those actions in so far as they arise from our character; but

it is another matter whether Hume is entitled to hold that we are responsible

only for those actions which are caused by such durable principles of the mind.

Yet it is this last position to which Hume appears to be committed. For, as we

have seen, he explicitly denies that a person may be considered responsible for

an action which does not proceed from some cause in his character and dispo-

sition (T, 2.3.2.6; EHU, 8.29). Now it is unclear, to say the least, why a person

should be considered responsible for an action only if it proceeds from some

durable mental cause. We may agree with Hume, for example, that ‘Men are lessblam’d for such evil actions, as they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than

for such as proceed from thought and deliberation’ (T, 2.3.2.7 – my emphasis).

But why should we suppose that they are not blamed at all for such actions?

One interesting suggestion is that this should be understood as part of a natu-ralistic account of responsibility (Russell 1995b: Ch. 7). In brief, the cause or

‘subject’ of an indirect passion like pride must stand in some close relationship

to the ‘object’ of the passion (in this case, oneself) and, according to Hume, it

must have a more than short duration (T, 2.1.6.7). As we have seen, the moral

sentiments we experience in relation to an action are associated with passions

of this kind and also depend upon the action having a cause in the form of

some durable principle of mind. Hume is quite explicit that ‘only the quality or

character from which the action proceeded’ is durable enough to give rise to the

indirect passions and moral sentiments (T, 3.3.1.5). Thus, we may regard some-

one as being morally responsible for an action only if the action is an

expression of his character.

This naturalistic interpretation does provide the most convincing explanation

of Hume’s position on character and responsibility. But there is an obvious dif-

ficulty here and one that Hume’s own remarks on the subject do little to resolve.

Hume seems to assume that actions fall neatly into two different categories as

represented by those which, on the one hand, are representative of the agent’s

character and those which, on the other, are connected with the agent only in

so far as he is the ‘immediate cause and author’ of the actions (T, 2.2.3.4).

Actions of the latter kind would include those which are ‘casual and acciden-

tal’ and for which the agent would not, according to Hume, be blamed

(T, 2.3.2.6). The fact that Hume so categorises actions helps to defuse one kind

of criticism that has been made of his position on responsibility: namely, that

a person may be blamed – or, indeed, punished – for an action even if it is not

one that is characteristic of that person (Foot 1966: 105–6). For Hume appears

to accept that any intentional action is, as such, representative of the agent’s

character (for example, T, 2.2.3.4). Thus, we will cease to take offence at some-

one’s behaviour if we are able to establish that it did not arise from any


98

intention to injure or offend, though the ‘natural connexion’ between uneasi-

ness and anger means that there may be some lingering resentment

(T, 2.2.3.5–6). On this view, then, an action is in character simply to the extent

that it reflects the agent’s intentions even though it may not be characteristic of

the agent (to the extent, for example, that the circumstances which would give

rise to such actions have not previously arisen) (Bricke 1974: 112). While, how-

ever, this shows that Hume cannot simply be refuted by examples in which

agents are praised or blamed for uncharacteristic actions, it does leave him

open to the objection that his account of the nature of actions themselves is

deficient. Hume himself draws attention to examples of ‘irregular and unex-

pected resolutions’ such as that of the person of an obliging disposition who

gives a peevish answer (EHU, 8.15). We may be able to account for the action –

for example, by discovering in this case that the person has not dined – but in

other cases we can do no more than appeal to the fact that our characters are

to a degree ‘inconstant and irregular’. It is not clear how far, for Hume, the

irregularities involved are more than seeming ones but, in any case, it is hard to

see why we should accept that if the person in Hume’s example is performing

an action which is out of character then the action is also one that is not

intended. It is not, after all, the kind of action which is performed accidentally,

or in ignorance of its nature, and surely it does not have to be an entirely

casual or thoughtless one. Whatever counter-arguments might be offered on

Hume’s behalf at this point it does seem clear that his account of the circum-

stances under which we hold people responsible for their actions considerably

oversimplifies the issues involved (Russell 1995b: 101–2)

Before I leave this topic it would be worthwhile saying something about the

relation between Hume’s conception of responsibility and the narrative con-

ception of the self ascribed to him above. It is evident that there is a close

connection between the two. The narrative conception belongs with a particu-

lar way of representing what is involved in character identity, as I have referred

to it. Instead of saying that I am responsible for an action only in so far as it is

in character, we might say that my responsibility for the action reflects its place

in the self-narrative which constitutes my character identity. This, indeed, might

be thought better to capture what Hume appears to have in mind in his account

of moral responsibility. An action is mine on this view to the extent that it

makes sense in the context of the beliefs, intentions, values, etc., which make me

the person I am. This is precisely what excludes casual, ignorant or accidental

actions (if ‘actions’ is the right word) from those which belong to me as some-

one with a certain character identity and for which I am thereby responsible. It

is, indeed, only in so far as I do have a sense of myself as someone whose

actions reflect various beliefs, values, etc., that I can be considered responsible

for those actions (Schechtman 1996: 159). It may even be claimed that I am an

agent only in so far as my actions belong to the self-narrative which provides my

character identity, but this raises issues about the nature of agency with which

I am concerned in Chapter 7.

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The narrative conception of the self also bears on the theme of self-concern

which is evidently of such importance to Hume in developing his account of

the agency aspect of the self. There is, as we have seen, more than one dimen-

sion to self-concern, as Hume represents this notion in Book 2 of the Treatise.

At one level Hume is referring to our concern for the way we appear to others

in respect of our reputation and character (T, 2.1.11.1; EPM, 9.10). This ‘con-

stant habit . . . of surveying ourselves in reflection’ might be seen in terms of

the relation of one’s conduct to the features of one’s self-narrative which are

a source of pride in light of their approval by others. There is also self-concern

as involving the influence of our past or future pains and pleasures on our pre-

sent state of mind. These remembered or anticipated pains or pleasures are

themselves part of the narrative in which one’s character identity consists. It is

only in so far as one has this kind of narrative existence that self-concern in

this latter sense is possible, for without the sense of oneself as a being with a

distinctive set of beliefs, intentions and values, past or future pains or plea-

sures would not be able to influence one’s present state of mind as they do. In

this sense, self-concern might be said to derive from, and even be partly con-

stitutive of, the process of living as a person (Wollheim: 1984: 253). Although

I cannot further develop the idea here, aspects of this notion of self-concern

are to be found at various points in Hume’s philosophical writings, apart from

those to which I have referred already. Thus, in a well-known essay Hume

argues that the action of suicide may coincide with interest and even our duty

to ourselves, to the extent that our natural fear of death is outweighed by the

unhappiness arising not only from our present pain or misery but also from

the prospect of this suffering continuing into the future (‘Of Suicide’, Essays577–89). Again, in his controversial remarks about the motivating role of pas-

sion, as opposed to reason, in our actions, Hume indicates that while we often

act knowingly against our perceived interest it is possible to exhibit the kind of

self-concern reflected in the calm passions in preference to our immediate and

more violent desires (T, 2.3.3.10). The other context in which a kind of enlight-

ened self-concern has an obvious part to play is that of the ‘artificial’ virtues,

where our interest is served by redirecting it in recognition of the common

interest in the institutions of justice (T, 3.2.2) .

There are clearly issues here concerning Hume’s view of the mental

antecedents of action which need to be pursued in more detail. I shall in fact

be saying more about this in Chapter 7 where I deal with the subject of Hume

on agency. Before that, I turn to a discussion of Hume’s account of the rela-

tionship between human and animal nature, where I shall be concerned with

a number of issues on which I have touched above.


100

6

HUMAN AND ANIMAL NATURE1

Hume’s account of the similarities and differences between ourselves and ani-

mals is of obvious importance for understanding his general philosophical

position.2 It also has an important bearing on some of the issues with which

we have so far been concerned, such as the nature of the human mind and its

relation to body. This last point emerges from reflection on the doctrine, to

which I referred in my introduction, of the image of God. In part, as we saw,

this encourages the conception of the human mind as a kind of immaterial

substance. At the same time it leads naturally to the view that there is a cru-

cial difference in this respect between ourselves and mere animals which have

evidently not been made in the image of God. As we should expect, Hume

not only rejects the conception of mind associated with this doctrine, but his

position on the nature of animal mentality is very different. In general, he is

concerned to stress the fundamental similarities and continuities between

human and animal nature. His position thus represents a philosophical revo-

lution in which the view of man as a unique creation in God’s image is

replaced with that of man as a natural object differing only in degree from

other animals. The differences in degree are, nevertheless, of considerable

philosophical significance, for they converge on the difference in moral status

between humans and animals. I shall therefore be concerned in some detail

with Hume’s account of the relationship between human and animal nature.

At the same time I shall say more about where Hume stands historically on

the issues concerned.

I

MAN, MACHINE AND ANIMAL: FRENCH

PHILOSOPHY3

I begin with Descartes’ views on animal and human nature, which set the

stage for the philosophical debates with which I am concerned. These

reflect his substance dualism, i.e. the conception of a human being as a

101

combination of mind, as a substance whose essence is located in thought,

and body as spatially extended substance. The body itself is considered by

Descartes to be a kind of machine, unlike the mind where our ability to

exercise freedom of will originally belongs. What, then, of the case of ani-

mals? In brief, they are, according to Descartes, no more than machines or

automata, for unlike human beings they are not possessed of minds or

souls – or, at least, not as we are. In the case of perception, for example,

Descartes declares that animals see only as we do when our mind is else-

where. In these circumstances our visual impressions involve events in the

optic nerves which may cause our limbs to make various movements in a

quite mechanical way. Thus when animals see things, and react according-

ly, they are simply behaving like automata (Descartes 1970: 36). In so far as

animals experience sensation or passion, they do so, according to

Descartes, in a way that is quite independent of thought and so once more

they differ crucially from human beings (206). If animals may be said to

have souls at all this is so only in the sense that there are blood-based flu-

ids which move the machine of the body as they flow through arteries from

the brain into the nerves and muscles (146). While the soul of an animal

thus lies in the blood, the rational souls of human beings cannot in the

same way be drawn out of the potentiality of matter (36).

Descartes’ claim, in sum, is that animals are a kind of natural automata(1970: 244). This is obviously a highly controversial claim, and it is associat-

ed with an important debate in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries

about the mentality of animals. Now Descartes argues for his claim on the

basis that a distinguishing mark of rationality, as an essential feature of

mind, is the use of language, and that animals – unlike men – have no lan-

guage (1985: I, 140; 1970: 206–7, 244–5). It might be objected to this that

some animals, at least, do display a capacity for communication – and even

one associated with what might well appear to be a kind of language (the

dance of the bees, the vocalisations of dolphins, etc.). But Descartes would

regard these systems of communication as being far too limited to be seri-

ously compared with any human language. We are able, for example, to

arrange our speech in different ways, in order to reply appropriately to what-

ever is said to us. Animals, on the other hand, emit sounds or perform move-

ments which are limited to the expression of passions like hope and fear

(1970: 207). If animals did have a language, then they would be able to com-

municate their thoughts to us. The point about human language is that it is

infinitely productive and not limited to the particular kinds of stimulus which

appear to be associated with communication in animals. Thus, there is a basis

for denying that animals genuinely use signs as we do, to enable others to

understand our thoughts (1970: 245; 1985: vol. I, 140).

There is a further point that Descartes is able to make in this context. This

is that the apparent absence of anything like a spoken language in animals,

and one which would enable them to communicate with us as well as among


102

members of their own species, is not a result of their lacking the relevant kind

of physiology. He mentions the case of a magpie, for example, which may be

trained to imitate some of the sounds that we make when we speak. On the

other side of the coin, there is the case of human beings born deaf and dumb

who are able to communicate by means of a sign language in spite of their

inability to employ the organs of speech. Descartes takes this as evidence that

the failure of animals to communicate by means of language results from the

absence of thought or reason. If he is right, then it is a mere prejudice to sup-

pose that dumb animals think (1970: 243). Nature acts on animals simply

according to the disposition of their organs – any appearance of rationality

which is given by their behaviour may be accounted for in this way.

According to Descartes there are in fact two means by which we are able

to distinguish human beings from both animals and machines. Apart from

the criterion provided by language, there is also the possibility of appealing

to the distinctive features of human action. The latter bears on the point that

machines, for example, not only perform various functions (as in the case of

watches and clocks), but also in many instances perform them rather better

than we are able to do. But this, according to Descartes, does not mean that

the machines are acting from knowledge; rather, it is a matter of essentially

mechanical relationships among their parts. The point is that machines are

adapted only to perform certain specific functions; reason, however, is a

‘universal instrument’ which allows its possessor to adapt behaviour to any

contingencies which may arise. Animals and machines are incapable of the

diversity which would enable them to act in all the different circumstances of

life as we are able to do. Thus, while they may in some instances perform in

ways which would for us depend on the use of thought or reason, these per-

formances must be ascribed to the influence of nature, in accordance with

the ‘disposition of their organs’, rather than to thought or knowledge (1985:

I, 141; 1970: 207).4

It is worth mentioning two very different kinds of response to Descartes

which occurred within French philosophy. The first of these is represented

by Pierre Bayle.5 Bayle embraces the Cartesian view of beasts as automata

on the basis of its theological advantages. He has in mind two points in par-

ticular. One of these has to do with the belief that we are immortal in virtue

of possessing a soul which is distinct from the body. So long as beasts are

automata we are spared the embarrassment of ascribing to them a soul

which would make them immortal. On the other hand, if we were prepared

to ascribe to beasts a material and mortal soul, we would be forced to arrive

at a similar view of ourselves. So it is preferable to suppose that beasts are

entirely without souls, material or spiritual (Bayle 1991: 216–17, 225). The

other point relates to the Augustinian principle that since God is just, suf-

fering is a necessary proof of sin. In other words, if we allow that beasts

undergo painful sensations then we either have to reject Augustine’s princi-

ple or suppose them capable of moral agency. Descartes’ view of animals

103

HUMAN AND ANIMAL NATURE

spares us the difficulties which appear to arise here (1991: 220–21). Bayle

also responds directly to the scholastic view that while beasts do not possess

rational souls, we may suppose them to have sensitive souls. He rejects this

on the ground that if beasts do possess a soul which is capable of sensation,

then they must also be capable of reasoning, i.e. the soul of beasts would be

of the same species as that of man (233). In any case, a sensitive soul would

not, by itself, provide a system which would account for the range of activi-

ties in which animals engage. This might explain why some philosophers

have been prepared to grant rational souls to beasts (239). Bayle, however,

continues to prefer the automaton hypothesis and in doing so concludes his

discussion by rejecting the alternative provided by Leibniz’ theory of pre-

established harmony (247–54).6

A quite different kind of response to Descartes occurs in the writings of

the French enlightenment philosopher La Mettrie.7 As the title L’hommemachine indicates, La Mettrie is here extending the Cartesian view of ani-

mals as machines to human beings. Thus, for La Mettrie the resemblances

between ourselves and animals – for example, in respect of the anatomy of

the brain (1996: 9) – indicates that Descartes’ view of animals as machines

should also be carried over to man. The resemblances to which La Mettrie

refers here evidently have an important bearing on the capacity of animals

for learning. It may even be possible, he suggests, for animals such as the

great apes to be taught a language as deaf-mutes have been (11–12) – a sug-

gestion which anticipates an important area of research by two centuries.

The similarity of the ape’s structure and functions to our own prevents us

from ruling out this possibility. Contrary to the supposed ‘primal distinc-

tion’ between man and animals, ‘external signs’ reveal the possession by ani-

mals of thought and feeling, including such feelings as remorse, even if they

are incapable of recognising the difference between right and wrong (19–20,

50). In a striking image, La Mettrie writes here that nature has used the same

dough for both man and animals, merely changing the yeast. While

Descartes sees the brain and its organisation as providing a causal basis for

the activities of the soul, La Mettrie argues that the soul should be identi-

fied with the brain. What philosophers call the soul is nothing more than a

principle of thought and action located in the brain (28). If we compare the

body to a clock, then the soul considered as part of the brain is a mainspring

of the whole machine (31, 56, 65).8 There is only one substance in the uni-

verse, and what distinguishes man from animal is the sheer complexity of his

organisation (33–4). We do not need to posit a soul as something distinct

from the body in order to account for thought, since there is nothing to rule

out a priori the possibility that thought might be a property of organised

matter (35). Even if Descartes were right, then, about the machine-like

nature of animals it would not follow from this that animals are incapable

of thought and feeling – any more than our mechanistic character prevents

us from being sentient or intelligent.


104

To return to Descartes. A crucial point arising from his argument is this:

the fact that an animal or machine is capable of doing something which in a

human being would require thought, intelligence, etc., is not in itself a reason

for ascribing such capacities to the animal or machine. This has a direct bear-

ing on the debate about animal mentality which had been initiated by

Descartes’ predecessor, Montaigne, who had argued that animals which

behave in a way which, in human beings, would demand skill and intelligence

should be credited with the same sort of mental capacities. Amongst the

many examples of animal lore to which he appeals are those of swallows

returning in the Spring to their nesting places and fish which appear to

respond to astronomical events like the solstice and the equinox. His sugges-

tion is that ‘From similar effects we should conclude that there are similar

faculties’ (1987: 25), i.e. animals employ the same method of reasoning as

ourselves when we do anything. But this is precisely what Descartes denies.

Since we are not entitled to ascribe to animals reason as a ‘universal instru-

ment’, the kinds of performance which Montaigne mentions are attributable

to the way in which nature acts on these animals (as the mechanism of the

clock explains how it is able to measure time more accurately than we are able

to do in spite of our rationality – Descartes 1970: 207; 1985: vol. I, 114).

Montaigne’s claims about the relation between animal and human nature

reflect the idea that we have an unduly exalted view of our own nature in

comparison with that of beasts. This, in turn, might be seen as an expression

of Montaigne’s version of Pyrrhonism, with its emphasis on human igno-

rance and the limitations of reason in arriving at truth. Our predicament is

summarised in the following aphorism: ‘There is a plague on man: his opin-

ion that he knows something’ (1987: 53). It is intellectual pride which leads

us to suppose that we possess distinctive powers of reason which elevate us

above beasts. While knowledge can come only through the senses, their falli-

bility effectively prevents there from being any such thing as knowledge

(170–5). In these respects, as in others, Montaigne’s epistemology is in strik-

ing contrast to that of Descartes, for whom truth and certainty are, with the

use of the right kind of method, attainable goals. It is, in any case, scarcely

surprising that Montaigne should see evidence of the same capacities for rati-

ocination in animal behaviour as in our own actions. Nor is it surprising that

he is prepared to allow that animals are able to communicate with each other

by the use of meaningful sounds, as well as gesture, facial expression, and so

on, considered as a kind of sign language (17–19). Descartes appears to have

just these kinds of claim in mind when he refers explicitly to Montaigne as

one of those who is prepared to ascribe understanding or thought to animals

(Descartes 1970: 206). One of the crucial points Descartes has to make in

response to such claims is that they depend on the external resemblance, in

certain respects, between our own behaviour and that of animals; while this,

in itself, is not enough to establish that there is any resemblance in the corre-

sponding internal activities (1970: 54).

105


It seems true, in fact, that Montaigne is unduly prone to accept at face

value animal performances which might be seen as the product of thought

and reasoning, without considering possible alternative explanations.9

Descartes’ own suggestion that in many of these cases, at least, the animal’s

behaviour may be compared to that of a mechanism like a watch, perhaps

receives further support from studies in ethology which have shown how

kinds of animal behaviour which appear to exhibit intelligence may in fact

be inflexible, ‘wired in’ routines resulting from natural selection. There is

good reason, therefore, to think that Montaigne is just wrong to claim that

the beatings of birds’ wings, for example, cannot be attributed entirely to

‘some ordinance of nature’, as opposed to thought or understanding (1987:

34). In these respects, Descartes might be considered to have the better of

Montaigne in the debate about animal mentality, though we should note

that this is by no means to vindicate Descartes’ own view that animals are

no more than automata. While it may be true that Montaigne exaggerates

the degree of similarity, in respect of the capacities for thought or intelli-

gence, between animal and human nature, it may also be true that there are

points of resemblance here for which Descartes fails to allow. This, indeed,

seems a reasonable conclusion to be drawn from this phase of the debate

about animal mentality; and, as I shall now go on to show, it is one for which

Hume’s own arguments provide strong support.

II

HUME ON HUMAN AND ANIMAL MINDS

There is, according to Hume, a close resemblance between the ‘anatomy’ of

human and animal minds, just as there are obvious physiological similarities

between men and animals (T, 2.1.12.2). Any differences between our mental

capacities and those of animals are, it appears, ones of degree only: ‘Animals

undoubtedly feel, think, love, hate, will, and even reason’ as we do, albeit in

a ‘more imperfect manner’ (‘Of the Immortality of the Soul’, Essays 592).

The kinds of resemblance Hume has in mind fall into two categories. First,

there are the epistemological ones. Both men and animals are equipped not

only to acquire beliefs from experience, but also by means of both prudence

and intelligence to act directly on the natural world (‘Of Suicide’, Essays582). There seems to be a distinction, within animal behaviour, between those

actions which reflect the conditioning effects of experience, such as avoidance

of fire, and those which involve more complex patterns of behaviour. But

actions of the former kind, according to Hume, rest upon a process of asso-

ciation which is characteristically at work also in the causal beliefs of human

beings. In a word, it is habit that is typically responsible for our own expec-

tations as it is for the conditioned responses of animals. Thus, rather than


106

oppose reason in human beings to what might be dismissed as instinctive

behaviour in animals, we should recognise that reason itself characteristical-

ly functions as a kind of instinct arising from past observation and experience

(T, 1.3.16.9). We may protest that our behaviour displays a certain flexibility

which distinguishes it from mere instinct; but Hume suggests that there are

instances of animal behaviour which exhibit a degree of sagacity – as, for

example, in the case of nest-building.10 We now know that for some species,

at least, such activity is largely instinctive. But there are other cases in which

animal behaviour exhibits a kind of experimental activity which appears to

contrast with behaviour of a merely ‘vulgar’ nature.

One of the crucial points Hume wants to make in relation to such obser-

vations is that if philosophers have been led to ignore these resemblances

between animal and human behaviour, it is because they ascribe a kind of

‘refinement of thought’ to human beings which would exceed not only the

capacity of animals but also, for that matter, the capacity of many human

beings themselves. When we see what ordinarily passes as reasoning in men

for what it is – the conditioned propensity to form expectations on the basis

of past experience – then we also see that there is no obstacle to acknowl-

edging the evident resemblance between ourselves and animals, at the

‘internal’ level of belief as well as that of the external actions we share in

common. The latter point is illustrated also by the case of non-inferential

beliefs, such as those concerning the objects of the senses (EHU, 12.7). We

therefore have good reason to reject the Cartesian conception of the nature

of human thought or reason in favour of the alternative supplied by Hume

in his epistemology.

The other point of resemblance with which Hume is concerned belongs to

the area of the passions. ‘The chief spring or actuating principle of the

human mind’, Hume tells us, ‘is pleasure or pain’ (T, 3.3.1.2). There is no rea-

son to suppose that animals differ in this respect – indeed, Hume indicates

that, like us, animals are motivated to obtain pleasure and avoid pain

(T, 1.3.16.2). They will accordingly also be liable to experience the same sorts

of passion or emotion – both ‘indirect’, as in the case of pride and humility

(T, 2.1.12) and love and hatred (T, 2.2.12), and ‘direct’, as in the case of fear

and grief (T, 2.2.12.6). Similarly, volition, as the immediate effect of pleasure

and pain, is something we share in common with animals (T, 2.3.9.32). The

fact that animals experience the same kinds of passion as us indicates that

they will also be susceptible to the same mechanism for the communication

of passions, namely, sympathy: as Hume in fact confirms (T, 2.2.12.6).11

The parallels that Hume finds between human and animal minds have a

more than merely epistemological or psychological significance. Descartes

claims that not only are we superior in reasoning power to animals but we

also differ from them in possessing a mind or soul which is immortal. It is

scarcely surprising that Hume finds himself obliged to reject any such claim.

If we accept that the minds of animals are mortal, then the analogies between

107


their mental capacities and ours should lead us to reach a similar conclusion

about human minds (‘Of the Immortality of the Soul’, Essays 597).12

The differences between human and animal nature

As we have seen, Hume differs crucially from Descartes in claiming that the

differences we find between human and animal mentality are ones of degree

only. They are, nevertheless, important and in the rest of my discussion I

want to explore the implications of these differences for Hume’s philosophi-

cal position – in particular, regarding the distinction between virtue and vice.

The differences Hume finds between ourselves and animals belong to the

same areas of mental life which provide the important continuities to which

he has referred. Thus, Hume identifies differences in the areas both of the

understanding and also the passions. So far as the former is concerned, we

exhibit a superior knowledge and understanding (T, 2.1.12.5). ‘Men are supe-

rior to beasts’, Hume says, ‘principally by the superiority of their reason’

(T, 3.3.4.5). If it is true that one person may obviously surpass another in the

ability to reason, it appears also to be true that people collectively surpass

animals in this respect (EHU, 9.5n). Indeed, the differences that Hume finds

here appear quite striking, for he reminds us of our ability to carry our

thoughts beyond our immediate situation to remote places and times, and to

theorise about our experience (Essays ‘Of the Dignity or Meanness of

Human Nature’, 82). By comparison, animals appear to be without curiosi-

ty or insight and to be confined in their thoughts to the things around them,

though they not only acquire beliefs from experience but also by means of

prudence and intelligence act directly on the natural world (‘Of Suicide’,

Essays 582). Hume is anxious to stress, however, that we should not think of

ourselves as having been especially favoured by virtue of our superior reason;

for we find that our reason is proportionate both to our wants and to our

period of existence (‘Of the Immortality of the Soul’, Essays 593). There is,

in other words, a natural explanation for the difference in reasoning powers

between ourselves and animals – that nature provides us with the intelligence

required to meet our needs (‘The Stoic’, Essays 147) – which would make

Hume’s position fully consistent with an evolutionary account of the devel-

opment of such powers.13

The other especially important point of difference between ourselves and

animals lies in the passions. While animals are, like us, motivated to obtain

pleasure and to avoid pain and so liable to experience the same sorts of pas-

sion, there is the crucial difference that, compared with us, animals are ‘but

little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains of the imagination’

(T, 2.2.12.3). This point of difference is in fact directly related to the previous

one: since the judgements of animals concern the things around them, their

feelings will not transcend the immediate effects upon them of these things.

In more general terms, animals will be less likely to experience those passions


108

which require some effort of thought or imagination (T, 2.2.12.8). This last

point is of special significance for Hume, as we shall see.

III

THE MORAL SENSE

Hume himself evidently sees the differences to which I have referred as hav-

ing a direct bearing on what is, perhaps, the crucial point of contrast between

ourselves and animals, namely, the absence in animals of what he calls a

moral sense (T, 2.1.12.5).14 It seems clear that animals are not, for Hume,

moral agents. This emerges most clearly, perhaps, in his remarks about ani-

mal incest, where he indicates that such relations in animals have ‘not the

smallest moral turpitude or deformity’ (T, 3.1.1.25). This should be compared

with human incest which is condemned by Hume as ‘being pernicious in a

superior degree’ and thus having ‘a superior turpitude and moral deformity

attached to it’ (EPM, 4.8). While I cannot pursue this matter in all its details,

it is natural to wonder why Hume should take the position he does in regard

to the moral status of animals – especially given his views about the continu-

ity between human and animal nature. There is also the question of how this

position is to be reconciled with Hume’s account of morality itself.

Perhaps I should begin, then, with a brief survey of what Hume has to say

about the distinction between virtue and vice. We have seen already that these

moral qualities consist, for Hume, in the presence of certain kinds of motive

in relation to which actions themselves may be appraised as virtuous or

vicious (T, 3.2.1.2). Such motives reflect the character of the agent which is –

as we saw in the last chapter – the real object of our moral judgements

(T, 2.3.2.6, 3.3.1.4, 17). These judgements arise, according to Hume, through

the activity of a moral sense rather than through reason. Thus, the motives or

traits of character which provide the objects of such judgements are discerned

through the occurrence of particular kinds of pleasure and pain. These feel-

ings are apparently identified by Hume with the moral sentiments of approval

and disapproval (T, 3.1.2.3, 3.3.1.14, 3.3.4.2). In other words, the feelings are

evaluative ones as well as having an epistemological role as ‘signs’ of the

motives or traits of character in which virtue and vice consist. As we have

seen, the moral sentiments are experienced in conjunction with the indirect

passions aroused in us both by our own qualities of mind as well as those of

others. While our immediate sentiments of praise and blame may differ

according to our particular relation to the person praised or blamed, our

moral judgements correct these sentiments by reflecting a common view from

which we are able to communicate by means of a shared vocabulary of praise

and blame (T, 3.3.1.16). In fact, according to Hume, ‘ ’Tis only when a char-

acter is considered in general, without reference to our particular interest, that

109


it causes such a feeling or sentiment, as denominates it morally good or evil’

(T, 3.1.2.4). We should note, finally, that Hume distinguishes between qualities

of character of which we naturally approve or disapprove according to

whether, for example, they tend to the good of mankind (T, 3.3.1.10) and, on

the other hand, virtues and vices which produce pleasure and pain in us by

artifice (T, 3.2.1.1) and which are accordingly classified by Hume as ‘artificial’.

Virtue and vice and animals

Given the above account of virtue and vice, and their relation to our moral

sentiments, the question to be considered is why Hume would hesitate to

ascribe such qualities to non-human animals. We may begin by noting that it

is clear that animals would not, for Hume, be capable of the artificial virtues

and vices. Justice, on Hume’s account, is an institution which arises from the

particular circumstances and necessities of mankind; there is a direct contrast

between human beings, in respect of the divergence between their needs and

the means of satisfying them, and other animals whose capacities are broadly

proportioned to their wants (T, 3.2.2.2). In order to remedy this ‘unnatural

conjunction of infirmity and necessity’ it is necessary for human beings to

engage in social relations with each other; they do so in recognition of the

advantages of society, where this has been made evident to them by their expe-

riences within the family (T, 3.2.2.4). The institution of justice is inseparable

from that of property: in fact, the rules of justice derive from the conventions

into which human beings originally entered, through a general sense of com-

mon interest, in order to bestow some stability on their possession of external

goods (T, 3.2.2.9–10). Property is essentially a moral relation which arises from

the same artifice which gives rise to justice itself (T, 3.2.2.11). Animals, how-

ever, are incapable of the relation of property (T, 2.1.12.5) – and, therefore, of

acting in accordance with, or in violation of, the precepts of justice. They evi-

dently have no need of the institution; but, perhaps more importantly, they

might be considered incapable of the sense of common interest from which

the relevant conventions arise. Even if in some cases animals live in social

groups it seems implausible to suppose that they do so in recognition of the

advantages of such an existence, as we are supposed to do. In sum, the absence

of the artificial virtues and vices in the case of animals seems to be a function

of their inability to engage in the kind of artifice on which these moral quali-

ties depend; while this, in turn, may be accounted for by the fact that no such

capacity is required in order to satisfy their wants and needs.

It seems, then, that the real issue concerning the moral status of animals is

whether or not they may be considered capable of acting from motives or

qualities which constitute natural virtues and vices. In this context we have to

balance Hume’s remark that animals possess little or no sense of virtue and

vice (T, 2.1.12.5) against his view that any mental quality which gives pleasure

or causes love or pride is virtuous (T, 3.3.1.3). For it seems that animals are


110

quite capable, in Hume’s estimation, of possessing traits which may be the

objects of love (or esteem) on our part, and of pride on the part of animals

themselves. We should note, however, that pride, in the case of animals, seems

to be confined to bodily attributes rather than any qualities of mind

(T, 2.1.12.5);15 and while we may approve of animals in various respects, it is

evidently another matter whether this is really moral approval.16 It is impor-

tant to note, incidentally, that Hume’s remarks about the differences in the

causes of pride in the case of animals, as compared with human beings, are

supposed to reflect ‘our superior knowledge and understanding’. The fact that

animals are unable to take pride in ‘external objects’, for example, obviously

relates to the point referred to above about property – here we are dealing with

a moral relation which depends on the kind of artifice of which, it seems, only

human beings are capable. What, however, of the natural virtues and vices,

where no such artifice is involved? Why would animals be incapable of the

qualities in question? Or, of exercising such qualities as virtues or vices?

We might consider here a particular example which bears rather closely on

the instance of vice which Hume declares to be absent in animals. Hume

notes that animals are capable of exhibiting parental affection as a matter of

‘instinct’ in the way that we also do (T, 2.2.12.5). In our case, this is evidently

to be classified as a virtue: according to Hume, we blame a father for neglect-

ing his child, for example, because it shows a want of natural affection, which

is the duty of every parent (T, 3.2.1.5). A parent who does not naturally feel

this kind of affection for his children may hate himself for lacking a virtuous

motive which is common in human nature and as a result come to act with

care and consideration towards his children from a sense of duty alone.17

This would indicate that the virtuous motive is something which is an object

of love or esteem on the part of others (and perhaps of pride on the part of

the agent himself, with its absence resulting in humility or shame). It would

also appear that the benefits of parental affection are direct and immediate

in contrast to those associated with the practice of the artificial virtues. This,

in turn, obviously relates to Hume’s notion that a natural virtue is marked by

the fact that the good which results from it arises from every single act and is

the object of some natural passion (T, 3.3.1.12). Now the benefits of parental

affection in animals seem equally clear, and this quality may surely be an

object of esteem or approval on our part. What, then, would prevent this

from being considered a natural virtue in animals?

A complicating factor in pursuing this question is Hume’s own apparent

indifference to the way in which ‘virtue’ and ‘vice’ are used as labels. This

emerges from his discussion of the relation between natural abilities and

moral virtues (T, 3.3.4). While Hume appears to accept that we would nor-

mally distinguish between the two, he sees the question of whether they

should be so distinguished as amounting to a dispute about words which is

apparently of no real philosophical significance. The qualities involved may

differ in some respects; on the other hand, they agree in the ‘most material

111


circumstances’ (T, 3.3.4.1). Thus, certain mental qualities may be involved in

each case; they are ones which equally give rise to pleasure; and they also

have an equal tendency to elicit love or esteem. While such characteristics as

good sense and judgement might not ordinarily be counted among a person’s

moral attributes, Hume points out that they contribute towards his reputa-

tion almost as much as any other qualities of character. We might say that

there is a kind of functional similarity between the different sorts of quality

in question which entitles them to be classified together, even if the senti-

ments of approbation associated with each of them are of somewhat differ-

ent kinds. Since involuntariness, for example, does not distinguish the one

kind of characteristic from the other, it is essentially a grammatical issue

whether or not natural abilities are to be classified as virtues. What matters

philosophically is how, for example, we are to account for the sentiment of

approbation which arises in each case (T, 3.3.4.4).18 Hume does of course

recognise that not just any advantageous quality may reasonably be regarded

as a virtue, a case in point being the possession of a good memory

(T, 3.3.4.13). This, in itself, might lead to misgivings about his general posi-

tion on the distinction between natural abilities and virtues. However, the rel-

evant point, for our purposes, is that in light of this position we might expect

that Hume would find it an unimportant and merely ‘grammatical’ matter

whether, for example, the parental affection which an animal displays

towards its offspring should be counted as a virtue. And, if so, there would

not, after all, be a real issue as to whether, for Hume, animals are capable of

the natural virtues and vices.

In spite of his views about the grammatical nature of some disputes about

the application of the distinction between virtue and vice, Hume might still

have good reason for resisting its application to non-human animals. We

should note, for example, that we are able to raise the question of whether

human abilities or talents are also virtues because we already view human

beings as moral agents. The question has to do with the classification of cer-

tain of their qualities, given their possession of other qualities which do clear-

ly count as virtues (or vices). The question in the case of animals, however, is

whether they are moral agents at all, i.e. whether any of their qualities may

be regarded as instances of virtue or vice. Thus, the fact that some animals

exhibit a quality which in human beings might be considered a virtue does

not establish that they are capable of virtue or vice – or that the issue itself is

no more than a merely verbal or grammatical matter. For we surely have to

look at this matter in relation to the sorts of quality that animals possess in

general. The question is not so much whether this or that particular quality

in animals might be considered an instance of virtue or vice, but rather

whether animals are the sorts of being which are capable of moral agency.19

The continuities which Hume finds between human and animal nature would

seem to suggest a positive answer to this question. Given, however, that

Hume is apparently committed to a negative answer, the question remains of


112

what sort of difference between animals and humans would justify this view

of their different moral status.

The secondary literature contains a number of different responses to this

question. I shall not attempt to review them in detail. Rather, I will compare

two sorts of response and say something in defence of one of these. Since

Hume thinks that one important difference between ourselves and animals

lies in the area of the passions, and since he also thinks that the passions

make a crucial contribution to the distinction between virtue and vice, we

might look in this direction for the morally relevant difference between our-

selves and animals. It has, in fact, recently been suggested that this difference

is to be found in the universal sentiment of humanity which is the source of

our moral sentiments (Arnold 1995). Morality essentially involves a species-

wide sentiment which differentiates us from animals. For reasons which will

emerge shortly, it seems unlikely that Hume’s position can be explained in this

way. But first, we may note that there appear to be essentially two ways in

which the notion of humanity is employed in Hume’s writings. The first of

these is represented by Hume’s remarks about humanity in the Treatise.

These remarks link humanity with benevolence as a kind of natural virtue

(T, 3.2.1.6, 3.3.3.4); the natural sentiment of humanity, so understood, func-

tions as a motive for relieving those in distress (T, 3.3.1.12). Humanity is a

trait of character (T, 3.3.3.4): one which is distinctive of the great man

(T, 3.3.1.24). The second Enquiry contains many similar sorts of reference –

for example, humanity is again linked with benevolence as a social virtue

(EPM, 2.5, 3.48, 5.46, 9.12, 9.19, Appendix 3.2); it is represented as a trait of

character (EPM, 9.2); and it is also linked with benevolence, friendship and

kindness as agreeable sentiments which keep us in humour with ourselves and

others (EPM, 9.21). In one sense, then, humanity is itself another virtue – a

natural, social virtue which may be contrasted with justice as an artificial

virtue (EPM, 3.18). As such it apparently consists in a number of humane

instincts, such as love of children, gratitude towards benefactors, and pity for

the unfortunate (‘Of the Original Contract’, Essays 479). The natural virtue

of humanity is a distinguishing feature of a civilised society (‘Of Refinement

in the Arts’, Essays 274) – it may even be that our obligation to humanity, in

this sense of the notion, is for Hume as necessary to society itself as the oblig-

ations or duties associated with justice (Shaver 1992).

Now, in the second Enquiry Hume does seem to employ the notion of the

sentiment of humanity in another and quite different way. This is where he

refers to the sentiment of humanity as providing the foundation of morals.

‘The notion of morals implies some sentiment common to all mankind,

which recommends the same object to general approbation, and makes every

man, or most men, agree in the same opinion or decision concerning it’

(EPM, 9.5). Hume seems evidently to be referring here to something quite

different from humanity as a virtuous motive – rather, it is represented as the

ground or foundation of our approval of such motives (Shaver 1992: 546). A

113


question which naturally arises here is how the sentiment of humanity,

understood in this way, relates to Hume’s notion of sympathy (with which I

shall be concerned in some detail in Chapter 8). In the Treatise sympathy is

declared to be ‘the chief source of moral distinctions’ (T, 3.3.6.1). This

reflects the fact that ‘moral distinctions arise, in great measure, from the ten-

dency of qualities and characters to the interests of society’; that ‘our con-

cern for that interest . . . makes us approve or disapprove of them’; and that

‘we have no such extensive concern for society but from sympathy’

(T, 3.3.1.11). In the second Enquiry Hume does sometimes link the notions of

sympathy and humanity together (EPM, 6.3, 9.12). We should note, how-

ever, that in these cases he refers to sympathy as a sentiment, whereas in the

Treatise it is generally treated as a kind of mechanism by which the thoughts

and feelings of one person may be conveyed to the mind of another (for

example, T, 2.1.11.8, 3.3.1.7). It would appear, therefore, that in the second

Enquiry the sentiment of humanity is given a role in accounting for moral dis-

tinctions which distinguishes it from sympathy as this notion figures in the

Treatise.20 How, then, should we understand this reference to the sentiment

of humanity as the foundation of morality?

The key to answering this question lies with one of the central themes of

the second Enquiry (something which is much more prominent here than in

the corresponding Book 3 of the Treatise). This is Hume’s concern with what

he describes as the ‘selfish system of morals’: a concern which reflects the fact

that this system poses a direct threat to any theory which, like Hume’s,

accepts the reality of moral distinctions. The crucial claim of the selfish sys-

tem is that ‘no passion is, or can be disinterested . . . the most generous

friendship, however sincere, is a modification of self-love’ (EPM, Appendix

2.2). In other words, there can be no distinctively moral motive to act, con-

trary to Hume’s own theory (which precisely contrasts virtuous motives such

as benevolence and humanity with motives of a selfish kind). It is therefore

necessary for Hume to show, for example, that our approval of the social

virtues does not derive from self-love (EPM, 5.6). His suggestion is that the

selfish system in fact runs counter to experience on this kind of point. The

public utility of the social virtues is an object of natural affection in its own

right – and this is why we are prepared to praise actions in which we have no

interest and which may even be opposed to our own interests. We are not,

after all, indifferent to the interests of others however they may impinge upon

us. In this sense, our humanity or fellow-feeling with others may be consid-

ered an ultimate principle of human nature which provides a rival explana-

tion to the selfish system of why anything that contributes to the happiness

of society is an object of approval on that account (EPM, 5.17). Hume char-

acterises the principle involved in various ways: as ‘social sympathy’ (EPM,

5.35); as a kind of ‘natural philanthropy’ which inclines us to prefer the hap-

piness of society (EPM, 5.40); and as something reflecting the ‘benevolent

principles’ which engage us on the side of the social virtues (EPM, 5.45).


114

Without attempting to argue the matter in detail, it seems possible that

Hume’s reference to the principle of humanity as providing the foundation of

morals is his alternative in the second Enquiry to the view of sympathy as the

source of moral distinctions which occurs in Book 3 of the Treatise. When he

suggests that the principle of humanity is something which should be accept-

ed as a basic feature of human nature (EPM, 5.17n), he appears effectively to

be giving up the idea of sympathy as a mechanism which would explain the

phenomenon of fellow-feeling. He appears also to have shifted his ground on

the question of whether there can be any such thing as humanity understood

as a general concern for the interests of others, regardless of any implications

for our own interests. Thus, in his discussion of the artificial virtue of justice

in the Treatise Hume declares that a concern for the public interest is ‘a

motive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of mankind’; that

‘there is no such passion in human minds, as the love of mankind’, no ‘uni-

versal affection to mankind’; and that we are affected by the happiness of

misery of others only through the operations of sympathy (T, 3.2.1.11–12).

But whatever the truth may be about the relation between the sentiment of

humanity and sympathy, the crucial point for our purposes is that we cannot

expect to find an explanation in his appeal to the sentiment of humanity for

Hume’s claim about the moral differences between humans and animals, any

more than it may be found in the Treatise account of sympathy as a feature

we share in common with animals. For we do, according to Hume, find some-

thing like a counterpart to this sentiment in animals: they appear to be capa-

ble of kindness both to their own species and to ours, thereby manifesting a

kind of ‘disinterested benevolence’ (EPM, Appendix 2.8).21 Indeed, we are

thus provided with further grounds for rejecting the view of motivation pro-

vided by the ‘selfish theory’. This point of comparison between ourselves and

animals indicates that we should not expect to find an explanation in our fel-

low-feeling with others of why animals would be incapable of virtue and vice

(especially since Hume apparently takes their disinterested benevolence to

extend to us as well as to members of their own species).

Animals and morality: further thoughts

It appears that we must look in a different direction for an answer to the ques-

tion of why Hume should apparently ascribe a different moral status to

humans as compared with animals, in spite of the important features they

share in common. The obvious – and, I think, correct – alternative is to

appeal to the differences in respect of reason or understanding between our-

selves and animals. In fact, such differences appear to be reflected both in

what Hume says about morality as well as in what he says about the emo-

tional lives of animals. To recap on points referred to above: the moral senti-

ments through which virtue and vice are discerned are associated with a

steady or general point of view which transcends those features which are

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peculiar to our particular situation (T, 3.3.1.15; EPM, 9.6). Animals lack the

artificial virtues and vices because they are incapable of the sense of common

interest from which, for example, the conventions of property arise

(T, 2.1.12.5, 3.2.2.9–10). There are important differences in the case of the

morally relevant passions between human beings and animals – in particular,

in regard to pride and humility (T, 2.1.12.5). Apart from these points, there is

also a difference in the operation of the principle of sympathy. While we are

capable of the kind of ‘corrected’ sympathy which is associated with the

occurrence of the moral sentiments, it appears that sympathy in animals con-

sists principally in what might be described as emotional contagion (see, for

example, T, 2.2.12.6).22

Now, it seems that each of these various points reflects what is, arguably, the

most important general difference that Hume finds between ourselves and ani-

mals: in short, our superiority in reason. As we have noted previously, Hume

relates the difference between ourselves and animals in respect of pride and

humility directly to our superior knowledge and understanding. Indeed, this

is also the basis on which he says, in the same place, that animals have ‘little

or no sense of virtue or vice’ (T, 2.1.12.5). The ‘wide difference’, noted earlier,

which Hume finds between ourselves and animals in respect of thought and

understanding appears to account for the distinctive features of the moral sen-

timents (i.e. their dependence on a common view which abstracts from our

immediate circumstances), and the kind of corrected sympathy on which these

sentiments also depend.23 We are also provided in this way with an explana-

tion of why humans are able to experience a greater variety of passions than

animals (T, 2.2.12.3, 8). It seems beyond serious question, then, that the moral

difference Hume finds between humans and animals is to be ascribed ulti-

mately to the superiority of our reasoning abilities.24 While animals do resem-

ble us in their ability to reason, there is nevertheless a significant difference in

the degree to which they are able to exercise this ability; and it is this that is

apparently meant to account for the fact that they are not moral agents. This

does, at least, seem to explain why they lack the artificial virtues and vices,

given the dependence of the latter upon the ability to see beyond immediate

self-interest. But can it also explain why they are incapable of natural virtue

and vice? In any case, can Hume appeal to this supposed difference between

ourselves and animals while maintaining an anti-rationalist stance in his

moral theory? He does, after all, employ the example of animal incest as a rea-

son for rejecting the rationalist account of the moral difference between

humans and animals. If he now appeals to features of animal thought or

understanding in order to explain why they are incapable of incest as a vice, is

he not guilty of an obvious inconsistency? (Arnold 1995: 313).

The issue of where, on Hume’s account, the vice or criminality of human

incest lies is complicated by the fact that the kinds of relation involved appear,

in some cases, to represent vice of a kind which Hume would classify as arti-ficial. As he himself points out, the marriage laws concerning half-siblings, for


116

example, may be determined by the particular arrangements in a society for

the upbringing of the different sexes (EPM, 4.9); and Hume later mentions

this kind of example in a discussion of cultural differences and their bearing

on the supposed universal principles of morals (EPM, ‘A Dialogue’,13). Thus,

it is possible that what might count as an incestuous relationship – and there-

fore an instance of vice – in one society may not do so in another; and that

this will be a matter of differences in artifice or convention between them.

There are, however, cases in which the vice or criminality of incest does not

appear to be of this ‘artificial’ kind, such as that of sexual relations between

father and daughter. The vice of incest, in this kind of case, surely does not

depend upon conventions of a relatively arbitrary kind. In attempting to

answer, on Hume’s behalf, the question of wherein the moral turpitude of

such relations lies, we should note that Hume himself does not really provide

an alternative account to that of the moral rationalist. Any attempt to remedy

this deficiency must therefore be somewhat speculative. An obvious place to

begin is with the following: ‘every immorality is deriv’d from some defect or

unsoundness of the passions’ (T, 3.2.2.8). In the case with which we are con-

cerned, natural parental affection, which normally acts as a restraint on the

authority exercised by parents (T, 3.2.2.4), has been transformed into sexual

feelings whose expression represents an abuse of that authority. Bearing in

mind that society originates in the institution of the family, where the love of

parents for their children provides the strongest tie of which the mind is capa-

ble (T, 2.2.4.2), it is unsurprising that Hume finds incest especially pernicious

as a crime or vice.

Now the defect or unsoundness of the passions involved in this kind of case

arises from a lack of self-command, a want of strength of mind (T, 2.3.3.10;

EPM, 6.15). As we saw in the last chapter, strength of mind is an especially

important aspect of what might be described as moral character. When we act

in accordance with the rules which prohibit sexual intercourse within certain

degrees of kindred we exhibit the superior influence of the calm passions, as

Hume classifies them, over any immediate temptations we may encounter. A

failure so to act results from the agent’s preference for a small enjoyment in

preference to the more distant advantage to be gained from adherence to the

rules which enable the family, and therefore society itself, to be preserved. It is

important to note that there is a further dimension to the case of human incest

which would help to distinguish it from the animal case. It might be argued

that animals – at least in the case of certain species – are subject to temptation

in the same kind of way as human beings. There is reason to suppose that ani-

mals are not always moved only by the prospect of the immediate gratification

of their bodily appetites – in some cases, for example, they display a reluctance

to engage in sexual relations with near relatives which may perhaps be

ascribed to a conflict of desires or passions (Clark 1985: 125). It is, of course,

another question whether this can really be thought of as a moral conflict; and

while one may claim to find the roots of conscience in such cases (Clark 1985:

117


126), it is surely implausible, at least, to suppose that they involve the kind of

self-disapproval typically associated with the temptations experienced by

human agents. In fact, there is another important feature of the violent pas-

sion associated with incest as a criminal act in humans which needs to be

taken into account here. Hume remarks that in those cases where an object

excites contrary passions, ‘we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a plea-

sure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful’ (T, 2.3.4.5). This

might be taken to indicate that temptation consists in more than a felt conflict

of passion or desire: it also reflects some conception or understanding of what

is morally or even legally permissible. Strictly speaking, then, an animal can-

not be tempted to perform incest: the violent passion by which it is excited

does not reflect the appeal of the forbidden or unlawful which provides the

source of temptation for a human agent in the grip of contrary passions.

Apart from the fact that animals ‘quickly lose sight of the relations of blood’

(T, 2.1.12.5; cf. T, 2.2.12.4), given their comparative inferiority in knowledge

and understanding, we need to recognise that they will for the same reason

also be incapable of the kind of morally significant conflict of desire or pas-

sion which we should expect to find in cases of human incest.

The question we now face is whether this interpretation of Hume’s remarks

about the moral difference between ourselves and animals comes into conflict

with his rejection of moral rationalism. Let us, then, consider Hume’s rejec-

tion in T, 3.1.1 of the view that moral distinctions are derived from reason.

This is the context in which Hume introduces the animal incest case in order

to illustrate the point that morality cannot be understood in terms of rela-

tions of ideas as the objects of reason.25 Why is human incest immoral or

criminal while animal incest is not? The rationalist, according to Hume, is

unable to provide any non-circular answer to this question; for if vice is an

object of reason it seems that it can only be a feature of the relations involved

and these may equally belong to the actions of animals as beings which are

recognised to be incapable of vice (or virtue).26 How, then, does this relate to

Hume’s views about the moral difference between ourselves and animals if, as

I have claimed, these have basically to do with our superiority in respect of

reason? Clearly what matters is how reason is supposed to contribute towards

our status as moral agents. Hume explicitly denies that reason itself may pro-

vide a motive for action, and this indeed forms a central part of his argument

in T, 3.1.1 against the rationalist account of moral distinctions. But the role

that reason plays in this kind of context is to make it is possible for someone

to have a motive whose intentional object renders that motive vicious. Thus,

while at one level the motive of the man who engages in sexual relations with

his daughter is that of lust, at another it is lust whose object is a girl or

woman recognised as the daughter of that man.27 We don’t condemn or dis-

approve of the man’s motive simply in respect of the feeling involved; but we

do condemn it in so far as it is knowingly directed towards his own daughter

(and, perhaps, on a recurring basis). Furthermore, we think that in this case


118

the feeling should be resisted in favour of the more ‘remote’ motive provided

by an interest or concern with the integrity of the family itself.

It is important to recognise that we do, for Hume, possess some degree of

rational control over the motives from which we act.28 We can, for example,

weigh our motives (EPM, 5.39). Thus, while there is a general tendency in

human beings ‘to over-look remote motives in favour of any present tempta-

tion’ (T, 3.2.12.5), we blame the person who acts on the basis of his present

motive or inclination in this kind of case to the extent that we think he is capa-

ble of being influenced by the ‘proper’ or virtuous motive (cf. T, 3.2.1.3). It

seems evident that this capacity for acting in accordance with a motive which

may run counter to one’s immediate inclination is inseparable from the ability

to engage in reflection (to the extent, for example, that it involves an assess-

ment of one’s greater interest), even though it is passion rather than reason

that ultimately determines one’s actions. All this is reflected in the case of

human incest, where the calm passions fail to outweigh the violent ones. This

provides us with an explanation of the moral difference between ourselves and

animals which, in so far as it concerns the distinctive features of our emotional

life, is consistent with Hume’s rejection of moral rationalism. But at the same

time this moral difference does reflect the principal point in which human

beings exhibit a superiority to animals, i.e. in respect of their reasoning capac-

ities. This emerges clearly from what Hume has to say about the calm passions:

All men, it is allowed, are equally desirous of happiness; but few are

successful in the pursuit: One considerable cause is the want of

STRENGTH of MIND, which might enable them to resist the temp-

tation of present ease or pleasure, and carry them forward in the

search of more distant profit and enjoyment. Our affections, on ageneral prospect of their objects, form certain rules of conduct, and

certain measures of preference of one above another: And these deci-

sions, though really the result of our calm passions and propensities

(for what else can pronounce any object eligible or the contrary?), are

yet said, by a natural abuse of terms, to be the determinations of

pure reason and reflection (EPM, 6.15; first emphasis mine).

There is a similar passage in the Dissertation:

What is commonly, in a popular sense, called reason, and is so much

recommended in moral discourses, is nothing but a general and a

calm passion, which takes a comprehensive and a distant view of itsobject, and actuates the will, without exciting any sensible emotion

(161, my emphasis).

These passages bring together important themes: the idea of strength of mind

as reflecting the superior influence of the calm passions in their opposition to

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the violent, and the idea that the operation of the calm passions may be mis-

taken for an activity of reason given the lack of emotion associated with

them.29 But we now see that there is a further dimension to the calm passions:

namely, that they issue in rules of conduct through a general, comprehensive

and distant view of their objects. Our ability to take this kind of view must

surely be a function of our distinctive reflective and imaginative capacities.

Animals are incapable of incest as a vice because their actions are not a result

of the opposition between the violent and calm passions; but this, in turn, is

because they are incapable, through their comparative inferiority of reason, of

those passions which take a more distant or general view of their objects.

Thus, the essential difference which Hume finds between human beings and

animals explains their different moral status in way that is, after all, consistent

with the central claims of his moral theory.30

IV

HUMANS AS SOCIAL BEINGS

The various points referred to above have a direct relevance to another crucial

point of difference, on Hume’s account, between humans and animals. This has

to do with our status as social beings. Our essentially social nature is reflected

in such institutions as property and the associated social virtues and vices. As

we have seen, however, animals are incapable of such relations as those of right

and property (T, 2.1.12.5). Hume in fact has an explanation for this difference

in the status of humans and animals. While in animals wants and means are

balanced (so that their appetites are proportioned to their means of satisfying

them), in humans there is an ‘unnatural conjunction of infirmity, and of neces-

sity’ (T, 3.2.2.2). Humans must labour to produce the food they require as well

as their clothing and shelter. This is possible only within society which enables

humans to combine forces to achieve collectively what they would be inca-

pable of individually, to divide labour so as to give scope to individual abilities,

and to provide mutual security. The ‘uniting principle’ in animals, however, is

provided entirely by instinct as opposed to reason and forethought (EPM,

Appendix 3.9n). The result, for Hume, is that our relations with animals cannot

themselves be social ones, for that would presuppose a degree of equality

which, as we have seen above, fails to obtain. Thus, it would appear that on

Hume’s account we could not strictly speaking enjoy relations of friendship

with animals to the extent that such relations lie principally among equals (‘Of

the Middle Station of Life’, Essays 547). This is not to say that animals them-

selves are incapable of any kind of social organisation; but Hume’s point

appears to be that animals are incapable of sharing the same community as that

to which humans belong. In Hume’s view, therefore, if we have any obligations

to animals they cannot be of the kind associated with justice, whose rules


120

precisely reflect our human condition. But even if we do find ourselves masters

of animal creation (Dialogues, 168) – so that animals may themselves be

counted among our possessions (see, for example, T, 2.1.2.5) – this does not

mean that we may simply treat animals as we please. For their combination of

a degree of rationality, with their inferior mental and bodily powers, binds us

‘by the laws of humanity to give gentle usage to these creatures’ (EPM, 3.18).

They are appropriate objects of our compassion and kindness, given our sym-

pathetic awareness of their pains and pleasures, even if they are strictly unable

to make any claims upon us.

There is a further aspect of our social nature which provides a crucial con-

trast with the situation of animals, and this has to do with our possession of

a language. The purpose of language is of course to enable individual human

beings to communicate with each other and in this way make possible, for

example, an ‘intercourse of sentiments’ (EPM, 5.42). Language arises through

a sense of common interest in the existence of such an institution, and is

comparable in this respect to systems of exchange in which gold and silver

become established as common measures (EPM, Appendix 3.8; T, 3.2.2.10).

The important point to recognise here is that in order for language to be

invented as the means for expressing universal sentiments (EPM, 9.8), its users

must themselves be capable of adopting the general view which makes the exis-

tence of such sentiments possible in so far as they arise from the general

interest (EPM, 5.42). Indeed, unless we take this general view we will be unable

to appreciate the common interest which is served by the institution of lan-

guage itself and which requires that, in order to communicate at all, we should

be prepared to adopt a disinterested perspective. Now we know that animals

are, for Hume, incapable of the general view associated with the operation of

the moral sense. They will also therefore fail to possess a language which pro-

vides the vehicle for judgements of approval and disapproval. So far Hume

might appear to endorse the argument by means of which Descartes tried to

establish that animals lack minds or souls, namely, that they have no lan-

guage. But, of course, what is established by the above observations is that

animals do not have a language like ours. It remains possible that some ani-

mals may nevertheless at least communicate their individual sentiments to

each other by means of the sounds they utter; and this is recognised by Hume

in his observation that animals have a kind of ‘natural speech’ that is intelli-

gible to their own species (Dialogues, 3, 55).

We should note that none of the respects in which we differ from animals

would, for Hume, justify us in attaching any special kind of cosmic signifi-

cance to our existence. In many ways the similarities between ourselves and

animals remain of greater importance than the differences. ‘The lives of men

depend upon the same laws as the lives of all other animals’, and ‘the life of

man is of no greater importance to the universe than that of an oyster’ (‘Of

Suicide’, Essays 582–3). Hume’s choice of the example of the oyster is striking

in view of the contrast he draws in the Treatise between our minds and that of

121


the oyster, which he evidently regards as being one of the lowest forms of life

(T, Appendix, 16). Whatever superiority we possess in relation to animals is to

be ascribed to nature, whose essentially impersonal laws govern our lives just

as they do those of other animals.

The above discussion has touched upon important respects in which, for

Hume, we might be considered to differ from non-human animals. I indicated

in the previous chapter that responsibility for action relates to certain distinc-

tive features of the self; in light of the above discussion, they appear to be ones

which belong only to human beings as such. In the following chapter I am

concerned in detail with Hume’s account of the nature of agency in which,

once more, important differences between ourselves and animals emerge.


122

7

HUME AND AGENCY

I now come to the topic with which I am directly concerned in this second part

of my discussion of Hume on the self: Hume’s view of the self as an agent. We

encounter here a number of issues that relate to the topics of previous chapters

as well as some important new issues concerning Hume’s view of the person or

self. I shall be discussing these various issues as follows. First, against the back-

ground of Hume’s reference to personal identity ‘as it regards our passions’

(T, 1.4.6.5; cf. 1.4.6.19), I wish to look more closely at Hume’s account of the

passions themselves in Book 2 of the Treatise. Apart from considering how this

bears on Hume’s view of the self and its identity, we will also be able to look in

more detail at the relation of the passions to action. These different aspects of

Hume’s discussion are in fact related to the extent that they have to do with the

important issue of what might be described as action-appropriation. It is some-

times thought that the agent emerges as a kind of fiction on Hume’s account,

but I shall argue that there is nothing fictitious about the Humean agent. I then

go on to examine Hume’s view of the nature of action itself where the passions

have such an important role to play; in doing so, I engage with an historically

and philosophically important critique of Hume’s account of action. Finally, I

consider how far Hume is able to allow for the possibility of rational agency

and I conclude with some remarks about his position in regard to the ideas of

responsibility and moral agency. In this way my discussion broadly follows the

structure of Book 2 of the Treatise though I can obviously do no more than

consider just some of the many issues of importance and interest with which

Hume is concerned there.1

I


AND THE PASSIONS2

The passions themselves, as we know, are classified by Hume as impressions

of reflection. The distinctive characteristic of such impressions, in

123

comparison with impressions of sensation, is that they occur only as the

result of the presence of other perceptions in the mind. (They may also

therefore be categorised as ‘secondary’ impressions while impressions of

sensation, on the other hand, are ‘original’ – T, 2.1.1.1.) Now there is a fur-

ther, crucial, distinction made by Hume between two kinds of passion: direct

and indirect (T, 2.1.1.4). Direct passions – which include such widely differ-

ent kinds of mental state as desire, aversion, joy, fear and despair – are said

to arise immediately from pain or pleasure (which Hume identifies as the

chief actuating principle of the mind – T, 3.3.1.2). Indirect passions (includ-

ing pride, humility, love and hatred) depend on the presence of certain

additional qualities. As we shall now see, the qualities on which pride and

humility depend have to do essentially with the self.

Let us consider what Hume says about pride, in particular, from the point

of view of the involvement in this passion of the self. First, pride is said by

Hume to have the same object as the contrary passion of humility – namely,

the self (T, 2.1.2.2).3 The reason Hume gives for saying this is that something

can be a source of one or other of these passions only in so far as it is con-

sidered in relation to oneself. Hume also seems to suggest here that we

should understand the reference to self in this context in accordance with

the bundle (or system) theory provided earlier in Treatise 1.4.6; for the self

which is an object of both pride and humility is a ‘succession of related

impressions and ideas’, or a ‘connected succession of perceptions’. Now

given that pride and humility are, after all, contrary passions the object

they have in common cannot, it appears, also function as their cause; we

must, in other words, distinguish between the cause and the object of these

passions (T, 2.1.2.3). It would seem, therefore, that the self cannot be the

cause of pride or humility. Yet the ‘natural’ and ‘more immediate’ causes of

these passions are ‘qualities of our mind and body, that is self’ (T, 2.1.9.1).

A person may be proud, among other things, of his wit, courage and

integrity, as well as his beauty, strength and agility (T, 2.1.2.5).We can see,

however, that the immediate cause of pride in these cases is not the self in

general, but rather some valuable quality, either of mind or body, which

belongs to the self. The less immediate causes of pride will at least be related

to the self – as in the case, for example, of one’s own family or such items of

property as a house or garden. The common factor in all these cases is that

the ‘subject’ of pride, to use Hume’s term, is a source of pleasure in its own

right. Thus, I am proud of my house, for example, on account of its beauty.

This is to say, for Hume, that I naturally take pleasure in this quality of the

house, and that my pleasure gives rise by association to the pleasurable sen-

sation of pride through the relation of the subject to myself. There is, as he

puts it, a ‘double relation of ideas and impressions’ from which the passion

is derived, i.e. the ideas of the cause – my house – and the object – myself;

and the impressions of pleasure arising from the cause and from the recog-

nition of my relation to that cause (T, 2.1.5.5, 9).4 As Hume acknowledges,


124

there are many other kinds of cause of pride (i.e. apart from qualities of

oneself, or of persons or things to which one has some close relation), but

they all have some relation to self and all of them are sources of pleasure

independently of that relation.

I now leave the details of Hume’s account of the indirect passions in order

to concentrate on the role given to the self in this account. We have seen that

the self is initially introduced in its role as the object of pride (and the con-

trary passion of humility or shame) in accordance with the bundle account

of the self as a connected succession of perceptions (cf. T, 2.1.2.3). But it is

clear even from what has been said above that this fails to capture the rele-

vant notion of self in this context. When I think of myself in relation to

something which is a source of pride – say, the beautiful house I own – it

seems obvious that I am thinking of more than my mind as a collection or

system of perceptions. Pride depends in this case on a relation of ownership

between me as the object of the passion and the house as its subject – but a

relation of this kind is possible only for an embodied self. Ownership of

property depends in general on a system of rules or conventions which

reflects the fact that we are social beings whose ‘outward circumstances’ are

shared with each other and give us an interest in establishing conventions

from which the ideas of justice, property, right and obligation arise (T, 3.2.2).

In most cases of pride, except perhaps where some quality of my own mind

is its subject,5 it seems that a similar notion of self will be involved. It is not

surprising, therefore, to see some shift in the way in which Hume charac-

terises the self as the object of pride in the course of his discussion of this

passion. Thus, Hume follows a discussion of the distinctive relations among

the perceptions involved in pride by saying that its object (like that of humil-

ity) is self ‘or that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each

of us is intimately conscious’ (T, 2.1.5.3; my emphasis). In similar fashion, he

begins his discussion of the indirect passions of love and hatred by remind-

ing us that ‘the immediate object of pride and humility is self, or that

identical person, of whose thoughts, actions, and sensations we are inti-

mately conscious’ (T, 2.2.1.2; second emphasis mine). There seems no reason

to doubt that Hume has in mind here bodily actions as items of conscious-

ness: that the self to which Hume is referring is a flesh and blood person who

from one point of view is the object of pride and from another – that of a

fellow human being recognising that person’s relations to some appropriate

subject or cause – is the object of love. In fact, this reflects Hume’s recogni-

tion that the corresponding qualities of the immediate cause of pride (and

humility) may be some quality of body as well as of mind. In sum, then, it

seems that the self as the object of the indirect passions of pride and humil-

ity is an agent and one whose identity has to do with more than relations

among the perceptions of the mind (Rorty 1990: 258). To the extent that

qualities of the body may be causes of pride or humility, it would seem also

to be a mistake to identify the idea of the self which is a source of these

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passions with the self as regards thought and the imagination with which

Hume is concerned in T, 1.4.6.

The indirect passions and one’s past actions

In one way, at least, the connection between the agency aspect of the self and

indirect passions like pride and humility is a straightforward one. For the

subjects of these passions may themselves be inseparable from our actions.

Thus, Hume claims that vice and virtue are the most obvious causes of pride

or humility (T, 2.1.7.2) – and we know that while these moral qualities do

not, for Hume, reside in actions themselves, they supply the motives from

which actions derive their merit or demerit (T, 3.2.1.2). Although it may be

true that, strictly speaking, ‘Actions themselves . . . have no influence on

love or hatred, pride or humility’, they may as indicators of the mental qual-

ities of virtue and vice be associated with these indirect passions (T,

3.3.1.4–5). These passions function in the context of a self-survey in which

we reflect on the way that we appear to others (T, 3.3.1.26), where the com-

plex process of sympathy arises from actions either of one’s present or past

self. A crucial part of the self-concern to which Hume refers in relation to

the agency aspect of personal identity, is evidently a concern with our own

past actions.6 In this respect, memory will once again play a crucial role: it

may not make us the same selves as those responsible for these actions in the

past, but it enables us to be aware of our involvement in those actions. We

know that on one account of what might be described as ‘action-appropri-

ation’, what make a certain past action my action is precisely my ability to

remember that action (or more precisely, perhaps, to remember performingthat action).7 According to Hume, however, we can extend our identity to

comprehend actions we are no longer able to recall. This presumes that it is

possible to have ‘external’ evidence of our having acted in certain ways, for

example, through the testimony of others. Hume himself appears to be refer-

ring to a situation of this latter kind in the following passage where he

touches on what is distinctive about the ‘internal’ awareness of a past action

provided by personal memory:

It frequently happens, that when two men have been engag’d in any

scene of action, the one shall remember it much better than the other,

and shall have all the difficulty in the world in making his companion

recollect it. He runs over several circumstances in vain; mentions the

time, the place, the company, what was said, what was done on all

sides; till at last he hits on some lucky circumstance, that revives the

whole, and gives his friend a perfect memory of everything. Here the

person that forgets receives at first all the ideas from the discourse of

the other, with the same circumstances of time and place; tho’ he

considers them as mere fictions of the imagination. But as soon as the


126

circumstance is mention’d, that touches the memory, the very same

ideas now appear in a new light, and have, in a manner, a different

feeling from what they had before. Without any other alteration,

beside that of the feeling, they become immediately ideas of the

memory, and are assented to (T, 1.3.5.4).

The experience most of us have had of something ‘coming back’ to us in just

this kind of way provides an especially vivid illustration of the distinctive phe-

nomenology of memory to which Hume refers when he talks of the feeling

associated with the ideas involved. But it seems possible that in this kind of

case a person might come to accept a past action as his own on the basis of

the testimony he is given (rather than treating these ideas as ‘fictions of the

imagination’). The fact that a past action may be appropriated in this way

reinforces Hume’s claim about the possibility of personal identity being

extended beyond memory.

It seems evident that I can be concerned with my past actions – and thus, for

example, feel proud or ashamed of them – only if they are indeed my actions,

i.e. the actions of the same person who is now concerned with them. But what

of Hume’s account of personal identity in T, 1.4.6 as a fiction? Does this not

simply exclude any possibility of describing certain past actions, for example,

as my actions (Rorty 1990: 258). There appear to be two ways of responding

to this, reflecting the contrast with which we have just been concerned. On the

one hand, my personal memory of an action consists in an idea which stands

in a distinctive relationship to the action itself (one of both resemblance and

causation). In other words, the action – or, at least, the experience of per-

forming it – forms part of that ongoing (if not, strictly speaking, identical)

system of perceptions which makes up the self and, to that extent, it belongsto the self. If, on the other hand, my involvement in the action is revealed only

through external evidence, then it seems that what makes it my action is the

fact that the same body is involved. ‘Personal identity . . . as it regards our pas-

sions or the concern we take in ourselves’ reflects the fact that persons are

embodied minds and that it is possible to recognise an action as mine – and for

me to feel pride or shame concerning the action – on the basis of evidence of

bodily continuity alone.

An important point that emerges from the above is that the self which pro-

vides the object of the indirect passions of pride and humility is a relatively

enduring self. This emerges from some of the conditions which, according to

Hume, distinguish these indirect passions from direct passions like joy and

grief (the topic of T, 2.1.6).8 Thus, one such condition concerns the constancy

of the cause or the duration of its connection with ourselves as the object of

the passion (T, 2.1.6.7). Indeed, we may become aware of the inconstancy of

a cause when ‘We compare it to ourselves, whose existence is more durable’.

The self in this context is clearly more than just a collection of momentary

perceptions. At the same time, its comparative durability cannot, of course, be

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ascribed to the existence of an underlying substantial mind or soul. It is a

matter, rather, of features associated with the self as an agent. These include

the possibility of appropriating one’s past actions through personal memory

as well as anticipating one’s future actions through perceptions which presently

belong to the mind. Apart from this there are features of the mind itself which

are themselves relatively durable: in particular, as we have seen, the traits

which make up a person’s character. Thus, a person may be concerned in cer-

tain past actions of his not merely because the same bodily self is involved, or

even because he is able personally to remember performing these actions, but

also because he remains the same sort of person as the one who performed

them. Indeed, it is this last factor, as we know, that is crucial in Hume’s

account for ascribing responsibility to the person for his past actions

(T, 2.3.2.7; EHU, 8.30). This aspect of the comparative durability of the self –

the possession of traits of character – is what makes it possible for us to be

moral agents and, hence, for our actions to give rise to the moral sentiments of

approval and disapproval.

The passions and one’s future actions

Now as I have indicated, self-concern has to do with one’s future actions as

well as those which belong to one’s present or past. What light is shed on this

by what Hume has to say about the passions themselves? We may note, first,

that some passions are by their nature concerned with the future, as in the case

of the direct passions of hope and fear which have to do in many cases with

the probability of pain or pleasure (T, 2.3.9.19–31). Again, desire and aversion

relate to the prospect of pain and pleasure (T, 2.3.3.3). An immediate connec-

tion between myself now (or in the past) and my future self is established by

the fact that my motives and intentions – which obviously include ones that

have previously been formed – function as causes of my actions. It is the exis-

tence of this kind of relation that makes them my actions, part of the

continuing narrative in which I as a person consist along with their mental

causes. We have also seen that Hume identifies strength of mind or character

with the ability to act in accordance with one’s longer-term interest even at the

expense of immediate gratification (T, 2.3.3.10). This makes a vital connection

between the actions one performs at present and oneself in the future. This

aspect of self-concern could be expressed in terms of an identification with a

self in the future: an identification which essentially depends upon the opera-

tion of the passions (McIntyre: 1989: 553). Of course, this future self is not

one with which I can be, in Hume’s terms, strictly identical. Rather, what is

involved in this kind of case is recognising that I have certain interests which

extend to myself in the future; that these interests are in conflict with the

direction of my immediate desires; and that acting in accordance with these

interests will, for example, enable me to preserve a character with myself and

with others (EPM, 9.11). To this extent I identify my interests with those of


128

this future self which will benefit from my acting now in accordance with

calm rather than violent passions.

We can perhaps more easily understand this aspect of self-concern – i.e.

with oneself in the future – by reference to the role which might be played here

by sympathy as a principle by which anticipated pains and pleasures may

impinge on one’s present emotional state (T, 2.2.9.13–14). What Hume says

here seems to allow for the possibility that sympathy in this extended sense

may enable me to identify my interest with that of some future person or self

(McIntyre 1989: 555–6). Thus, he indicates that we may ‘feel by communica-

tion the pains and pleasures of others . . . which we only anticipate by the force

of imagination’. And he continues thus:

Sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an impres-

sion, ’tis evident, that, in considering the future possible or probable

condition of any person, we may enter into it with so vivid a concep-

tion as to make it our own concern; and by that means be sensible of

pains and pleasures, which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the

present instant have any real existence (T, 2.2.9.12).

While sympathy is explicitly contrasted with self-concern (T, 3.3.3.2; cf.

2.2.2.17), it is a mechanism or process which is facilitated by the relations of

contiguity and resemblance (the latter including similarities in character –

T, 2.2.4.6). Bearing in mind also our ‘wonderful partiality for ourselves’

(T, 3.3.2.10; cf. T, 2.1.11.9), it would not seem an undue distortion of what

Hume says about sympathy to take the reference to ‘any person’ in the above

passage to include our own future selves. The idea of pains or pleasures which

I am in a position to anticipate could presumably be enlivened by its associa-

tion with my present impression of self, given also the similarities I might

suppose to exist between myself now and in the future, in accordance with

Hume’s general characterisation of sympathy (for example, in T, 2.1.11). The

result of this kind of process is that the idea of my undergoing certain experi-

ences in the future would be converted into sentiments or passions of the

kind anticipated. This gives a further dimension to the notion of an identifi-

cation with one’s own future self whose interests would impinge in this way

upon the self with which one is concerned at present. (Hume’s description in

T, 2.3.9 of the effects on the direct passions of the different degrees of proba-

bility with which pain or pleasure may be anticipated vividly conveys what is

involved in this kind of identification.) Of course, one has to make allowance

here for general properties of the imagination, such as the fact that the idea of

what is near to us in time tends to influence the will and passions more force-

fully than that of what is distant in time (T, 3.2.7.2). But between the extremes

of what we might expect to be like in thirty years time and what might happen

to us tomorrow (T, 2.3.7.3) there is considerable scope for the interests of

ourselves in the future to affect our passions in the present.9

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We might also note in this context the part played by general rules in

Hume’s account of the operation of sympathy. Thus, he appeals to this

notion in order to explain how we can be engaged in a sympathetic relation

to non-existent passions. For experience suggests that in the cases concerned

a certain kind of passion would normally occur, and there is therefore a gen-

eral rule which so affects the imagination that we respond as though the

person in question really were actuated by the passion (T, 2.2.7.5). We can

presumably in the same way have expectations about the passions which we

might expect to experience in the future under foreseeable circumstances,

and so be sympathetically engaged at the moment in the passions of that

future self. What is relevant here is a general feature of sympathy to which

Hume refers elsewhere: namely, that it ‘is not always limited to the present

moment, but that we often feel by communication the pains and pleasures of

others . . . which we only anticipate by the force of imagination’ (T, 2.2.9.13).

This extension of sympathy into the future is facilitated by awareness of the

person’s present condition; our awareness of the perceptions we experience

at present perhaps similarly enables us to conceive more vividly our own cir-

cumstances in the future and to have that special concern with them that

belongs to the self as agent. Just as ‘The sentiments of others can never

affect us, but by becoming, in some measure our own’ (T, 3.3.2.3), our con-

cern with ourselves in the future would seem also to depend on the operation

of a similar kind of extensive sympathy.

We should be aware of the relevance to our present topic of what was said

earlier about the self as a narrative construct. My concern both with my past

and my future actions can be represented as an attempt to view them as

belonging to the same narrative whose order and structure depends on the

existence of causal relations between its past, present and future states. From

this point of view, pride and humility may be seen as passions having a dis-

tinctive relation to the identity of the self to the extent that they attach a

particular weight or significance to the items of a biography or narrative

(Rorty 1990: 263). The kinds of past qualities and actions in which I take pride

reveal the kind of person I am – the way in which I am motivated and liable to

act in the future in light of these motives. While the indirect passions of pride

and humility are not directly motivating (T, 2.2.6.3, 2.2.9.2), they are able to

give additional motivating force to the direct passions of desire and aversion

(T, 2.3.9.4). As a person or self whose identity is in this way related to the oper-

ation of pride (and humility) my actions are therefore more than simple

responses to pain and pleasure – they are parts of the history or biography of

a self conceived in a certain way. In this respect, the way in which we as

humans are motivated by the direct passions – i.e. by reference to how we con-

ceive of ourselves – differs from the way in which such passions motivate the

actions of animals. We should note that this provides us with a positive answer

to the question raised by Rorty (1990: 264), of whether the self as agent is a

more stable structure than the self of Treatise 1.4.6. While it is true that in


130

some respects the sources of a person’s pride may change, with consequent

changes in the way that he is liable to be motivated, the underlying traits

which constitute that person’s virtues and vices – the chief focus of the indirect

passions – provide a crucial source of continuity. This is not to say, of course,

that the person retains an identity in the strict sense which excludes any pos-

sibility of change; but change will occur in the context of a narrative which

exhibits an important degree of coherence.

Is the agent a Humean fiction?

The question arises here as to whether there is, for Hume, a kind of ‘fiction’

underlying our ordinary notion of personal agency: one which would provide

a counterpart to the fiction which Hume claims to find in our idea of per-

sonal identity as it concerns the thought and imagination. It has indeed been

suggested that the idea of the agent that emerges from Hume’s account of the

passions – and, in particular, of the indirect passions of pride and humility –

is a fictional one (Rorty 1990: 255, 257). Now the Humean fiction here would

presumably be the ascription of a strict identity to the self considered from

the point of view of the passions and self-concern as well as from that of the

thought and imagination. Hume does not in fact directly attribute such a fic-

tional idea of the self as agent to us though it is arguable that this would be

consistent with other features of his philosophical position. (The imagination

might presumably be affected by the relation between our perceptions as

agents – the passions, the consciousness of actions performed now or in the

past, and our imagined actions in the future – in something like the way it is

affected by the relations among the perceptions of the mind generally so as to

generate the fictional idea of the self as a continuous entity.) It is open to

question whether our ordinary notion of ourselves as agents does treat the

self as something substantial that lies behind the actions for which it is

responsible – and, if so, whether Hume’s account of the self as agent can

really do justice to this notion. But it seems clear from what we have seen

above that, for Hume, there is nothing fictitious about the idea of the self as

an agent, i.e. as a being which is capable of appropriating actions in the dis-

tinctive way associated with personal memory, which is concerned in these

actions as well as those which it is motivated to perform in the future (to the

extent that it may even be said to identify itself with the agent concerned),

and which contributes to the causes of the indirect passions of pride and

humility as well as providing their object.

While Hume’s account of sympathy in the Treatise is a topic to be consid-

ered in its own right,10 it is worth saying a little more here about its role in

relation to the self as agent. We have seen that one aspect of this role is the way

that a person’s survey of himself is bound up with a sympathetic awareness of

how he is regarded by others. Sympathy also enters into our choice of role

models and the way that this affects our capacity to bring about changes in our

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own character and, hence, the nature of ourselves as agents. Given the gener-

ally beneficial and pleasing consequences of virtuous traits, and our capacity

for registering these consequences in our sympathetic response to those who

experience them, it will be natural for us to cultivate such traits in ourselves

(though there are always the possible obstacles presented by our short-term

desires, etc.). At the same time, the sympathetically experienced approval of

others in relation to our exercise of such traits will reinforce the tendency to

act in accordance with them, with the implications this has for the nature of

ourselves as agents. But through the operation of sympathy we also come to

share the feelings of others and this itself has a complex relationship to the

way that we are motivated to act. There will inevitably be some interaction in

this latter case with the enduring motives associated with our own character.

For these motives will condition the way in which we respond as a result of our

registering the feelings of others.

II

HUME ON THE NATURE OF ACTION

So far I have been concerned with Hume’s account of the self as agent in so far

as this emerges from his theory of the passions. I turn now directly to the ques-

tion of what sort of account Hume has to give of action itself; this will enable

me to consider whether this account may be reconciled with Hume’s concep-

tion of the self. So far as the former question is concerned, part of what is at

issue is how the self considered as a bundle of perceptions may be considered

capable of action. How, one might wonder, can a bundle do anything?11 Even

if we allow for the fact that the mind, so understood, is embodied, it might still

seem unclear how this provides for the existence of agency.

It appears that the essential conditions for action, on Hume’s account, are

the occurrence of volition and an effect in the form of bodily movement or the

occurrence of an idea (EHU, 7.9).12 In discussing this view I will concentrate

on action as involving a bodily effect, although I shall also touch on the nature

of activity within the mind. Now we should notice that agency in the sense that

Hume has in mind here is a pervasive phenomenon; for the behaviour of non-

human animals also exemplifies the relation between volition and bodily

movement (T, 2.3.9.32). There is a simple explanation of this fact, namely, that

animals are, like us, susceptible to pleasure and pain of which volition is the

immediate effect. This immediately suggests that there are really different

notions of agency to be considered in this part of our treatment of Hume on

the self. One of these is what might be described as a thin notion which allows

for the fact that there is a sense in which agency may be ascribed to non-

human as well as to human animals. The other will be a comparatively thick

notion which has to do with what is distinctive of human selves as such – an


132

issue on which I have at least touched in the preceding discussion. I will say

more about the importance of this distinction below.

Let us look in a little more detail at action considered from the point of

view of the thin notion of agency. The psychological structure of action,

considered from this point of view, appears to take the following form. We

experience a sensation of pleasure or pain and react accordingly with either

desire or aversion – and, where opportunities for appropriate action are

available, with volition. When these sensations are anticipated we experience

a number of possible direct passions which may motivate us to act in one

way or another; and our relation to the causes of the pleasure or pain will

result in the occurrence of a variety of indirect passions (T, 3.3.1.2). These

are all action structures which may also be exhibited in the behaviour of

non-human animals. As these structures become more complex, they pre-

suppose a degree of intelligence or understanding sufficient to recognise the

appropriateness of acting in response to our passions in one way rather than

another. Thus, our actions – and indeed those of animals, up to a point –

provide evidence of our thoughts, feelings, and impulses, and more generally

the character with which they are associated.

Let us return to the simplest case of physical action, where we engage in vol-

untary movement. Hume has some interesting remarks to make about this

kind of case. His particular concern is the question of what sort of knowledge

of cause and effect is revealed by this instance of agency. As we know, Hume

insists that in this – as in all cases – our knowledge of cause and effect depends

entirely upon experience (EHU, 7.10, 13). But experience fails to reveal any tie

which binds together volition and bodily movement (EHU, 7.26; cf.

T, 1.3.14.12); all that it reveals, in fact, is a relation of constant conjunction

between them (EHU, 8.16; cf. T, 2.3.1.4–5).13 Our belief that we are able, by

volition, to produce bodily movement perhaps reflects ignorance about the

physiological antecedents of action; for it appears that the immediate effects of

volition in this case are confined to muscular contractions or the movements

of ‘animal spirits’ (EHU, 7.14). And even then, we are presumably unaware of

the way in which these immediate effects arise. So the picture that emerges is

that we are agents in virtue of the fact that there is some (indirect) causal rela-

tion between our volitions and the bodily movements with which they are

regularly associated. This, in effect, is Hume’s answer to the question of what

distinguishes an action – such as my raising my arm, to take the usual philo-

sophical example – from a mere bodily movement such as my arm rising

(Wittgenstein 1963: § 621). The difference consists in the fact that the bodily

movement involved in the former case has a mental cause in the form of an act

of volition. That there is nothing necessary about this mental/physical relation

is brought out by the fact that, as Hume points out, volition may fail to result

in the bodily movement which is its normal object – as in the case of someone

suddenly struck with palsy (EHU, 7.13). This same case, incidentally, might be

used to justify the claim that there are such things as volitions, as distinct

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from bodily movements, though Hume himself appears simply to take the

existence of volitions for granted (EHU, 7.20).14

I should like at this point to pursue an important critique – that of Thomas

Reid – of Hume’s conception of agency which bears directly on the question of

how far it is possible to offer a satisfactory account of action given the view of

the self at which Hume arrives in Book 1 of the Treatise. This critique arises

from Reid’s claim that there are common principles which provide the founda-

tion of all reasoning. These include the first principle that the thoughts of which

I am conscious are thoughts which belong to myself, my mind, and Reid evi-

dently sees Hume as committed to denying this in so far as he regards the mind

itself as a bundle or succession of perceptions (1969a: 620–22, 1997: ch. 2 vi,

32–5). I have already dealt with this kind of objection in Chapter 2. Here I

would only note, first, that Hume cannot be fairly accused, as he is by Reid, of

‘annihilating’ the mind simply to the extent that he attempts to provide a reduc-

tionist account of it, although that account might of course encounter other

kinds of objection; and second, that one such objection of Reid’s – namely, that

Hume is committed to the view that a succession of perceptions is capable, for

example, of being conscious of itself – misrepresents the kind of account Hume

gives of particular kinds of mental state or operation.15 But there is a more gen-

eral point underlying Reid’s critique which is directly relevant to the issue of

what might be described as mental agency. This is that the mind or self cannot

be construed as a succession of perceptions precisely because it is active, while

perceptions themselves are simply the discontinuous objects of such activity

(1969a: II iv, 341). There is evidently a deep-rooted disagreement here about the

ways in which we may intelligibly talk about the mind which goes beyond an

appeal to points about ordinary language. On the one hand, there is Hume’s

view that talk of a person’s remembering something, for example, is to be under-

stood as a reference to the occurrence of a certain kind of perception within the

set or bundle that comprises that person’s mind; on the other hand, there is

Reid’s view that such talk is to be understood as referring to the activity of a

mind as something distinct from its thoughts and memories. The principle to

which Reid appeals here is that ‘every act or operation . . . supposes an agent’

(1969a: I ii, 37) – a principle which he takes to apply to the acts and operations

of the mind itself. Hume is apparently committed to denying that thoughts,

memories, etc., are genuinely acts, as opposed to events involving the occurrence

of certain perceptions (more especially, ones involving causal relations both

between particular perceptions and also between perceptions themselves and

corresponding states of the brain). This consequence of denying the existence of

a separate self, i.e. as an agent distinct from its thoughts and memories, might

perhaps be considered counter-intuitive but it has yet to be established that it

involves Hume in an incoherence (Lesser 1978: 48–50).

The further issue that arises between Hume and Reid concerns the nature of

actions themselves. We have seen above how Hume would distinguish between

an action such as that of my raising an arm and, on the other hand, a mere


134

bodily movement, such as my arm going up; but Reid is evidently committed

to a very different kind of account of this distinction. The crucial notion to

which Reid appeals is that of active power (hence, of course, the title of his

book on this aspect of the human mind). While Hume holds that the cause of

an ordinary (bodily) action is a volition of the agent, Reid’s suggestion is that

the action is brought about by the agent himself as the cause of what he does

deliberately and voluntarily (1969b: IV, ii, 268). He is, in other words, com-

mitted to a view of action which might be described as agent causation.16

Human actions proceed from agents who, by virtue of their possession of

active power, are able to produce change. On this view, an action cannot be dis-

tinguished from a bodily movement merely by the prior occurrence of an act

of will or volition, for the latter itself must be regarded as the effect of an

agent. This account of action reflects Reid’s claim that the notion of cause is

to be understood as referring, strictly speaking, to efficient causation, as con-

sisting in the power to make something happen; while this kind of active

power can be exerted only by an agent.

Reid’s rejection of Hume’s account of action thus derives from a disagree-

ment about the notion of causation itself. Reid sees Hume as committed to a

definition of cause and effect in terms of constant conjunction which may

readily be refuted by a form of reductio ad absurdum argument (1969b: IV ix,

334–35). Hume’s account of what it is to be an agent is also lacking to the

extent that it fails to allow for what Reid calls ‘moral liberty’, which consists

precisely in a power over the determinations of the will (1969b: 259). Reid

explicitly rejects, for example, the notion (ascribed to Hobbes, but apparently

also endorsed by Hume in the Treatise) that liberty consists in nothing more

than being able to act in accordance with our volitions (1969b: IV, i, 263). As

for those factors that are liable to influence volition – such as, for example,

motives – they are not themselves causes or agents: they presuppose an effi-

cient cause, namely, the agent himself (1969b: IV iv, 283–4). The latter provides

us with our only notion of causation and power, for Reid agrees with Hume

that our experience of external objects enables us to perceive only one event

being followed by another (1969b: IV vi, 305). He also agrees that power

cannot be an object of consciousness: the mental operations of which we are

conscious are exercises of power, but ‘the power lies behind the scene’ (1969b:

I i, 6). In Hume’s terms, power is an idea neither of sensation nor reflection;

and the same is true of the idea of efficient causation (1969b: IV ii, 279,

1969a: VI v, 628). Nevertheless, while there is no direct counterpart in experi-

ence to the idea of power, and while the idea itself is simple and indefinable

(1969b: I i, 4), our awareness of ourselves as agents is supposed to provide us

with some conception of active power (1969b: I v, 36). In fact, Reid identifies

belief in the possession of active power as one of common sense (1969b: IV vi,

313), a belief which is implicit in the exercise of volition (1969b: I i, 18–19, IV

ii, 269); and in so far as we have such a belief we must also, Reid argues, pos-

sess the corresponding notion (1969b: IV vi, 305).

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HUME AND AGENCY

It is difficult to evaluate this disagreement between Reid and Hume as to the

nature of action and the extent to which it provides us with any genuine notion

of active power. This is at least in part because there is so much on which they

agree. In fact some of Reid’s remarks about human power contain striking

echoes of Hume himself:

We perceive one event to follow another, according to established

laws of nature, and we are accustomed to call the first the cause, and

the last the effect, without knowing what is the bond that unites them

(1969b: I vii, 56).

Reid also agrees that while we know that bodily action involves the occurrence

of muscular contractions, we are quite ignorant as to the physiological

antecedents of these latter events (1969b: I vii, 49–50). Reid even goes so far as

to say that ‘The power of man over his own and other minds, when we trace it

to its origin, is involved in darkness’ (1969b: I vii, 55). In fact, Reid admits that

it is impossible to determine just how far we are efficient as opposed to occa-

sional causes. We have no direct conception of power but only one which is

relative to its causes and effects (1969b: I i, 7–10). This does not prevent Reid

from saying something about those features of agents involved in their posses-

sion of active power – in particular, about the essential connection between

active power and reason or understanding (for example, 1969b: I v, 35; IV i,

263). But not only does our ignorance cast doubt on how far we are the efficient

causes of our actions, there is also the question of what the idea of active

power really involves given its supposed indefinability and lack of direct coun-

terpart in our experience. Once again, Reid’s position might be thought to be

remarkably close to that of Hume himself. Thus, Hume stresses the inade-

quacy of our idea of power (T, 1.4.14.10) and the fact that we have no clear or

determinate idea of this kind (T, 1.4.14.14). But this is not necessarily to say

that no meaning at all can be given to the idea. Hume’s considered view on the

matter is provided in the following passage:

Upon the whole, then, either we have no idea at all of force and

energy, and these words are altogether insignificant, or they can mean

nothing but that determination of the thought, acquired by habit, to

pass from the cause to its usual effect (Abstract, 26).

The challenge for Reid is to show that a different meaning from the one pro-

vided by Hume may be given to the idea of power if the notion of agency is

not to reduce to that of constant conjunction between acts of volition and the

corresponding bodily movements.

Hume’s account of agency – in so far as it relates to the self conceived as a

bundle of perceptions – has to be expressed in terms of what happens to a

bundle. It acquires the capacity for bringing about change to the extent that


136

certain kinds of perception occur within the bundle. While it is, perhaps,

scarcely intelligible to ascribe agency to a bundle as such, it is much less obvi-

ous that a system may not also be an agent. To pursue Hume’s own analogy,

we are accustomed to the idea that a republic or commonwealth may act in a

certain way – that, for example, it may pass laws, establish constitutions,

engage in warfare, and so on. If a republic is thus capable of agency this is

obviously to be credited to the activities of some, at least, of its members. The

comparison which Hume finds here with the self and its identity is suggestive.

When a person acts, various perceptions are typically involved: volitions,

desires, aversions, passions and beliefs. But their contribution to action will

reflect the different roles which these perceptions play in the overall mental

economy. There is, of course, a significant difference between the case of the

self and the supposed analogy of the republic. The members of a republic who

make it possible for that republic to act in a certain way are themselves agents;

but Hume obviously does not intend to explain how individuals are capable of

action by treating their perceptions as agents in their own right. His claim is,

rather, that the causal relations among perceptions themselves together with

their effects, in the case of volition, on movements of the body, are sufficient

to account for the phenomenon of action. As we saw in Chapter 3, Hume

would resist any demand for an explanation as to how certain perceptions

bring about bodily movements on the ground that no causal relation is ulti-

mately explicable or intelligible.

We need to turn next to the thicker notion of agency distinguished earlier

in order to arrive at a view as to why only human beings, apparently, can be

credited with the capacity for moral agency, i.e. with the capacity for actions

to which notions such as that of praise and blame, punishment and reward,

may be applied.

III

MORAL AGENCY

My present topic, then, is that of what constitutes moral agency on Hume’s

view.17 However, before I turn directly to this topic I want to consider first

what might be said about the notion of rational agency as a possible distin-

guishing feature of human persons or selves.

What is it, then, to be a rational agent? Hume’s position on this question will

have to reflect his account of the influencing motives of the will (in T, 2.3.3).

On this account, as we have seen previously, it is passion rather than reason

that motivates us to act – indeed, reason itself is ‘impotent’ in regard to pro-

ducing or preventing actions (T, 3.1.1.6). We should not, however, infer that

because reason has no direct motivating force then it cannot have any bearing

on our actions. Apart from the fact, to which Hume himself draws attention,

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HUME AND AGENCY

that reason contributes to the formation and direction of our passions (T,

2.3.3.7), it is also associated with intellectual virtues which, in Hume’s words,

have ‘a considerable influence on conduct’ (EPM, Appendix 4.2). How is this

influence possible? Consider what Hume has to say about wisdom, a mental

quality which consists in the proportioning of belief to the evidence (EHU,

10.4), as a virtue: one of which we approve on account of its utility to the

agent himself (T, 3.3.4.8; EPM, 6.16–17).18 While a virtue of this kind cannot

itself provide a motive for action, it is nevertheless associated with a certain

kind of motive, namely, love of the truth (T, 2.3.10), which provides the impe-

tus for scientific and philosophical inquiry and also manifests itself in natural

curiosity. Indirectly, then, reason can play a significant part in our actions.

When it does so more is evidently involved than merely a causal relation

between the direct passions, as immediate effects of pain and pleasure, and our

volitions and subsequent actions. It is natural to wonder whether, on Hume’s

account, the voluntary responses of non-human animals may exhibit this fur-

ther rational dimension. Hume seems to allow for this possibility when he

distinguishes between

those actions of animals, which are of a vulgar nature, and seem to be

on a level with their common capacities, and those more extraordi-

nary instances of sagacity, which they sometimes discover for their

own preservation, and the propagation of their species (T, 1.3.16.5).

Hume’s choice of example to illustrate behaviour of the latter kind, nest-

building behaviour in birds, may not be an especially appropriate one. (Hume

could not have been aware of evidence that we now have to show that even

complex forms of behaviour of this kind may be no more than innate routines

which fail to allow for changes of circumstance which render them inappro-

priate.) But Hume’s general point – that animal behaviour does at least in some

instances reflect a degree of thought and reason – seems well justified. The

crucial consideration, in Hume’s terms, is that ‘As you vary this experience [cf.

the experience from which the animal’s inferences are drawn], he varies his rea-

soning’ (T, 1.3.16.7). In displaying a capacity for taking account of relevant

changes to its usual situation the animal’s behaviour appears to be more than

just a stereotyped response to certain direct passions.

There is, however, a further dimension to rational agency beyond the

capacity for adapting behaviour to varying circumstances. This has to do

with the ability to form plans or projects for the future as well as responding

to the demands of the present. Consider, for example, the case of someone

whose actions are skilfully directed towards satisfying his immediate desires,

but who seems quite unable to act in accordance with his longer term inter-

ests. While we obviously do not expect people always to act on the basis of

what will be in their greater interest, someone who appeared never to do so

would surely be considered less than rational. The kind of person I am


138

describing – the wanton, to use Frankfurt’s label – would scarcely qualify

even as a normal human being (Frankfurt 1982: 86). Hume, as we know,

attempts to capture this point in terms of a distinction between two kinds of

passion: the calm and the violent. The former go beyond the immediate expe-

rience of pain or pleasure and take into account the real interest or advantage

to the agent of acting in a certain way. Thus, while it may be true that we

often act knowingly against our interest, we do have the ability to act in

opposition to a violent passion in pursuit of our interests and designs (T,

2.3.3.10).When we exercise this ability the calmness of the passions by which

we are motivated may result in our mistaking them for ‘determinations of

reason’ (T, 2.3.3.8); but in so far as they take account of our longer-term

interests such passions reflect the distinctive features of our status as rational

beings. It appears that while animals are, on Hume’s account, motivated by

certain instincts which may be included among the calm passions, they lack

the rational ability to form a conception of their longer-term interest and,

therefore, to exhibit what Hume calls strength of mind.19

The difference we appear to find here between human and animal agency

also relates to Hume’s position in regard to liberty and necessity. Once more

we find a distinction between relatively thin and thick versions of the notions

involved. In the terms that Hume employs in the Treatise, the notion of liberty

that applies to human actions is what he calls ‘liberty of spontaneity’ which

appears to consist essentially in freedom from constraint. This is to be con-

trasted with ‘liberty of indifference’, which would amount to acting in a way

that is uncaused, at least to the extent that the will itself is ‘subject to nothing’

(T, 2.3.2.1–2). It seems plain that the actions of animals may exhibit liberty of

the former kind, in so far as they are neither merely capricious nor the prod-

uct of any kind of external constraint (Frankfurt 1982: 90). In the first EnquiryHume defines this notion of liberty rather narrowly as consisting in ‘a powerof acting or not acting, according to the determinations of the will’ (EHU, 8.23).

This is the basis on which he engages in the ‘reconciling project’ of showing

that the doctrines of liberty and necessity are in fact compatible. There is, how-

ever, a stronger or ‘thicker’ notion of liberty at play in Hume’s discussion

(both in the Treatise and the first Enquiry) which bears on the issue of moral

or legal responsibility. We are not blamed or punished for actions performed

in ignorance of their nature or consequences – but this is precisely because

such actions are not caused by our characters or mental dispositions

(T, 2.3.2.6–7; EHU, 8.29–30). 20 In other words, it appears that human agents

possess what might be described as a certain kind of moral liberty which is,

nevertheless, compatible with necessity in so far as we find a constant union ‘of

some actions with some motives and characters’ (T, 2.3.1.12; cf. EHU,

8.15–16).21 From what we have seen already it seems evident that animals are

incapable of liberty in this stronger sense.

Before we leave the subject of moral responsibility, we should consider how

this relates to what Hume has said about the self and its identity. We know that

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HUME AND AGENCY

Hume regards the idea of personal identity as a fiction. How is this to be rec-

onciled with the practice of holding people responsible for those (voluntary)

actions which result from their characters or dispositions? How can I be

responsible for an action performed in the past – even given that my character

has not itself changed in the relevant respects – if I cannot strictly speaking be

identified with the person responsible for the original action? In responding to

these questions on Hume’s behalf we need to bear a number of points in

mind, namely, that the identity Hume refuses to ascribe to the self is a strict or

philosophical identity that cannot meaningfully be applied to anything; that

Hume does not declare belief in the self to be a fiction; and that he in fact

identifies significant continuities between the self at different times in its exis-

tence. His comparison with the republic or commonwealth may also be of

some value in this context. While, for Hume, the members of such an institu-

tion could not collectively be ascribed an identity (i.e. in a strict or

philosophical sense), they might act together in such a way that the body they

compose could be considered responsible for the effects of those actions. In

this way, for example, a nation might be blamed for violating a treaty, as an

individual is blamed for breaking a promise. From this point of view the body

politic, Hume appears to accept, is to be regarded as one person which may be

animated by selfishness or ambition and have duties, embodied in laws, to

other such ‘persons’ (T, 3.2.11). This comparison may also help to provide a

response to the objection that one bundle or succession of perceptions cannot

intelligibly be considered responsible for the actions associated with another

such bundle at an earlier time. It might, at first sight, seem equally senseless to

suppose that a group of people could be responsible for what had earlier been

done by a numerically different group. But we do appear to accept that such

ascriptions of responsibility may be justified in this latter case – as, for exam-

ple, when seeking reparation after a war. This is presumably because members

of the group to which responsibility is ascribed have acted in accordance with

the policies in which the war originated. The relevant point of comparison in

the case of the self is, perhaps, this: that the features of a person from which

some action originally ensued may include ones which persist in his present

make-up or disposition. To this extent, it seems appropriate to regard the

person as still being responsible for the action because it is one which reflects

his present state of mind. (We know that, for Hume, we have at least provided

a necessary condition for responsibility in this case.) Looking at this in terms

of Hume’s bundle theory of the mind, it is a matter of there being a significant

continuity between the perceptions which make up the person’s mind at dif-

ferent times – in particular, a continuing disposition to experience certain

sorts of passion and to act accordingly.

Having examined a variety of issues relating to the agency aspect of the self

in the previous three chapters I turn finally, in the next chapter, to the question

of our relation to other selves. It is evidently a central feature of our existence

as agents that we interact with those around us on the basis of ascribing to


140

them the same sort of mental life that we experience in our own case. This,

indeed, appears to be reflected in the nature of our mental life in so far as

beliefs about, and attitudes towards, the thoughts and feelings of others form

a significant part of its content. But what kind of account is Hume able to pro-

vide of the way in which we come by such beliefs and attitudes? Can he even

account for our acceptance of the very existence of other selves?

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HUME AND AGENCY

8

HUME AND OTHER MINDS

I come now to the question of what account, if any, Hume is able to offer of

our recognition of the existence of other minds or selves. Two points are

liable to strike us immediately in this context. One is that Hume appears

never directly to address the question of how our beliefs about the existence

of other minds are to be explained.1 The other point is that Hume evidently

takes for granted throughout his philosophical writings that it is possible for

us to be aware of the thoughts and feelings of others: indeed, he provides an

account of sympathy which appears to claim that we may actually come to

share the mental states of those around us. We may note that the existence of

others as the subjects of mental states is presupposed both in Hume’s dis-

cussion of the understanding in Book 1 of the Treatise, and also in his

discussion of the passions – in particular, the indirect passions – in Book 2.

The moral theory of Book 3 involves claims, some of which had been estab-

lished previously in the Treatise, about the mental functioning of human

beings generally. The very project to which the Treatise is devoted, that of

establishing a science of man, assumes that it is possible to arrive at general

truths about our mental lives.2 Now all this might appear puzzling when we

reflect on other aspects of Hume’s philosophy, especially his discussion of

the senses and their objects in T, 1.4.2 (cf. EHU, 12, Part 1). This latter dis-

cussion results in a profession of incurable sceptical doubt for which

‘Carelessness and in-attention alone can afford us any remedy’ (T, 1.4.2.57).

Yet the belief in other minds seems to be at one remove, at least, from belief

in the existence of body. We recall from Chapter 3 that Hume is committed

to a form of dualism: the mind, considered as a collection or system of per-

ceptions, is to be distinguished from the body on which these perceptions are

causally dependent. My belief that there are other minds or selves must

therefore go beyond any belief about the existence of other bodies, and one

might expect that Hume would find the other minds belief still more prob-

lematic than belief in the existence of body itself. How, then, are we to

account for Hume’s apparent willingness to take for granted not only that

there are other minds, but also that we can have detailed knowledge of their

contents and functioning?3

142

One could simply regard Hume’s position here as a mark of his failure to

recognise that the other minds belief needs to be accounted for, just as much

as the other beliefs with which he is concerned in Book 1 of the Treatise.

Perhaps the fact that he does not attempt any such account might even be

ascribed to an unspoken recognition that it would inevitably end in failure. On

the other hand, it might be suggested that it is possible to find the basis, at

least, for an account of the belief in Hume’s theory of sympathy. It is, however,

far from obvious what such an account would amount to even if it does prove

helpful to look in this direction. The way in which I should like to proceed at

this point is to see whether it is possible to provide an account of the other

minds belief on Hume’s behalf – one which would take as its model Hume’s

investigation (in T, 1.4.2) of belief in the existence of body. This model would

suggest that we need to consider various issues: for example, the nature or con-

tent of the ideas involved in the belief to be accounted for; the differences, if

any, between the philosophical and ‘vulgar’ (or non-philosophical) perspec-

tives on the belief; and the different faculties to which we might appeal in

attempting to account for our possession of the belief. Hume makes it clear at

the beginning of his discussion that his concern is with the cause of the belief

about body rather than its truth (T, 1.4.2.1); we might presume that he would

take a similar view of the other minds belief.

I

THE CONTENT OF THE OTHER MINDS BELIEF

There are some factors here which are shared with the idea of body as it is

analysed by Hume. A crucial component of the idea of body on Hume’s

account is our attribution to bodies of a continued existence, i.e. one which is

not confined to those times at which they are present to the senses. Another

such component is the supposition that bodies have an existence which is dis-tinct from our minds and perceptions. There is, as Hume points out, an

intimate connection between the two principal ideas of continuity and dis-

tinctness – in particular, anything to which we attribute a continuous existence,

in the sense explained, must also have an independent and distinct existence

(T, 1.4.2.2). Something like this presumably applies also to the case of the

other minds belief. In other words, to have this belief is to suppose that there

are others with a mental life which is not confined to those times at which one

has some awareness of or engagement with it; and it is also thereby to suppose

that their mental life is distinct from and independent of one’s own. We might

add here that just as issues of identity arise in the context of belief in body, so

also our beliefs about other minds involve suppositions about the identity of

those minds. In other words, I believe not only that I am surrounded by other

persons who are, as such, the subjects of mental states; but I also believe that

143


they are capable, like me, of retaining an identity throughout the course of

their mental lives. (Though if I am unable to be directly aware of the percep-

tions of others then this belief cannot be explained in the same way as the

belief in self-identity.)

The causes of the other minds belief

To pursue the strategy of T, 1.4.2, there is the question of which aspect of our

nature as human beings may be considered responsible for the ideas which go

to make up the other minds belief. For Hume, the choice would lie between the

senses, reason, and the imagination.4 To begin with the senses. In so far as we

think that the mental states of others are not simply reducible to the existence

of the bodies with which they are associated, it seems clear that we cannot look

to the senses for an explanation of the other minds belief. (This is to leave on

one side the point that, for Hume, the senses themselves could not be consid-

ered responsible even for the belief that there exist such things as bodies.) It is

obvious, in any case, that the senses could not account for the idea of the con-

tinued existence of the mental states of others, given the content of the idea

itself (i.e. that these states exist at times when we have no awareness of them).

So far as distinctness or independence is concerned, there is the particular

point that this means existing distinct from and independently of ourselves.

But, as Hume points out, there is then a question as to how far we ourselves

are the objects of our senses (T, 1.4.2.5). Without pausing to consider some of

the distinctive features of Hume’s own view of sense-perception, we can be

confident that the senses will not provide us with an explanation of the other

minds belief.

We turn next, then, to reason. In the case of belief in the existence of body,

Hume points out that whatever arguments may be produced by philosophers

to show that there are objects which exist independently of the mind, this is

not the basis for the ordinary belief in such objects (T, 1.4.2.14). Indeed, the

kind of argument on which philosophers rely may reveal a fundamental dif-

ference between their position and that of the ‘vulgar’. We may also find not

only that reason does not provide the basis for belief in the existence of body,

but that it is unable to do so. Now, we might expect these points to apply also

to the case of belief in the existence of other minds. If we do not reason our

way to belief in the existence of objects or bodies, it seems plausible to suggest

that the same is true of our belief that there are other minds or selves – if only,

for example, because this belief seems to be implicit, at least, in the way we

respond to others even from a very early age. We might also suspect that what-

ever philosophical rationale is offered for the other minds belief, not only

would this not account for the belief, but it would in any case encounter objec-

tions in its own right. Perhaps here, too, we might expect to find some rather

profound difference between the philosophical perspective and that of the

‘vulgar’. All this will be considered in greater detail below.


144

If neither the senses nor reason are capable of accounting for the other

minds belief, this leaves us with the imagination. Hume contrasts the imag-

ination as an idea forming faculty not only with memory but also with both

demonstrative and probable reasoning (note to T, 1.3.9.19).5 As we have

seen, Hume provides an explanation of the way in which imagination forms

ideas which appeals to the existence of a ‘uniting principle’ among our ideas:

one which involves the associative relations of resemblance, contiguity and

causation (T, 1.1.4). When ideas are connected in the imagination in accor-

dance with these principles of association the relations are classified as

natural, in contrast to the philosophical relations which result from compar-

ing ideas which are not naturally associated. The question is, then, whether

there are any natural relations among our ideas which could themselves

result in the idea of other minds or selves, i.e. the idea of other mental sub-

jects whose existence is both continuous and distinct from one’s own. Before

I discuss this possibility and the question of how far it is reflected in what

Hume says about our beliefs concerning the mental states of others, I wish

to return to the case of reason in order to explore the options which might

be available here.

II

REASON AND THE OTHER MINDS BELIEF

If reason were responsible for the belief to be explained, it would have to pro-

ceed by probable rather than by demonstrative argument if only because

what is involved here is a matter of existence which can, for Hume, be estab-

lished only by argument of the former kind.6 We know that Hume himself

provides an important account of the nature of probable reasoning (in T, 1.3;

EHU, 4, 5). This starts from the observation that all reasoning consists in a

comparison; in the case of probable reasoning, this is one between an object

present to the senses and an object (or objects) not present; and a comparison

of this kind depends on a relation of causation among the objects involved

(T, 1.3.2). Since the other minds belief must, as we have seen, go beyond the

senses, it can be a product of probable reasoning only if it is founded in the

relation of cause and effect. In other words, the belief would have to rest on

some form of causal inference. Such inference, according to Hume, is the

product of experience: more especially, experience of the constant conjunc-

tion of the different species of objects or events to which the cause and effect

in question belong, which allows us to infer from the present occurrence of

the one to that of the other (T, 1.3.6.2). So far as the other minds belief is

concerned, then, the question seems to be whether it can be based in causal

inference as the product of experience of constant conjunction, and thus be

accounted for by reason.

145


To frame the question at issue in this way invites the following rejoinder. We

are presupposing a contrast between the activities of reason or the under-

standing and those of the imagination. Hume does sometimes indicate that

these provide mutually exclusive alternatives for explaining how a certain idea

arises from experience (for example, T, 1.3.6.4). But elsewhere he writes of the

understanding (along with memory and the senses) being ‘founded on the

imagination’ (T, 1.4.7.3), and his discussion of causal inference in the Treatiseresults in the claim that the mind is determined in this process not by reason

but by associative principles of the imagination (T, 1.3.6.12). So perhaps there

is not, after all, a choice to be made between reason and the imagination as

providing different ways in which the belief at issue is to be explained, since

reason itself (i.e. probable reason in this context) turns out to be an activity of

the imagination.

Now the issues involved here are substantial ones and I can deal with them

only in a relatively schematic way; but it can be shown that there is, for Hume,

an important sense in which reason or the understanding contrasts with the

imagination.7 Imagination provides one of the two ways (the other being

memory) in which ideas are formed on the basis of the impressions we expe-

rience (T, 1.1.3.1). Reason is an inferential faculty which involves either a

comparison of ideas themselves (demonstrative reasoning), or an inference

from an impression of the senses – or one that is retained in memory – to an

idea (probable reasoning). There is a connection between imagination and

reason consisting in the fact that the ideas to which reasoning gives rise are

themselves ideas of imagination (i.e. as opposed to ideas of memory which

simply repeat impressions). These particular ideas of imagination are distin-

guished by the comparative force and vivacity with which they are conceived:

this is what makes them ideas of belief (T, 1.3.7). The category of ideas of

imagination evidently extends beyond those ideas which are the product of

reasoning, i.e. of processes of inference or argument. For there are various

kinds of relation from which ideas result and which may not involve any infer-

ence from other ideas or impressions. In the case of resemblance, for example,

religious icons convey the mind to what they represent and may reinforce

faith or belief; a similar function may also be served by relics and other objects

of devotion which are regarded as the effects of saints and holy men

(T, 1.3.8.4, 6). To this extent reason or the understanding may be seen as a dis-tinctive process by which ideas of imagination are formed.

Hume concludes his discussion of causal inference by claiming that the

mind is determined in this process not by reason but the imagination

(T, 1.3.6.12). How is this to be reconciled with the view that reason is a dis-

tinctive means by which we arrive at certain ideas of imagination? In

attempting to deal with this point it must, of course, be acknowledged that

there is considerable controversy surrounding the interpretation of what

Hume says about causal or ‘probable’ inference. It does seem plausible, how-

ever, to regard the discussion of T, 1.3.6 as being concerned essentially with the


146

explanation of our propensity to engage in causal inference, and whether we

arrive at this propensity by means of reason or inference itself or in some other

way. Hume denies that the propensity results from reason and argues that it is

to be attributed to the imagination and, in particular, to custom or habit (T,

1.3.7.6; cf. EHU, 5.5–6). His concern at this point is with the question of why

we engage in a particular form of reason or inference and not – or not

directly – with the question of the reasonableness or otherwise of the resulting

beliefs (Garrett 1997: 91–3). Hume does address the latter kind of question in

his discussion of alternative causes of belief. While there is a sense in which allreasonings may be regarded as the effects of custom, we may distinguish

between ‘authentic’ and ‘irregular’ operations of the understanding (T,

1.3.13.12).8 It appears, therefore, that even if all operations of the under-

standing are to be ascribed ultimately to the imagination, there is still a

legitimate distinction to be drawn between those ‘probable’ ideas or beliefs

which are the product of reason, i.e. of inferences based in experience of the

constant conjunction of the objects or events involved; and those ideas or

beliefs which are the product of the more ‘irregular’ operations of the under-

standing based in the associative principles of the imagination.

Would it, then, be possible to account for the other minds belief as a

product of reason in the form of the kind of causal inference which repre-

sents an ‘authentic’ operation of the understanding? This presumably

demands that we should be able to infer the existence of other minds from

their supposed physical effects (or causes) where mental and physical are

constantly conjoined. In order to consider this possibility it may be helpful

to see what Hume has to say about the philosophical account of perception

in the context of his discussion of belief in the existence of body. According

to this account, we should regard our sense-impressions as effects of objects

themselves. Hume finds that this runs into difficulty with one of the princi-

pal ‘rules’ for judging of cause and effect established in T, 1.3.15: namely,

that there must be a constant union between cause and effect. For if the only

things present to the mind are perceptions, there is no possibility of estab-

lishing that they are constantly conjoined with objects themselves (T,

1.4.2.47). The philosophical system thus comes into conflict with the

demands of reason as represented by the ‘authentic’ operations of the under-

standing. Now it seems that this will be true also of the other minds belief in

so far as it is supposed to involve a similar sort of causal inference. The cru-

cial point of similarity lies with the fact that in each case the inference is not

just to the unobserved, but to what is presumed to be unobservable.9 In

order to establish by means of probable reasoning that x is the cause of y, we

must also be able to establish that the different species of object or event to

which x and y belong are constantly conjoined. But this, in turn, requires

that it is possible to identify the one kind of event or object independently of

the other. It is just this possibility that is excluded both by the philosophical

system of perception and its counterpart in the context of the other minds

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belief (i.e. where we are taken to arrive at this belief on the basis of an

‘authentic’ causal inference).10

It would, however, be premature to conclude at this point that the other

minds belief cannot, for Hume, be based in reason. Hume himself refers to

another ‘species of probability’ – and one which might be thought to have a

special relevance in the present context – in the form of analogy (T, 1.3.12.25).

Analogy has to do with one of the two ‘particulars’ in which causal inference

is founded, the relation of resemblance between the objects involved (the other

particular being experience of the constant union of the relevant kinds of

cause and effect in the past).11 Where either of these two particulars is weak-

ened there is a corresponding weakening of the transition from what is

experienced to the cause or effect inferred from it and also therefore of the

resulting belief. Now there is a familiar attempt to provide a rational basis for

our belief in the existence of other minds in the form of an argument from

analogy. In brief, the gist of the argument appears to be that I am aware in my

own case that a certain kind of mental event, m, tends to occur in certain cir-

cumstances, c, and to result in certain bodily movements or behaviour, b; I see

that another human being is in circumstances c and is exhibiting behaviour b;

and I infer by analogy with my own case that c and b are mediated by mental

state m. Given the range of mental states that I am able to ascribe to others on

this basis, I arrive by a process of ‘probable’ reasoning at the belief that there

are other human minds.12

Could Hume be taken to endorse an argument of this kind for ascribing

mental states to others? One reason for supposing that this might be so is the

fact that he employs a form of analogical argument in comparing the mental

lives of human beings to those of non-human animals. The comparison is, as

we saw in Chapter 6, quite systematic: it concerns the reasoning capacities of

animals (T, 1.3.16; cf. EHU, 9), their susceptibility to the passions, both

indirect (T, 2.1.12) and direct (T, 2.2.12), and their possession of will or

volition (T, 2.3.9.32). Without pausing to consider the wider philosophical

background to this comparison it would be of interest to see the kinds of

consideration on which it is based. I will concentrate for this purpose on

Hume’s discussion in the Treatise ‘Of the reason of animals’. It is introduced

as follows:

Next to the ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking

pains to defend it; and no truth appears to me more evident, than that

beasts are endow’d with thought and reason as well as men. The

arguments are in this case so obvious, that they never escape the most

stupid and ignorant (T, 1.3.16.1).

What is the basis of Hume’s remarkable confidence in this matter? He begins

by appealing to the fact that ‘We are conscious, that we ourselves, in adapting

means to ends, are guided by reason and design’. He then goes on to appeal to


148

the fact that ‘we see other creatures, in millions of instances, perform likeactions, and direct them to like ends’ (my emphasis). From this, according to

Hume, ‘all our principles of reason and probability carry us with an invincible

force to believe the existence of a like cause’. Hume summarises this in the fol-

lowing way:

The resemblance betwixt the actions of animals and those of men is

so entire in this respect, that the very first action of the first animal we

shall please to pitch on, will afford us an incontestable argument for

the present doctrine (T, 1.3.16.2).

And he continues thus:

’Tis from the resemblance of the external actions of animals to those

we ourselves perform, that we judge their internal likewise to resem-

ble ours; and the same principle of reasoning, carry’d one step farther,

will make us conclude that since our internal actions resemble each

other, the causes, from which they are deriv’d, must also be resembling

(T, 1.3.16.3).

The references to what ‘we ourselves’ are conscious of, to the ‘resemblance of

the external actions of animals to those we ourselves perform’, and to the exis-

tence of a ‘like cause’ seem clearly to confirm this as a form of analogical

inference. But how can Hume claim that this provides an ‘incontestable argu-

ment’ for his conclusion about the reason of animals?

Especially puzzling is Hume’s claim that ‘all our principles of reason and

probability’ lead us irresistibly to this conclusion about the reasoning capaci-

ties of animals. Since there is no question of establishing a constant

conjunction between the ‘external’ and ‘internal’ actions of animals we are

reliant on the resemblance of their ‘external’ actions to ours, and this in itself

should weaken the argument involved as well as the belief to which it leads. As

we know from the arguments of Descartes, for example, it might also be ques-

tioned how great the degree of resemblance between our actions and those of

animals really is.13 Indeed, Hume himself seems elsewhere to be sensitive to

this point. In his essay ‘Of the Dignity and Meanness of Human Nature’ he

confirms that ‘In forming our notions of human nature, we are apt to make a

comparison between men and animals’. Hume now says, however, that

‘Certainly this comparison is favourable to mankind’; for animals are ‘without

curiosity, without foresight; blindly conducted by instinct’ (‘Of the Dignity or

Meanness of Human Nature’, Essays 82). These differences must presumably

be revealed in the behaviour of animals as compared with ours, so that in this

respect there is a certain lack of resemblance with a consequent weakening of

the kind of analogical argument on which Hume is apparently relying for his

claims about animal minds.14

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What, then, are we to make of Hume’s apparent willingness to rely on ana-

logical argument in this context? No doubt part of the story is that there is

sufficient resemblance between, on the one hand, the behaviour of animals

and the circumstances in which it occurs, and on the other, our own behaviour

in similar circumstances, to provide the basis for an inference to the possession

by animals of various kinds of mental state. But the crucial point is that the

kind of inference Hume appears to have in mind starts not just from one’s own

case but that of human beings (or ‘men’) generally. In other words, the exis-

tence of other human minds – ones with a common structure and content – is

already assumed; and what Hume is doing is to use analogical inference to

extend the category of other minds to the case of animals on the basis of those

respects in which their behaviour resembles ours. The basis of the other minds

belief itself is another matter – it has yet to be established that Hume is pre-

pared to endorse some version of the argument from analogy in order to

account for this belief.

There is another factor to be taken into consideration at this point,

namely, the remarks about our awareness of the mental states of others

which occur in the context of Hume’s account of sympathy. Note, for exam-

ple, the following:

When any affection is infus’d by sympathy, it is first known only by its

effects and by those external signs in the countenance and conversa-

tion, which convey an idea of it (T, 2.1.11.3)

Hume goes on to refer to the influence of resemblance and contiguity when

we’re informed of the real existence of an object ‘by an inference from cause

and effect, and by the observation of external signs’. He also comments on the

‘great resemblance among human creatures’, in respect of ‘the fabric of the

mind’ as well as that of the body. (T, 2.1.11.4–5). Later on we find Hume

saying that ‘The minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations’,

and he continues thus:

When I see the effects of passion in the voice and gesture of any

person, my mind immediately passes from these effects to their

causes . . . In like manner when I perceive the causes of any emotion,

my mind is convey’d to the effects . . . No passion of another discov-

ers itself immediately to the mind. We are only sensible of its causes

and effects. From these we infer the passion (T, 3.3.1.7).

Assuming that the inference to which Hume is referring here is supposed to

proceed from one’s own case, it would seem that he is endorsing some version

of the argument from analogy referred to above. In the case of animal mental-

ity, analogical inference rests on the assumption that there is a similarity in the

mental fabric of human beings. But now it is that assumption which is itself in


150

question. Can Hume mean to suggest that as individuals we arrive at our belief

in other minds by means of an argument from analogy? We saw earlier that one

of the particulars on which causal inference is founded, in addition to the

resemblance between the objects involved, is past experience of the constant

union of the relevant kinds of cause and effect. It surely cannot be claimed,

however, that the analogical inference to the existence of other minds fulfils this

sort of condition, even if it is accepted that a regular connection between cer-

tain kinds of mental state and bodily behaviour may be established in one’s own

case prior to extending this to others.15 For it will simply not be true – taking

into account that one cannot be directly aware of the mental states of others –

that one will have the experience of a certain type of behaviour being con-

stantly conjoined with the mental cause or effect with which it is associated in

one’s own case.16 While Hume never directly addresses the argument from

analogy for other minds as such, it does seem that the ‘general rules’ which

apply to causal inferences generally would prevent this from providing a philo-

sophical explanation of the other minds belief.

We should remember that there are really two sorts of issue at stake here.

One of these concerns the explanation of what I have referred to as the

other minds belief, i.e. the belief that there are other minds, in addition to

one’s own. But there is also the matter of the particular beliefs which one has

about the minds of others, where it is already accepted that they are the sub-

jects of mental states generally and what is in question is the precise nature

of those states. The distinction is of obvious importance because even if it is

impossible to account for the other minds belief by reference to the argu-

ment from analogy, it by no means follows that reason – even analogical

reasoning – has no contribution to make to our particular beliefs about the

mental states of others. This is reflected in Hume’s treatment of what he

refers to as ‘moral evidence’ (T, 2.3.1.15–17; EHU, 8.19). Provided that we

take ourselves already to know something of the motives and dispositions of

others then we can form expectations about their behaviour. This is reflected

in our day-to-day dealings with others as well as, for example, in the conduct

of politics and business. There is thus scope for ‘experimental inference and

reasoning concerning the actions of others’ (EHU, 8.17) – the same kind of

reasoning associated with ‘natural’ evidence. In this context Hume even

finds it possible to talk of the regular conjunction between motives and vol-

untary actions (EHU, 8.16; cf. T, 2.3.1.14), though this evidently depends on

one’s having already acquired the belief that other human beings are gen-

uinely agents and thus capable of motivated action. This latter belief,

however, cannot itself be accounted for by reference to ‘experimental infer-

ence’. We have to look in some other direction for an explanation of the fact

that each of us believes that there are other minds in addition to our own;

and, so far as Hume is concerned, the result would be that we are left with no

option but to ascribe this belief to the imagination (i.e. in that sense in which

it is opposed by Hume himself to reason).

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III

IMAGINATION AND THE OTHER MINDS BELIEF17

That Hume would ascribe the other minds belief to the imagination is implicit

at least in his account of sympathy. Thus, consider Hume’s initial characteri-

sation of sympathy as

that propensity we have to sympathize with others, and to receive by

communication their inclinations and sentiments, however different

from or even contrary to our own (T, 2.1.11.2).

In other words, sympathy is not defined cognitively as a process of inference

by which we obtain knowledge of the mental states of others. In fact, the ref-

erence to ‘communication’ seems to suggest that sympathy is a process by

which the mental states of others are somehow transmitted to us.18 It appears

that Hume is treating sympathy, as he introduces this notion, on analogy with

the process by which, for example, motion may be transferred from one object

to another (in accordance with Newtonian theory). In the latter case we

observe that motion is communicated through impulse (T, 1.3.9.10, 1.3.14.18;

EHU, 5.11, 7.28; ‘Abstract’, 9) – though, strictly speaking, what we really

observe is that the movement of the one ball, for example, as it comes into

contact with the other, is followed by the movement of the second ball. There

is one passage in which Hume makes explicit the comparison between sym-

pathy and the communication of motion from one object to another:

As in strings equally wound up, the motion of the one communi-

cates itself to the rest; so all the affections readily pass from one

person to another, and beget corresponding movements in every

human creature (T, 3.3.1.7).

Elsewhere, as we have seen, Hume directly compares the human mind to a

string-instrument (Dissertation, 140). Hume employs other analogies to illustrate

his view of the relation between ourselves and others, for example, ‘the minds of

men are mirrors to one another’ – the point of this being the way in which sen-

timents are reflected from one mind to another, in a process which may continue

until the original sentiment has perhaps decayed away (T, 2.2.5.21). Again,

Hume confirms that sympathy, in the present sense, is more than just a matter of

a kind of cognitive recognition of the feelings of others when he writes that ‘The

sentiments of others can never affect us, but by becoming, in some measure, our

own’ (T, 3.3.2.3). There are obvious puzzles here arising from the literal impos-

sibility of observing the mind of another person or self (as I might observe my

own reflection in a mirror), and similarly of sharing the sentiments of another

mind in any sense other than having sentiments which may be like those of


152

someone else. Given this, what sense can we make of the ways in which Hume

nevertheless characterises sympathy?

It is evident that talk of the contact between one mind and another can only

be metaphorical. But one can see why Hume is inclined to adopt this kind of

metaphor in talking about sympathy. I have indicated already that sympathy,

as Hume introduces this notion, is not a cognitive process of inferring the

mental states of others from their behaviour and utterances.19 The alterna-

tive – and one which helps to explain why Hume should take for granted the

legitimacy of ascribing mental states to others – is that in the presence of

others a complex process of association tends to occur as a result of which one

is led almost irresistibly to acquire sentiments corresponding to those experi-

enced by these others. This obviously reflects the fact that human beings do,

after all, resemble each other. And it is also to be expected that where there are

special points of resemblance between oneself and some other person (having

to do with manners, nationality, etc.), this will facilitate the process of sym-

pathy (T, 2.1.11.5). The associative relations of contiguity and causation will

naturally have a similar influence, as Hume goes on to confirm. Hume makes

it clear here that the transition by which the mind is carried from its own per-

ceptions to those of others is one that is made by the imagination. Hume’s

account of the process of sympathy is expressed in the language of his theory

of association and, in particular, the notion that an idea may be converted into

an impression through the enlivening effects of a related impression. In this

case, the idea is that of a perception conceived of as belonging to another

mind, and the related impression is that of oneself (T, 2.1.11.4), i.e. as a ‘suc-

cession of related ideas and impressions’ (T, 2.1.2.2). The whole process is,

according to Hume, ‘an object of the plainest experience, and depends not on

any hypothesis of philosophy’ (T, 2.1.11.8). Here, it seems, is where we

encounter the difference, for Hume, between the process by which, according

to the philosophical theory, objects are supposed to make themselves known

to us in experience, and the process of sympathy by which we come to share

the mental states of others. For the supposition of a causal relation between

objects and impressions is not only one for which neither reason nor the senses

are responsible; it cannot be ascribed either to any original tendency of the

imagination (T, 1.4.2.48). On the other hand, our attribution of mental states

to others in the light of their behaviour is apparently supposed directly to

reflect propensities of the imagination.

There is still the question of how, for Hume, we are able so much as to form

the idea of a perception which belongs to another mind, if this does not

depend on reason in the form, for example, of the argument from analogy.

What is given, so to speak, is the impression of the other person’s behaviour

(facial expression, and so on), the impression of oneself as a collection of per-

ceptions, and the idea of such behaviour in one’s own case being the cause or

effect of a certain kind of mental state (i.e. given that one finds them to be con-

stantly conjoined). This seems to provide the scenario for an inductive

153


inference to the idea of the other person’s behaviour being causally linked to

a state of the kind in question. We have seen, however, that Hume would

apparently be unable to endorse the use of such inference as a means of arriv-

ing at the idea of other minds, i.e. the idea that the behaviour of others is in

general related to the presence of mental states of the kind experienced in

one’s own case. What, then, is the naturalistic alternative which would provide

some sort of counterpart to his explanation of such ideas as those of body and

the self (i.e. as something simple and identical)? We might suppose that, fol-

lowing the model provided by his account of sympathy, Hume would picture

what is involved in something like the following way (where the ideas and

impressions involved belong to oneself):

In other words, I have the idea of m as the cause or effect of b in my own case;

I have the impression of b' (i.e. behaviour of the kind b which I perform in cer-

tain circumstances) arising from perception of the other human being; and I

thereby form the idea of m' (i.e. a mental state of the kind m which is associated

with b in my case) as the cause or effect of b'. The question is, of course, how one

is meant to conceive the relation between the latter impression and idea, as

indicated by the use of an arrow in the diagram. If the relation in question is

not – i.e. in general, or when one first comes to ascribe mental states to others –

an inferential one, then the alternative appears to be that it is a causal relation.

The idea of the other person’s mental state would be a product of association,

i.e. it would arise through its association with the impression of a certain kind of

behaviour with which that kind of state is associated in one’s own case. Whatever

the plausibility of this view in its own right, it provides the kind of naturalistic

alternative to the philosophical accounts which belong to reason for which we

have been seeking on Hume’s behalf.

We might put all this in terms of a distinction between the vulgar and philo-

sophical positions in relation to the belief in other minds. (In other words, a

distinction which would provide a parallel to the one drawn by Hume in

regard to belief in the existence of body.) The vulgar obviously recognise a dif-

ference between mental states and behaviour, at least to the extent that they are

aware of the possibility that a mental state may occur in the absence of the


154

SELF OTHER

Idea of: mental state m (As cause or effect

of)Idea of: behaviour b

Idea of ------------------------------ mental state m' (As cause or effect of)Impression of: --------------------- behaviour b'

behaviour with which it is typically associated, and vice-versa. This provides a

kind of counterpart to the point that the vulgar evidently recognise that our

perceptions do not always represent things as they really are, even if they fail

to distinguish between perceptions and objects in accordance with the philo-

sophical system of perception (T, 1.4.2.14, 31, 43).20 Hume’s own perspective

in T, 1.4.2 is that of a philosopher committed to the view that the objects of

direct awareness in perception are perceptions (impressions of sensation of a

particular kind). The vulgar position is characterised accordingly, as one

which ‘confounds’ perceptions and objects (T, 1.4.2.14). The perspective from

which belief in the existence of other minds would have to be approached is

that of the dualistic account of the mental/physical relation described in

Chapter 3. Thus, this belief must be based in awareness of the bodily move-

ments (gestures, expressions, etc.) of those around us. The philosophical

position is represented in this context by the argument from analogy which, as

we have seen, provides a kind of parallel to the philosophical system of per-

ception. For the reasons given, it seems clear that from Hume’s point of view

it would be too weak to support so vast an edifice as belief in the existence of

other minds.21 What, then, of the ‘vulgar’ view? It seems clear that it does not

in general regard the behaviour of others as consisting in mere bodily move-

ments, nor does it suppose that the mental states of others are made aware to

us only as the causes or effects of those movements. (Indeed, if Hume is right

we will find ourselves in many cases coming to share those states with the

others to whom they originally belong.) It is, however, strictly false to suppose

that we might have any direct awareness of those states, just as it is to suppose

that we are directly aware in perception of bodies themselves. But if the vulgar

acceptance of others as the subjects of such states cannot be explained in

terms of the relevant philosophical ‘system’ (i.e. the dualistically based argu-

ment from analogy), then it must be ascribed to the effects on the mind of the

kinds of associative process described above.

Belief in the existence of other minds is, as mentioned earlier, implicit in the

way we ordinarily respond to those around us, just as belief in the existence of

body is reflected in our responses to our environment. (This last point is

brought out by Hume’s own example of the assumptions that underlie our

response to such occurrences as the arrival of a letter – T, 1.4.2.20.) In the case

of the latter belief, Hume has to appeal to certain kinds of associative relation

among our impressions – those of causation and resemblance – in order to

explain how we can treat them as though they were other than discontinuous.

In the case of the former belief, it appears that Hume would have to suppose

that our impressions of the bodily behaviour of others generate – via the rela-

tion of resemblance with impressions of our own bodily behaviour and the

associated idea of their mental causes and effects – the idea of certain mental

states as the causes or effects of that behaviour. There is, however, a significant

difference between the two cases. Belief in the existence of body rests, accord-

ing to Hume, on ‘a gross illusion’, namely, that our resembling impressions are

155


numerically the same (T, 1.4.2.56), and hence the despairing conclusion to his

discussion of this belief. But there is no such gross illusion at the root of our

belief in other minds: only the tendency to respond to others as though we had

some direct awareness of the mental states which, on Hume’s account of sym-

pathy, we are able to share with them.

What emerges from this discussion of the difference between the vulgar and

philosophical positions is that belief in the existence of other minds is an

instance of belief about a matter of fact or existence which, for Hume, might

be classified as ‘natural’. In other words, our acceptance of the existence of

others as the subjects of mental states – as selves – bears comparison with our

belief in the existence of body and the beliefs about the unobserved which we

form on the basis of past experience. In all these cases, what marks off the

beliefs in question as ‘natural’ is the fact that they are neither the product of

reason nor capable of being vindicated by reason – but, above all, that they are

beliefs that are unavoidable for us in virtue of our nature as human beings.22 It

is scarcely surprising, therefore, that the propensities involved are ones which in

each case we share in common with non-human animals. While, then, it may be

true that Hume does not explicitly address the question of the basis for our

acceptance of the existence of other selves (P. Strawson 1987: 11), this would

seem to provide an instance of belief about a matter of fact or existence that

may be considered ‘natural’ in the sense explained.

IV

SYMPATHY AND THE UNDERSTANDING

This might be an appropriate place to make a crucial point about sympathy,

and one which has implications for our understanding of Hume’s philosophy

generally. There is no doubt that Hume often represents sympathy as a more

or less involuntary response to those around us: as, for example, when he

remarks on the contagiousness of the passions (T, 3.3.3.5; cf. EPM, 7.2). In

doing so he arguably captures a highly significant feature of our responses to

others where, as we have seen, we arrive at beliefs about their mental states

without engaging in the process of inference associated with the argument

from analogy. Leaving aside the basis for this view of sympathy in Hume’s own

discussion, it is worth noting its wider philosophical interest. It seems not

implausible to suggest that our instinctive responses to others underlie the

more sophisticated kinds of belief which, under certain circumstances, we

form about their mental states. One thinks here, for example, of Wittgenstein’s

remark about our ‘primitive’ reactions to the pains of others, as expressed in

the way we tend and treat them. Such reactions are not themselves the out-

come of any form of inference from one’s own case; they are essentially

prelinguistic, though the relevant language game is based on them


156

(Wittgenstein 1967: §§ 537, 540, 541, and 545). Wittgenstein remarks else-

where that one’s attitude towards the other person in this kind of case is an

attitude towards a soul (Wittgenstein 1963: 178). Of course there are often cir-

cumstances in which our responses to others do not take this kind of

instinctive or primitive form, but represent genuine processes of thought.

There may be good reason, for example, to suppose that someone’s behaviour

is not to be taken at face-value, so that we take this into account in deciding

whether they really are in pain. Here, indeed, we may be said to engage in some

process of probable reasoning. But we might take Wittgenstein’s remark to

suggest that these more considered responses are possible only to the extent

that we are capable of the kinds of primitive reactions to which he refers. Our

beliefs about the mental states of others do not originate in anything like a

process of inference, and this indeed represents an impossible starting-point

for our acceptance of others as the subjects of such states.

While recognising the dangers of comparing philosophers from such differ-

ent traditions, one might read Hume’s remarks about sympathy as indicating a

position rather similar to the one I have ascribed to Wittgenstein. Our largely

instinctive reactions to others, in regard to their natural expressions of pleasure

and pain, are ones we share in common with non-human animals; they amount

to something like a propensity to be caught up in the feelings of others inde-

pendently of assessing what those feelings might be in the light of their

behaviour. But we may contrast with this other varieties of sympathy to which

Hume refers in the Treatise. For instance, there is the kind of sympathy which

goes beyond the present moment and involves the pleasures or pains which we

anticipate will be experienced by others (T, 2.2.9.13). This kind of extended

sympathy, however, depends upon our capacity to respond to the other person’s

present situation, as Hume goes on to make clear (T, 2.2.9.14). Again, there are

examples of what Hume calls ‘remote’ sympathy, as in the case of the person

who admires the fortifications of a city by virtue of sympathising with the

inhabitants who benefit from them, even if they are his enemies. This is the kind

of case in which sympathy reflects our ability to stand back from our immedi-

ate circumstances in order to take a more considered view of things – on

analogy with the perceptual case in which our judgements of the sizes of

objects allow for the distance from which they are seen (T, 3.3.3.2). This, in

turn, enables Hume to make sympathy the foundation of our moral (and aes-

thetic) sentiments, while at the same time allowing that our value judgements

transcend the features peculiar to our own point of view.

Thus, sympathy is not always the straightforward principle of communica-

tion whose force may be observed ‘thro’ the whole animal creation’

(T, 2.2.5.15). It plays a central role in our sense of beauty and also in our

judgements of virtue and vice (T, 3.2.2.24, 3.3.1.9, 29) – indeed, as we have

seen, sympathy is described as ‘the chief source of moral distinctions’

(T, 3.3.6.1). Since our possession of a moral (and aesthetic) sense is supposed

to differentiate us from animals, we might expect that the role of sympathy in

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this context will also possess some distinctive features. But there remains the

crucial point that even the sentiments associated with our moral and aesthetic

judgements have a natural foundation, being rooted in our experiences – some-

times themselves the product of sympathy – of pleasure and pain. There are

some kinds of beauty, for example, which are immediately pleasing to us, even

though in many cases the ‘proper sentiment’ depends on the use of reason

(EPM, 1.9; cf. ‘Of the Standard of Taste’, Essays 232–4).

Now we should note that these features of sympathy have their parallel in

Hume’s treatment of the understanding in Book 1 of the Treatise. What I have

in mind here, in particular, is what Hume has to say about the difference

between those beliefs formed on the basis of experience that represent ‘instinc-

tive’ responses to that experience, and those beliefs, on the other hand, that are

the outcome of genuine processes of ratiocination. A good example of Hume’s

account of this kind of difference is supplied by the discussion referred to pre-

viously, ‘Of the causes of belief’ (T, 1.3.8). Here he starts with the view of

belief as involving an idea caused by an impression as a result of our past

experience of the conjunction of the perceptions concerned. In this kind of

case belief is the product of custom rather than any operation of thought

(T, 1.3.8.10). In the light of this Hume declares probable reasoning to be noth-

ing but a species of sensation (T, 1.3.8.12). While custom may thus operate

independently of reflection, Hume points out that in the case of more unusual

associations reflection may assist custom (T, 1.3.8.14). But it seems that while

there may be various cases in which the inferences we draw from experience

depend on the use of reason and judgement, at the root of all such inferences

is the custom-based transition from impression to idea that enables belief to

arise immediately and non-reflectively.23

Conclusion

I have indicated that Hume does not appear to recognise any epistemological

problem about the existence of other minds. There may be puzzles about the

nature of our responses to the mental states of others; but there is, for Hume,

no puzzle concerning the possibility of our being aware of what these states

are. Indeed, the character of our mental states in many cases reflects our

awareness of the mental states of others. Thus, Hume writes:

Whatever . . . passions we may be actuated by; pride, ambition,

avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust; the soul or animating principle of

them all is sympathy; nor wou’d they have any force, were we to

abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments of others (T,

2.2.5.15).

Thus, in the form in which it is experienced by human beings, pride is insep-

arable from that concern with self which belongs to our practice of


158

surveying ourselves in reflection by considering how we appear to others

(EPM, 9.10; T, 3.3.1.26, 3.3.5.4). This whole process of self-survey, which we

have seen to be so important to a person’s sense of his own identity, obvi-

ously assumes the existence of other minds like our own. But if the very

occurrence of the passions as we ordinarily experience them reflects such an

assumption, then we can scarcely be in the position envisaged by the argu-

ment from analogy of engaging in an inference from the occurrence of such

states in ourselves to the existence of these states in other selves. Rather, our

acceptance of others as the subjects of mental states forms part of that

response to experience for which nature itself is ultimately responsible, and

which provides the basis for those more complex forms of belief which arise

through reason or the understanding.

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NOTES

INTRODUCTION

1 I should perhaps acknowledge immediately that the phrase ‘the self ’ is one thatrequires some explanation, since its use tends to be confined to philosophical con-texts. One familiar philosophical use is that in which ‘self ’ refers to one’s mental orconscious life, as in the case of Locke’s well-known discussion of personal identity(Locke 1979: Book II Chapter xxvii). As we shall see, Hume sometimes follows thiskind of precedent in using ‘self ’ interchangeably with ‘mind’. On the other hand,Hume also uses ‘self ’ to mean the same as ‘person’ in contexts where it is evidentthat persons possess both bodily as well as mental features (T, 1.4.2.5–9). This dis-tinction – i.e. between ‘self ’ as equivalent to ‘mind’ and ‘self ’ as equivalent to‘[embodied] person’ – is reflected in what follows and, indeed, it provides the basisfor the way in which my discussion is organised.

2 While it is important to distinguish these different aspects of Hume’s account ofpersonal identity, this should not be taken to suggest that they are not impor-tantly related to each other. On the contrary, we will find that it is impossible todeal adequately with the issues raised by Hume’s discussion of the mental aspectwithout taking into account also what he has to say about the agency aspect. Thismight be taken to reflect Hume’s own observation from his ‘Advertisement’ to theTreatise, that ‘The subjects of the Understanding and Passions make a compleatchain of reasoning by themselves’. He also claims that on his account of the ‘trueidea of the human mind’ it may be seen that ‘. . . our identity with regard to thepassions serves to corroborate that with regard to the imagination’ (T, 1.4.6.19).

3 The use of the word ‘perception’ in this context clearly calls for explanation. Ishall be saying more about this in the first chapter, but we might take it as Hume’sway of referring to any type of mental act or state, including those involved in theprocess of sense-perception itself.

4 For further explanation of this distinction see S. Shoemaker and Swinburne 1984:75.

5 Such as, for example, Martin and Barresi (2000).6 I am referring here to the influential debate between Samuel Clarke and Anthony

Collins in the early eighteenth century – of which more later.7 I shall be concerned in some detail with Hume’s response to Locke in Chapter 2. As

we shall also see there, Shaftesbury’s discussion of personal identity – which con-tains criticism of Locke – is of significance for what Hume has to say (Shaftesbury1999: Parts II and III of The Moralists).

8 On this last point, see Daiches et al (1986).9 Locke’s position on the nature of the mind or self is difficult to classify. He criti-

cises certain aspects of Descartes’ account of the mind as a substance: in particular,

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the claim that thought is its essential property (Essay II i 10). On the other hand heappears to pay lip-service, at least, to the existence of spirit as the substance inwhich thoughts subsist (Essay II xxiii 5, 15); and he compares this to the equallyobscure idea of bodily or material substance. In fact, he goes on to suggest – instriking contrast to Descartes’ position in Meditation II – that we are even more inthe dark in regard to the nature of spirit than we are in regard to the nature of body(Essay IV iii 17). This provides the context for Locke’s famous conjecture aboutthinking matter: ‘We have the ideas of matter and thinking, but possibly shall neverbe able to know whether any mere material being thinks or no’ (Essay IV iii 6).Locke therefore seems to allow for the possibility that while mind is a substance, itmay be material in nature. Even if this is so, however, Locke would not be a mate-rialist of a straightforward kind, because he insists that it would require theintervention of God to give to some systems of matter the power of perception orthought. In any case, as we shall see in Chapter 3, Hume would reject both a mate-rialist as well as an immaterialist account of mind as a substance.

1 THE SELF AND HUMAN NATURE

1 Hume’s distinction between natural and moral philosophy amounts, in general, tothe distinction between the natural or physical sciences, as we should now classifythem, and philosophy as something which we would now identify as a separate dis-cipline (one which would include, for example, the investigation of ideas). What wenow call ‘moral philosophy’ represents only one aspect of the latter. We shouldnote, however, that it is a touch anachronistic, at least, to see Hume as committedto drawing this distinction as we might now wish to do. Thus, Hume sees a conti-nuity in the methodologies employed by the two kinds of ‘philosophy’ hedistinguishes – as the sub-title of the Treatise indicates (‘An attempt to introducethe experimental method of reasoning into moral subjects’).

2 This is reflected in Hume’s own reference to his project in the second Book of theTreatise, ‘Of the Passions’, as one involving an ‘anatomy of the mind’ (T, 2.1.12.2).The image of the philosopher as an anatomist of human nature is one that cropsup at various places in Hume’s writings (for example, in the Abstract of theTreatise, Abs. 2).

3 Among those who question how far Hume does retain this view of the self in hislater writings is Daniel Flage (1990: ch. 8). For a contrary view – one which Iwould endorse – see McIntyre 1993: 110–26.

4 Recent discussions of these issues have been provided by, for example, Barry Stroud(1977: ch. II), and David Pears (1990: chs 1 and 2).

5 This distinction is to be found in Treatise 1.1.1–2 and Treatise 2.1.1.6 This first principle provides the core of what might be described as Hume’s empiri-

cism. As Hume himself points out it has an important bearing on the philosophicaldebate about innate ideas (T, 1.1.1.12). In effect, Hume’s principle provides a clearway of stating the point that all of our ideas are derived from sensation and reflec-tion. This is the view for which Locke had earlier argued in his Essay and Humerecognises that his own position differs from Locke’s only terminologically (T,1.1.1.1n). We should note that Hume’s principle provides for the possibility thatsome ideas may be the product of impressions of reflection, even if it should betrue that we would have no ideas at all independently of the occurrence of impres-sions of sensation. Hume makes it clear in the Abstract of the Treatise that the realimportance of his first principle lies with its use in clarifying and investigating ideas(Abs. 7) – something which belongs to Hume’s examination of philosophicaldebates, including, for example, those concerning the nature of the soul.

7 I pass over some of the questions that arise here about the nature and legitimacy of

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this distinction, but it is worth noting that the distinction may perhaps itself bemore easily understood by relating it to the agent aspect of the self (Everson 1988).I comment on this again below.

8 Though Hume seems to have no obvious ground for saying so (Noxon 1976: 273).9 Hume is evidently employing the term ‘perception’ in a much narrower sense in this

context than in the opening sections of the Treatise to which I have referred, whereit stands for the contents of the mind generally. In regard to the philosophical viewof the nature of sense-perception itself with which Hume is concerned in T, 1.4.2,the term ‘perceptions’ refers to a particular category of what Hume earlierdescribed as impressions of sensation – ‘sense impressions’, as we might call them.

10 The association of the idea of material substance with the view that bodies them-selves possess both simplicity and identity is explored by Hume in T, 1.4.3. (‘Of theantient philosophy’). The criticisms Hume provides of this conception of sub-stance are strongly echoed in his treatment of the philosophical view of the personor self.

11 Note that there is a gap in Hume’s argument at this point as I have described it. Forwhy should an impression of a substantial self have to possess features like con-stancy and invariability? The missing part of Hume’s argument is supplied in theprevious Section: ‘. . . how can an impression represent a substance, otherwisethan by resembling it? And how can an impression resemble a substance, since,according to this philosophy, it is not a substance, and has none of the peculiarqualities or characteristics of a substance?’ (T, 1.4.5.3).

12 There is an air of paradox about Hume’s position on this point. If there is really noidea of the self of the kind ascribed by Hume to philosophers then how can he beconfident that he fails ever to observe such a thing as a self, distinct from percep-tions themselves? (This difficulty has been raised by a number of commentators –most recently by Noonan: 1999, 193). The reply seems to be that Hume is arguingprecisely from the failure of introspection to reveal any self beyond perceptionsthemselves that the idea of such a self – to which his opponents appeal – cannot bea genuine or meaningful one (Penelhum 2000: 105–6).

13 I will be concerned in due course with the particular issue that leads Hume to intro-duce his bundle theory at this stage.

14 I will say more later, in the third chapter, both about Hume’s treatment of suchviews of the mind in Treatise 1.4.5, and also the version of dualism that Humeappears to adopt in the same section.

15 We should note the ambiguity here which arises from Hume’s distinction, previ-ously noted, between natural and philosophical relations. The causal relations towhich he goes on to refer in T, 1.4.6.19 appear to belong to the latter category of rela-tions.

16 There is another crucial aspect to these different ways of describing the mind, i.e.as a bundle or as a system. The bundle view seems to bear in particular on theclaim about the simplicity of the mind (or what I referred to in my introduction asits synchronic identity). In other words, this view may be understood as denyingthat there is any substantial connection between the various perceptions whichmake up the mind at a given time. The system view, on the other hand, seems tobear on the claim about the diachronic identity of the mind, i.e. what makes it thesame mind over a period of time. For the kinds of connection to which Humerefers in elaborating this view – where perceptions ‘produce, destroy, influence,and modify each other’ – are obviously not momentary ones, but part of the life ofthe mind throughout a period of its existence.

17 The idea of flow charts as models of various kinds of mental state or activity hasbeen a prominent feature of recent philosophy of mind (Dennett 1978, 1981). I amsuggesting that a more generalised form of this idea may provide a useful way of

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understanding what Hume has to say about the mind and its ‘perceptions’.18 This distinction is noted and discussed in some detail in the Editor’s Introduction

to the Treatise (2000: 148–50).19 There are, as we shall see in the next chapter, further issues of importance to be

addressed in this context.20 We might compare here Dennett’s use of flow chart representations of the mind to

combat certain views of what it is to be a person or self (Dennett 1978).21 The implication of Hume’s view that identity is a philosophical but not also a nat-

ural relation is that the ordinary use of a word like ‘same’, which is governed by theinfluence of natural relations, may fail to reflect the demands of the philosophicalnotion of identity – as, indeed, is confirmed by the discussion of T, 1.4.6. Humegoes on to make a further distinction, within the category of philosophical rela-tions, between those that are, and those that are not, affected by the order in whichthe related ideas come before the mind (T, 1.3.1.1). The relation of identity belongsto the former category.

22 For this kind of reason, identity as a philosophical relation provides a basis forprobability, rather than knowledge, according to Hume (T, 1.3.1.2).

23 Hume’s position is, to say the least, complicated by his view of the idea of timeitself. In brief, this is that it is an idea derived not from any single impression but,rather, from the ‘succession of our perceptions’ (T, 1.2.3.6). From this Hume infersthat an unchanging object cannot give us the idea of time – it is only through akind of fiction that we apply the idea of time to an unchanging object by thinkingof it in conjunction with a succession of perceptions (cf. T, 1.2.5.29). It is throughthis fiction of the imagination, according to Hume, that an object which isobserved for a time without apparently undergoing any interruption or variation isable to give us the idea of identity.

24 It has been suggested that Hume’s account of our acquisition of the idea of iden-tity can avoid circularity only by supposing that perceptions may be more thanmerely momentary existences (Baxter1987). Without exploring the circularity issue(whose significance might be disputed – cf. Waxman 1994: 319, n2) I note thatBaxter’s claim about perceptions requires him to distinguish between perceptionshaving duration and their occupying an interval of time. I shall be coming back, inChapter 5, to the question of whether Hume allows for the possibility of percep-tions having a more than momentary existence. I would just remark here that thedistinction drawn by Baxter is problematic and appears to be unmotivated by anyof Hume’s own remarks about time and duration. I also find it difficult to recon-cile with Hume’s treatment of extension (the spatial equivalent of duration, so tospeak) in T, 1.4.5, a topic with which I shall be directly concerned in the nextchapter.

25 We recall that identity is classified by Hume as an exclusively philosophical relationand that, so understood, identity is incompatible with any kind of change or vari-ation. At this point, however, Hume recognises that natural propensities of theimagination result in a tendency to ascribe an identity to objects which fail to sat-isfy this kind of condition. To this extent, there is an ‘imperfect’ notion of identitywhich represents the influence on the imagination of relations which are natural aswell as philosophical. This notion is reflected in the ordinary use of the word‘same’ as opposed to that which reflects identity as a philosophical relation. Thepoint is one that applies to the other cases with which Hume is concerned, includ-ing that of personal identity. I do not think, incidentally, that Hume should be readhere as endorsing this ordinary use of ‘same’ – on the contrary, it is one that he evi-dently regards as erroneous. (Thus, his position may be compared with that ofButler who while denying that personal identity has to do with ‘same’ in the ‘looseand popular sense’ of the word, argues that ‘same’ in its ‘strict and philosophical’

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sense does apply to persons – Butler 1855: 329–30.) But, since this use of ‘same’ ispart of ‘the propriety of language’ (T, 1.4.6.13), it is not surprising if Hume shouldseem sometimes to be assuming the legitimacy of this use when describing ourpractice of making identity-attributions. For helpful comments on these points seePenelhum (1975b: 394–8 and 2000: 112).

26 The example of the oak tree occurs in Shaftesbury’s discussion of identity (1999:299). There appear to be several points at which Hume’s discussion reflects that ofShaftesbury – though Shaftesbury’s conclusion about personal identity, that weremain the same in virtue of a ‘strange simplicity’, is very different from Hume’s.

27 There is something else to be taken into account here: we saw earlier that Humebelieves we sometimes confuse specific and numerical identity, as in the case ofresembling perceptions. He now provides another example to illustrate the point: anoise that is frequently interrupted and renewed but which the hearer continues todescribe as the same [= numerically identical] noise (T, 1.4.6.13).

28 A theme which Hume develops in T, 1.4.5 – a section of the Treatise with which wewill be concerned in more detail in the third chapter.

2 HUME AND THE IDEA OF THE SELF

1 I referred in the previous chapter to the part played by memory in Hume’s view ofthe mind as a system of perceptions.

2 We should note that the supposition that we might be directly acquainted with theperceptions of another mind must, for Hume, be understood counter-factually.Thus, he says that the passions – and, presumably, other perceptions – of anothermind are known to us only via their causes and effects rather than immediately (T,3.3.1.7; cf. also 1.3.13.14). This obviously raises important questions about Hume’sview of our knowledge of other minds, and I will be addressing this topic directlyin Chapter 8.

3 I do not pause here to consider whether this view of awareness is itself defensible;contrary to Bricke (1980: 130–1) it does in any case seem the natural view toascribe to Hume.

4 It is just this aspect of Hume’s account of the source of the idea of personal iden-tity to which he seems to be referring in his famous second thoughts in theAppendix to the Treatise (App. 20 – penultimate sentence). I shall be returning tothis in Chapter 4.

5 I owe the gist of this defence of Hume to Ward (1985). We will see later in thischapter that the possibility of a perception which is a perception of the perceptionsconstituting the mind as a bundle is one that has an important bearing on the via-bility of Hume’s bundle theory.

6 It is also a reminder that while Hume tends to approach the questions associatedwith personal identity with which he is concerned in Treatise 1.4.6 from a firstperson point of view, this is not to say that his account of the self more generallyis a solipsistic one. On the contrary, as we shall see, the nature of the self is, forHume, essentially bound up with its relation to other selves.

7 As I mentioned in my introduction, Locke’s theory anticipates that of Hume to theextent that the issue of personal identity is resolved independently of appeal to therole of substance.

8 There is an illuminating discussion in D. Livingston (1984: 122) of why, for Hume,we are essentially forgetful about our past, given that there is a sense in which it ismore natural for the imagination to be directed towards objects in the future.

9 There is of course a great deal more that might be said about the details of Locke’stheory which has, indeed, received a variety of interpretations. It is perhaps worthstressing that Locke’s primary interest in developing this theory seems to have

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been with our accountability for actions which might be the subject of praise orblame, whether in the human setting of a court of law or the divine setting of anafter-life. This is reflected in Locke’s own reference to ‘person’ as a forensic term(1979: II xxvii 26).

10 In a little more detail: Hume is prepared to treat the perceptions of sight andtouch, from which our idea of space is originally derived, as being themselvesextended. Other perceptions exist while yet being nowhere. But the coexistence ofqualities such as taste and smell with those of colour and tangibility leads us to‘feign’ a conjunction in place (i.e. with the extended body involved) even for qual-ities of the former kind. This is one of various cases in which principles ofimagination and of reason come into conflict with each other. I shall have muchmore to say about Hume’s position here in the next chapter.

11 The fact that Hume is prepared to accept that we nevertheless regard ourselves asremaining the same persons in such cases emphasises the difference between hisposition and that of Locke.

12 This aspect of Hume’s position no doubt calls for comment since it is, to say the least,paradoxical to claim that the ordinary ways in which we come to attribute an iden-tity not only to ourselves but also to such things as artefacts, plants and animalsembodies an error. I doubt whether it is even intelligible to suggest that uses of‘same’ which accord with the ‘proprieties of language’ should be so regarded, sincethe conventions associated with the ordinary use of ‘same’ arguably provide the onlyrelevant criteria of identity. In any case, it seems evident that from the point of viewof these conventions Hume is simply wrong to accuse us of error in so far as we areprepared to ascribe an identity to something that consists in a succession of distinctbut related objects, or to something which undergoes change. Indeed, as Penelhumhas pointed out, Hume’s own distinction between numerical and specific identity maybe invoked in this latter case to show that Hume is wrong (Penelhum 1955: 576–81).While Hume’s position cannot really be defended against such criticisms, it is difficultto believe that he would be much concerned by the fact that he finds himself at oddswith the ordinary uses of language which generate our ‘imperfect’ notion of identity.The important consideration, from his point of view, is that to the extent that we aremistaken in ascribing a ‘strict’ identity to a succession of related objects, for example,it is then necessary to explain this in terms of the effects on the imagination of thenatural relations in question. In the case of personal identity, there is also the crucialpoint that more is involved than any merely grammatical or verbal issue – for here theattribution of identity results in a fiction which in one form consists in a mistakenphilosophical account of the nature of personal identity (T, 1.4.6.7, 21). It is worthadding that one may agree with Hume’s assessment of the philosophical view of per-sonal identity he wishes to reject independently of accepting Hume’s own account ofthe relation of identity.

13 This is reflected in remarks such as the following: ‘[A]s the ideas of the several dis-tinct successive qualities of objects are united together by a very close relation, themind, in looking along the succession, must be carry’d from one part of it toanother by an easy transition’ (T, 1.4.3.3; the latter emphasis is mine).

14 Thus, Hume refers in this context to ‘the transition of the mind from one [related]object to another’ (T, 1.4.6.6; my emphasis).

15 Something like this view was presupposed in my attempt above to defend Humeagainst the objection that the perceptions available to us as self-observers could notbe distinguished in the way required from our other perceptions.

16 It should be said that Pike regards Hume’s bundle theory as a reductionist one con-cerning statements about the mind and its activities (Pike 1967: 164). I have alreadygiven reasons, in the previous chapter, for supposing that we should not ascribereductionism in this form to Hume. Pike’s ‘limited’ defence of Hume does not

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seem to depend on taking this kind of view of his reductionism, in so far as we maytreat Hume’s references to the mind as a bundle (collection, system, etc.) as a claimabout the nature of the mind itself.

17 As, indeed, is illustrated in the flow chart employed in Chapter 1.18 I do not mean to suggest that this question is of central concern to Hume in T,

1.4.6. But in so far as he offers a view of the mind as a bundle or system of per-ceptions we are bound to wonder what sort of account he would be able to give ofwhat it is that so relates certain perceptions that they are those of this particularmind or self.

19 I have noted already the complicating factor that on Hume’s own account there isa relevant difference in respect of these relations between ideas and impressions –namely, that while ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity and causation,impressions themselves are associated only by resemblance (T, 2.1.4.3).

20 This kind of approach to the problem of the synchronic identity of the self hasbeen discussed and ultimately rejected by Carruthers (1986: 56). Carruthers’ pointis that I may well not be conscious of the simultaneous occurrence of my mentalstates at a time, even if I am conscious of each of them separately. Indeed, theattempt to become conscious of them collectively may make it difficult, if notimpossible, to sustain each of these mental states. While Hume sometimes seems toimply that we possess a kind of ongoing awareness of our mental states collectively(for example, at T, 2.2.2.15 where he suggests that ‘we are at all times intimatelyconscious of ourselves’ – my emphasis), I am not sure how far this is really neces-sary for his purposes. It does seem enough to cater for belief in the simplicity (orsynchronic unity) of the mind that it should in general be possible for there to bea perception of the other perceptions which make up the mind or self, even ifthere are circumstances in which a second-order perception of this kind may notoccur. (Circumstances of this latter kind – where, for example, one’s attention isdivided – would appear to be of just the kind in which the belief in synchronicunity might not be formed.)

21 It is therefore evident that on this account a synthetically unified mind or selfmust have a more than merely momentary existence. This will be found to haveimplications for the notion of diachronic unity.

22 This in effect is the solution to the problem of synchronic unity which is suggestedby Shoemaker and Swinburne (1984: 93–4). As Shoemaker points out, it reflects afunctionalist account of mental states, i.e. as states definable by their relation tosensory inputs, behavioural outputs, and other states of the same kind. I am not ofcourse suggesting that Hume explicitly endorses any such account of mental states(or ‘perceptions’); nevertheless, his account of the mind as a system – and onewhose members are linked, in particular, by the relation of cause and effect – doespoint to a similar view of the character of mental states and thus a similar accountof what it is for them to belong to the same person.

23 A further issue which would have to be addressed here is that of the apparent cir-cularity of these accounts of the synchronic and diachronic unity of the mind. Forthey rest upon functionalist characterisations of mental states which themselvesmake use of the notion of same person. Since Hume thinks that claims of syn-chronic or diachronic identity are, strictly speaking, false, there is little point inpursuing this issue on his behalf. But it is worth noting that the circularity objec-tion may not be an insuperable one (Shoemaker and Swinburne 1984: 98–101).

24 When the question about diachronic unity or identity is understood in these termsit requires that we should be able to give an account of the synchronic unity of eachof the bundles involved without knowing whether the relation between them is oneof diachronic unity. Any such bundle must, as we have seen, have a more thanmomentary existence; but since it appears impossible to be more specific about its

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duration it will also be impossible to provide any general account of what it is fora relation of diachronic untiy or identity to obtain between one such bundle andanother (cf. Schechtman 1996: 10).

25 The part played here by these different aspects of personal identity appears toreflect what is often described as a ‘psychological continuity’ theory (bearing inmind that Hume is not proposing a theory of personal identity so much as diag-nosing our mistaken propensity to ascribe a strict identity to the mind or self).Locke’s memory theory is an instance of the claim that personal identity consistsin a certain kind of psychological – as opposed to bodily – continuity. While Humeis committed to rejecting the psychological continuity approach to personal iden-tity in this form, the ‘perceptions’ associated with the agency aspect of the self –passions, intentions, traits of character, and so on – indicate that our beliefs aboutpersonal identity have to do with various kinds of psychological connectionbetween the mind or self at different times in its existence. Even if we are preparedto allow that someone may remain the same in spite of changes in his character ordisposition, we still suppose that underlying these changes are systematic causalconnections between his psychological states at different times. I say more aboutthis in Chapter 5.

26 It may be true that the rate of change in the membership of a republic is ratherslower than that of the perceptions constituting a mind at different times (Flage1990: 142). But the crucial point for Hume’s purposes is the kind of continuity thatone finds in each case.

27 The labels ‘singularity’ and ‘particularity’ are to be found in Carruthers (1985: ch.2); Brennan (1994: 179) also refers to the issue of particularity which arises in thiscontext. I am much indebted to this latter essay in what follows.

28 It would be worth looking at Hume’s argument at this point in a little more detail.The argument should be seen as part of a continuing critique of what Hume hadearlier referred to as the ‘unintelligible something’ called substance (T, 1.4.3.4).Having ascribed this notion to the influence on the imagination of the relatedqualities of objects, Hume now considers the possibility that his opponent mighttry to find a basis for the idea of substance by defining it – as, for example, bothDescartes and Spinoza do – as ‘something which may exist by itself’. Hume’s pointthen is that this definition would apply to everything, including our perceptions. Hesupports this by appealing to two principles which are of central importance forhim. One of these is the ‘establish’d maxim’ that ‘whatever the mind clearly conceivesincludes the idea of possible existence’ – or, in other words, that ‘nothing we canimagine is absolutely impossible’ (T, 1.2.2.8). The other is that ‘whatever objects aredifferent are distinguishable, and . . . whatever objects are distinguishable are sep-arable by the thought and imagination’ (T, 1.1.7.3; cf. 1.1.3.4). The latter principleapplies directly to perceptions in so far as they are different from each other, so thatthey may be conceived as separately existent; but the former principle then impliesthat they may exist in separation. (The argument is summarised at T, 1.4.2.39.) Itis important to note that Hume is arguing only that perceptions themselves satisfya certain definition of substance; this is not, or not obviously, the same as to arguethat they are substances, especially given Hume’s dismissive remarks about theidea of substance in T, 1.4.3.

29 In response to the question of how a perception may be supposed to be absentfrom the mind without being annihilated, Hume declares for the first time that themind is nothing but a heap or collection of perceptions and that given the distin-guishability and separability of perceptions from each other it follows that ‘there isno absurdity in separating any particular perception from the mind’ (T, 1.4.2.39).

30 The case of the republic evidently would not fit the bill; for while the republic itselfis arguably nothing more than its individual members related to each other in

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various ways, it does seem possible that any one of these members might have ledan independent existence (as in the case of the hermit). It is worth noting, however,that Hume does have a very strong view of the dependence of individual humannature upon society: ‘We can form no wish, which has not a reference to society’(T, 2.2.5.15).

31 See Carruthers, Introducing Persons, 57–8; also Brennan, ‘Disunity of the Self ’,179.

32 An illustration of this idea would be provided, for example, by Hume’s account ofthe way in which the indirect passions of pride and humility arise in the mind(T, 2.1.5.5).

33 I shall say more in Chapter 8 about the way in which the idea of self might help togenerate the idea of other selves.

34 That is, the conditions – whatever they are – associated with our ordinary ascrip-tions of identity to persons over time.

3 HUME ON THE MIND/BODY RELATION

1 This parallel is in fact made explicit by Hume himself in the Abstract (Abs. 28).2 There appears to be something of a consensus among commentators that this par-

ticular section should be viewed as a digression from the main arguments of theTreatise, and that it is primarily concerned to offer a satirical account of certainphilosophical positions which are peripheral to Hume’s own concerns. This isexemplified in one of Hume’s most recent commentators, Oliver Johnson, whowrites that ‘For the student concerned with Hume’s own philosophy Section 5 [i.e.Treatise 1.4.5] is to a considerable degree digressive’. He goes on to refer to Humetaking positions ‘that clearly do not represent his own thought and which are onlyof peripheral relevance to his own philosophical views’ (Johnson 1995: 279).Another commentator refers to the ‘elaborately paradoxical argument’ of Treatise1.4.5 (Bricke 1980: 44). John Yolton’s discussion of this section of the Treatise(1983: ch. III) also represents Hume’s approach to the issues involved as satirical.In a recent article devoted to this section of the Treatise it is suggested that ‘Hume’stone is satirical throughout’ (McIntyre 1994: 5). However, it is misleading, at least,to read Treatise 1.4.5 as a piece of philosophical satire if this is taken to suggestthat Hume is not contributing to philosophical debates of direct relevance to hisown philosophy. In fact, it has been convincingly argued by Jane McIntyre (1994)that the focus of this section of the Treatise is a debate between Samuel Clarke andAnthony Collins about the nature of the self – and, furthermore, it emerges thatthis has a direct bearing on the account of the self and its identity which Humegoes on to offer in the following section of the Treatise. Thus, Hume may be seenas responding directly to Clarke’s view that the self cannot be composite and thatthought must inhere in a simple immaterial substance (something which Collinsdenies, as we shall see below). A similar interpretation has been offered by PaulRussell (1995a: 95–115).

The historical background to this section, and the philosophical position whichemerges from it, has recently been explored also by Falkenstein (1995) andCummins (1995). I shall be saying something later about issues raised in theirarticles.

3 This theological issue might be seen against the background of the principle –endorsed, for example, by Samuel Clarke – that nothing can be or act where it isnot. Leibniz responded by suggesting that God is not present to things by spatiallocation. In similar vein, John Jackson challenged the idea that God acts uponthings by contact, and appealed to the relation between soul and body in supportof the claim that local presence does not entail action by contact. We may note that

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issues about extension also arise in this context. On one view, for example, God’somnipresence requires that he should act in space and be extended, albeit in a non-bodily way. Hume alludes to such views in a discussion of anthropomorphicconceptions of God in the Dialogues (4, 60–1). How can the deity be similar to ahuman mind if the mind itself is ‘A composition of various faculties, passions, sen-timents, ideas – united, indeed, into one self or person, but still distinct from eachother’; while the deity is – as all ‘true theists’ claim – perfectly immutable andsimple? One response is to represent the deity as being ‘entire in every point ofspace, and complete in every instant of duration’. (It is obviously worth noting thatthe view of the mind or soul mentioned here echoes the account of T, 1.4.6, in spiteof the fact that Hume is often said to have abandoned that account in light of thedifficulties referred to in the Appendix to the Treatise.) For a valuable survey of thisarea of philosophical debate see Yolton (1984: ch. IV).

4 In a little more detail, Hume argues that ‘internal’ impressions – i.e. reflectiveimpressions such as passion and desire – cannot be the source of the idea of spaceor extension. In contrast to Locke’s view of space as a simple idea (Essay II xiii 2),Hume claims that it is a compound idea whose simple constituents are derived fromimpressions of sensation associated with the senses of sight and touch. The rele-vant visual impressions are those of coloured points disposed in a certain manner,while the relevant tangible impressions are those of solid points (T, 1.2.3.4, 15).From these impressions we are able to form the abstract idea of the disposition ofpoints and hence the idea of space or extension as the manner or order in whichobjects exist. We might note the implication of Hume’s view that there is no idea ofspace where there is nothing visible or tangible, namely, that the idea of a vacuumor extension without matter – ‘pure extension’ – is to be rejected.

5 Hume had earlier observed that sounds, tastes and smells appear to have no exis-tence in extension – T, 1.4.2.9.

6 This kind of view of perceptions would obviously be encouraged by the claim, towhich I have referred previously, that they satisfy a widespread definition of ‘sub-stance’. For if perceptions are logically capable of independent existence then theymust presumably be objects of some kind. Nevertheless, this latter view should bedistinguished from what Hume has said about perceptions as substances. It seemsquite possible, for example, to regard perceptions – or some particular subclass ofperceptions, such as sense-impressions – as kinds of mental object, but ones whichare able to exist only in so far as we are aware of them. There would still, of course,be an issue as to what sorts of property would belong to such objects: this, indeed,has formed a central part of the debate about sense-data with which philosophy ofperception has been concerned throughout the twentieth century. Hume’s ten-dency to reify perceptions – and its bearing on his discussion of the idea of the self– has recently been noted and discussed by Noonan (1999: 194–8).

7 We may note that Locke represents the sensible qualities of taste and smell asbeing non-extended (Essay II xiii 24). He does so in the context of his discussion ofthe claim that extension provides the essence of body.

8 This principle is employed by Aquinas in his discussion of the relation of the mindor soul to the body (1964–1980: vol. 11, 83–5). Aquinas rejects the Aristotelianview that the soul does not have to be in each part of the body (De Anima II, 1) infavour of Augustine’s claim that the soul is whole in the whole body, and whole inevery part (De Trinitate vi, 6). His principal reason for doing so lies with the viewthat the soul is the substantial form of the body. Aquinas attempts to make senseof the Augustinian principle by distinguishing different kinds of whole – for exam-ple, there is the whole that divides into parts quantitatively and the whole that hasas its parts the different things it can do (its powers). Thus, while the whole soul isin every part of the body its different powers are distributed across different parts

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of the body. It is worth noting, incidentally, that the principle Hume rejects asabsurd makes an appearance in Gassendi’s criticisms of Descartes’ account of themind/body relation (Objections V). This account, Gassendi points out, apparentlycommits Descartes to the view of the relation as being that of ‘a whole in a whole,and . . . wholly in every part’. The latter idea faces the objection that nothing canexist as a whole in different places at the same time; but the former would appar-ently make the mind itself extended, contrary to Descartes’ immaterialism.

9 This is roughly how the argument to which Hume refers is presented by Falkenstein(1995: 29). As Falkenstein points out, the argument has a considerable philosoph-ical pedigree, and versions of it are to be found in philosophers with whose writingsHume would have been familiar, such as Clarke and Bayle. Bayle’s version of theargument, for example, occurs in the article on Leucippus (1991: 129–34). Theessential point of the argument, in Bayle’s version, is to establish the immaterialityand indivisibility of all that thinks by demonstrating the incompatibility of thoughtwith matter as something which is composite. A thinking being is unified in a waywhich prevents us from supposing that thought or feeling might somehow be dis-tributed across the different parts of something composite. (The similarity toNagel’s remarks about consciousness, as described above, is striking.) A fullaccount of the history of this kind of argument is contained in Mijuskovic (1974).The title of Mijuskovic’s book is taken from Kant’s reference to the argument in thesecond Paralogism as ‘the Achilles of all dialectical inferences in the pure doctrineof the soul’ (1963a: 351). In Kant’s version of it, the point of the argument is toestablish the simplicity of that which thinks. While Kant denies that it is an analyticor conceptual truth that the collective unity of a thought cannot be related to thecollective unity of different substances acting together, he argues that the subjective‘I’ presupposed by all thinking could not be distributed and divided among manysubjects.

A version of the argument also occurs in the context of the important debatebetween Samuel Clarke and Anthony Collins about the nature of the soul whichappears to provide the main philosophical background to Hume’s own discussion(Clarke 1978: vol. III). In brief, the position for which Clarke argues is that the soulcannot be material. Matter, being divisible, consists of distinct parts; and unlessevery particle consists of innumerable separate and distinct consciousnesses, nosystem composed of such particles can be an individual conscious being (1978:757). An important principle to which Clarke appeals is that no real quality canresult from the composition of different qualities, so as to be a new quality of thesame subject. Thus, consciousness as a real quality cannot result from the compo-sition of qualities devoid of consciousness and so the particles of the brain, being‘loose and in perpetual flux’, cannot be the seat of consciousness (1978: 798). Theprinciple to which Clarke appeals here receives an effective rebuttal from Collins,who points out that a ‘power’ such as the harmonious sound associated with amusical instrument is not the sum of powers of the same kind in parts of theinstrument considered singly. The conclusion Collins draws is that consciousnessmay inhere in a system of matter without being the sum of the consciousnesses ofits parts (1978: 806, cf. 819).

10 In fact, Hume subsequently confirms that what is involved here is another generaltendency of the mind which is liable to lead us into error on just these kinds ofpoint. Thus, he writes as follows: ‘’Tis a quality . . . in human nature, that when twoobjects appear in close relation to each other, the mind is apt to ascribe to them anadditional relation, in order to compleat the union; and this inclination is so strong,as often to make us run into errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought andmatter) if we find that they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions areincapable of place or local position; and yet those very impressions we suppose to

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have a local conjunction with the impressions of sight and touch, merely becausethey are conjoin’d by causation, and are already united in the imagination. Since,therefore, we can feign a new relation, and even an absurd one, in order to compleatany union, ’twill easily be imagin’d, that if there be any relations, which depend onthe mind, ’twill readily conjoin them to any preceding relation, and unite, by a newbond, such objects as have already an union in the fancy.’ Hume goes on to say thatthis tendency to complete any union between objects which are closely related toeach other is something which ‘is easily accounted for from the known propertiesof human nature’ (T, 3.2.3.4n).

11 While Spinoza is committed to the category of substance as that which has inde-pendent existence (1993: Part I, def. III), he differs from Descartes in proposing amonistic ontology of substance while recognising a duality or multiplicity of attrib-utes. Hume’s reference to this ‘hideous hypothesis’ echoes Bayle’s comments onSpinoza (1991: note N, 300–1). While Hume’s characterisation of Spinoza’s sub-stance monism as a form of atheism might be seen as satirical, it does point to aproblem in Spinoza’s metaphysics about the relation of God to the material uni-verse – one which provides a counterpart to the problem of the mind/bodyrelationship which Spinoza finds in Descartes. Spinoza’s reference to Deus seuNatura (1993: Part IV, Preface) suggests that God is in some sense identified withthe material universe – this is certainly how he is interpreted by Clarke (1978: vol.II, 532).

12 On Hume’s view the causal dependence of thought and perception on bodily eventshas important implications for the idea of human immortality. Thus, he suggeststhat ‘The physical arguments from the analogy of nature are strong for the mor-tality of the soul’. And he continues: ‘Where any two objects [in this case, body andsoul] are so closely connected, that all alterations, which we have ever seen in theone, are attended with proportionable alterations in the other; we ought to con-clude, by all rules of analogy, that, when there are still greater alterations producedin the former, and it is totally dissolved, there follows a total dissolution of thelatter (‘Of the Immortality of the Soul’, Essays 596).

13 We should note that Hume’s reference to the ‘mysterious . . . union of soul withbody’ in the first Enquiry occurs in the context of the idea that soul and body con-sidered as substances are able to operate on each other. The only meaningful issuewhich arises here is that of the actual physiological effects of volition, for example,and this is something to be established by experience rather than by appeal to anysupposed connection between cause and effect (EHU, 7.11–13).

14 Locke’s position here came under attack in the well-known controversy withStillingfleet. The gist of Stillingfleet’s objection to Locke was that by allowing forthe possibility that God might superadd to matter the faculty of thinking, Lockehad left the existence of spiritual substance open to question. Locke responded bydistinguishing the question of whether a substance has the faculty of thinkingfrom that of whether it is immaterial, and he continued to maintain that while itmay be in the highest degree probable that thinking substance is immaterial, this isnot something which is capable of demonstration. Again, we may be unable to con-ceive how matter can think, any more than we can conceive, for example, howmatter may attract matter at a distance; but the possibility of thinking matter stillcannot be excluded. In any case, it is no easier to conceive how the soul thinks, thanit is to conceive how an extended solid object should do so. (The Stillingfleet cor-respondence is to be found in Locke 1996: 339–57; see esp. 347–54.)

15 In similar fashion to Locke, Cudworth rejects the possibility that thought mightarise from matter in motion (1978: 761). As Yolton points out (1983: 7),Cudworth’s position reflects the assumption that thought and motion are proper-ties of different kinds of substance, so that the production of thought by matter

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would amount to the creation of an incorporeal substance by a corporeal one.16 This, as Hume is aware, brings him into conflict with ‘the Cartesians’, as he refers

to them, who argue that matter is able to communicate motion only through theintervention of the deity (T, 1.3.14.8–10).

17 Hume writes at some length about the case of volition in the context of his dis-cussion of necessary connection in the first Enquiry (Section 7). His purpose is, asit was in the Treatise (T, 1.3.14.12), to deny that we are provided here with any ideaof power or necessary connection. This is reflected in our ignorance of the natureof the immediate effects of volition. We know that bodily action depends uponsuch events as muscular contractions, but there are many other antecedents ofwhich we are unaware (EHU, 7.14). Hume’s insistence on our failure to discover involition anything like power or necessary connection represents his reaction tothose who, like Locke, claimed to find the source of active power in the operationsof the will (Essay II xxi 4).

18 All this is in fact reflected in the flow chart conception of the mind ascribed toHume in Chapter 1. I shall be discussing Hume’s account of our voluntary actionsin more detail in Chapter 7.

19 A statement of this occasionalist view is to be found in Malebranche (1992:92–144).

20 I shall have more to say about this feature of Hume’s view of the agency aspect ofthe self in Chapter 7.

21 Similar passages are to be found elsewhere. For instance, ‘We learn the influence ofour will from experience alone. And experience only teaches us, how one event con-stantly follows another; without instructing us in the secret connexion, which bindsthem together’ (EHU, 7.13).

22 As does Cummins (1995: 50); see also Flage 1990: 121.23 It is worth noting, too, that Hume’s version of the Argument from Illusion in

Section 12 of the first Enquiry refers to our perception of the sizes of objects(EHU, 12.9).

24 The importance of this passage in the present context is brought out by Flage(1990: 124). It is perhaps necessary to add here that the theatre passage has beenread differently, as expressing a kind of agnosticism about the existence or nature ofthe ‘place’ where our perceptions are to be found (Craig 1987: 113–16; G. Strawson1989: 128–30). I cannot discuss the complex issues of interpretation involved here indetail but I should like to comment briefly on the suggestion that the bundle theoryis best seen as an account of what we can know about the mind rather than what themind really is (G. Strawson 1989: 129). It is true that in the Introduction to theTreatise Hume does refer to ‘the essence of the mind being equally unknown to uswith that of external bodies’ (Intro. 8). I take this, however, to be an acknowledge-ment that it will be impossible to provide any ultimate explanation as to why theperceptions of the mind present themselves to us in the way they do, rather thananother way of saying that there may be a mind existing apart from our perceptionsbut, if so, that it remains unknown to us (cf. Craig 1987: 116). Hume does appearquite explicitly to exclude the possibility that the mind exists as any kind of thing orsubstance separate from perceptions themselves. In fact, as we have seen, he claimsthat we cannot even understand the question as to whether perceptions inhere in amaterial or immaterial substance (T, 1.4.5.6, 17, 33). Moreover, given that our per-ceptions are all different, separable, and distinguishable from each other andeverything else, Hume concludes ‘’tis impossible to conceive, how they can be theaction or abstract mode of any substance’ (T, 1.4.5.27). I therefore see no reason notto take at face value the following remarks from the Abstract in which Hume isreferring to one of the many opinions peculiar to himself: ‘. . . it must be our severalparticular perceptions, that compose the mind. I say, compose the mind, not belong

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to it. The mind is not a substance in which the perceptions inhere’ (Abs. 28).25 This is to be contrasted with the view that extended perceptions are located in the

brain (Anderson 1976: 166). I have commented above on passages in which Humemight appear to be locating perceptions in the brain; as I have indicated, theyappear in general to be concerned with the neurophysiological causes of our per-ceptions. Thus, even those of our perceptions which are, in some sense, extendedshare the same dependence as other perceptions on the brain and other bodilyorgans.

4 HUME’S SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT PERSONAL IDENTITY

1 A footnote indicates that Hume appears to be referring here to paragraph 17 andfollowing from T, 1.4.6.

2 See Chapter 2, n29.3 That Hume was concerned with both kinds of question seems to be denied by

Wayne Waxman in his discussion of Hume on the mind, where he suggests thatHume’s sole philosophical concern was with the origin of the relevant ideas andtheir contents (Waxman 1994: 223). Yet, as he points out in the course of this dis-cussion, Hume himself declares his view of the mind as a system of perceptions tobe ‘the true idea of the human mind’ (T, 1.4.6.19, my italics). While Waxman him-self appears to regard this as merely a phenomenological claim, it is natural toregard it as Hume’s alternative to the mistaken idea of the mind for which heattempts to account in the preceding part of his discussion of personal identity. Infact, this is reflected in Hume’s recapitulation of his account of the mind (in T,1.4.6) in Appendix 11–19.

4 This view about the nature of Hume’s second thoughts seems increasingly to havegained acceptance. See Stroud 1977: 133–4; Garrett 1997: 179; Baxter 1998: 204;Winkler 2000: 18–19; Roth 2000: 95; and Ainslie 2001: 568, n23.

5 It is worth noting, too, that Hume continues to refer in the Abstract to his view ofthe mind or soul as ‘a system or train of different perceptions . . . all unitedtogether, but without any perfect simplicity or identity’, and contrasts this with the‘unintelligible’ notion of the mind as a substance in which perceptions inhere – Abs.28.

6 McIntyre (1979: 82–3) provides a useful summary of the reasons why Humerequires the concept of a continuing self. As McIntyre goes on to argue, however,Hume’s bundle account of the self is able to allow for this concept.

7 Contrary, for example, to Pears (1975: 207, 212) who claims that the Appendix con-tains a recantation of the ‘reductive theory’ of personal identity set out earlier inthe Treatise, i.e. a theory according to which the mind is composed of perceptionsrelated by resemblance and causation.

8 There are many such interpretations. It was argued by Basson (1958: 131–3) thatthe relations of resemblance and causation might hold between the perceptions ofdifferent minds and cannot, therefore, account for the unity of the perceptionswhich belong to a particular mind. More recently, Stroud (1977: 126–7) has pointedout that these relations may not hold between the perceptions which do belong toone person’s mind. It has also been suggested that Hume’s difficulty can be tracedto the fact that resemblance and causation are inadequate to account for the ‘nec-essary ownership of perceptions’ – the phrase is from Pears 1993: 290. So far as thislast suggestion is concerned, we should note that even in the Appendix Hume con-tinues to reject any such view of perceptions: ‘Whatever is distinct, isdistinguishable; and whatever is distinguishable, is separable by the thought orimagination. All perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable, andseparable, and may be conceiv’d as separately existent, and may exist separately,

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without any contradiction or absurdity’ (App. 12, my emphasis). While we might notshare Hume’s view that the only relations between perceptions are contingent ones,this does appear to remain his view in the Appendix. In regard to Stroud’s point, weshould note that perceptions between which there are no direct causal relations maynevertheless still form part of one system to the extent that the perceptions involvedare linked in a network of such relations – as we saw in Chapter 2.

9 A similar diagnosis of Hume’s difficulties has been provided by Pears 1990: 137–8.Pears suggests that Hume is offering a ‘weak empiricist’ account of the mind, butthat this account of the internal structure of the mind cannot in itself serve to markoff one mind from another. See also Pears 1975: 216.

10 There is another problem about the relation between the perceptions of differentminds to which Garrett has drawn attention. This depends on the principle,derived from Hume’s account of causation, that two simultaneous qualitativelyidentical perceptions occurring in distinct minds can differ in their causal relationsonly by differing in their spatial locations. But according to Hume, as we saw inthe previous chapter, many of our perceptions have no spatial location (‘existwithout any place’). Thus, Hume has deprived himself of any basis for assigningtwo such perceptions to different minds and, hence, for explaining how we canconceive of other minds with similar and simultaneous perceptions (Garrett 1997:180–5). It is difficult, however, to see any reason to suppose that this was theproblem that Hume was concerned in the Appendix, and the fact is that heappears simply to take for granted that each of us is conscious only of a certain setof perceptions. Any two perceptions of the kind to which Garrett refers will there-fore belong to the same (for Hume, imperfectly identical) mind provided thatthey are perceived as part of the same succession of related perceptions; and ifthey are not so perceived, then they will belong to different minds (cf. Waxman1994: 327, n35).

11 This point bears on Donald Baxter’s recent and intriguing discussion of theAppendix (Baxter 1998). The gist of his argument is that the source of Hume’sproblem lies with his theory of representation which requires him to suppose thatideas representing our many perceptions as one must themselves be one, contraryto his denial of any real connection among distinct perceptions (1998: 214). AsBaxter acknowledges, the problem he has identified is in fact a general one whichwould arise in any case in which an identity is ascribed to different objects (1998:223). Of course, we cannot rule out the possibility that Hume’s problem is indeeda general one and that he may simply not have thought of its relevance to othercontexts. Given, however, that even in the first paragraph of the Appendix Humeindicates that personal identity provides the only ‘article’ in which he has beenable to discover a considerable mistake, and that he reserves his subsequentadmissions of error and inconsistency for his account of personal identity, it isobviously worth seeking an interpretation which would have a particular bearingon this case.

12 We have seen previously that the third of Hume’s associative relations – contiguity– is discounted in this context.

13 I shall not pause to comment here on Hume’s assumption that our awareness ofbodies consists in the occurrence of certain kinds of perception (in the form ofimpressions of sensation – see Chapter 1, n9).

14 To stress the point referred to earlier, the idea is one which forms part both of thevulgar belief in personal identity and also the philosophical view of the self as animmaterial substance.

15 It appears that, for Hume, dreams are a matter of ideas occurring during sleep (T,1.1.1.1). This is to be compared with the case of sound sleep where one’s percep-tions are removed with the result that one may truly be said not to exist (T, 1.4.6.3).

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16 It is argued by Winkler (2000: 20) that causation is unable to generate the ‘easytransitions’ that would enable us to ignore the perceived differences between ourperceptions. However, the explanation then given for this is different from the oneto which I have appealed.

17 I should perhaps mention one last alternative kind of interpretation at this point.This focuses on the point to which I have referred above, that for Hume our beliefsabout the identity of objects or bodies and those concerning the identity of themind or self in each case depend on awareness of a succession of perceptions. Butis there not an opposition between the tendencies involved, to the extent that ourattributions of object identity involve grouping together only a certain segment ofthe succession of perceptions to which we attribute an identity as a whole in so faras they are taken to constitute the same continuing self ? (Roth, 2000: 101–7). Evenif we accept, however, that there is indeed an opposition of this kind it is difficultto see why Hume would find this any more problematic than our tendency to adoptconflicting attitudes towards the succession of perceptions of which we are aware,in so far as we consider them at one moment as variable or interrupted and yet atthe next ascribe to them a perfect identity (T, 1.4.6.6; cf. 1.4.2.36–7).

18 As William James puts it, ‘If the consciousness is not aware of them [sc. time-gapsin our conscious existence], it cannot feel them as interruptions’ (James 1950: vol.I, 237).

19 We should recall here that, so far as Hume is concerned, considered from this per-spective belief in the simplicity of the mind or self is in fact mistaken. The problemof accounting for the unity of our reflective idea of consciousness with the corre-sponding perceptions presumably arises only for a philosopher who accepts thetruth of this belief.

5 HUME ON CHARACTER AND THE SELF

1 I shall be making use in what follows of a number of important discussions ofHume on character. These include Bricke 1974: 107–13; Davie 1985: 337–48;McIntyre 1990: 193–206; Baier 1991: ch. 8 (esp. 188–97); and Russell 1995b: chs7–9.

2 We might say the same sort of thing about a republic or nation, i.e. that it has anidentity which is bound up with such features as its culture and form of govern-ment. Thus, a conquered nation, for example, might lose its identity in this sense,even if it continues to be described as the same nation in respect of other linksbetween the way it is now and what it was like in the past.

3 This kind of distinction has recently been expressed in terms of the differencebetween two kinds of question about the self: the reidentification question (i.e. thequestion of what makes a person at time t

2the same person as a person at time t

1);

and the characterisation question (i.e. the question of which beliefs, values, desiresand other psychological features make someone the person he is) (Schechtman1996: 1–2). It is further argued here that aspects of personal identity which are ofpractical importance to us – including, for example, self-interested concern andmoral responsibility, both of which Hume discusses in Book 2 of the Treatise –belong to the context of the characterisation question (Schechtman 1996: 68).Hume’s own treatment of features like self-interested concern does in fact occur inthis kind of context, as we shall see. It might be said that the characterisationquestion to which Schechtman refers concerns roughly the same sorts of issue asthose raised by the agency aspect of the self.

4 For comments on this and other aspects of Hume’s account of character see Baier1991: ch. 8.

5 In one of his letters Hume writes that ‘. . . a man is not a rogue and rascal and lyar

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because he draws a false inference’ (New Letters, 61). The point is that a person’scharacter is impugned only to the extent that he is the sort of person who is proneto such errors. I will be saying more about this kind of point in the discussion ofthe nature of character traits which follows. The fact that Hume is prepared tocount wisdom, for example, as a virtue – given that it is a mental quality of whichwe approve on account of its utility to the agent himself (T, 3.3.4.8; EPM, 6.16–17)– reflects his rejection of the distinction between natural abilities and moral virtues(T, 3.3.4; EPM, Appendix 4).

6 These observations about character are summarised by Hume in the remark that‘. . . the qualities of heart and temper and natural understanding are the mostessential to the personal character’ (Letters, vol. II, 111).

7 It appears that this is, for Hume, one of the factors that tends to distinguish humanfrom non-human animals – a topic with which we will be concerned in more detailin the next chapter.

8 There is a further dimension to Hume’s emphasis on the role of moral causes in thiscontext. Part of the explanation of their influence – as compared with that ofphysical causes – is the fact that ‘The human mind is of a very imitative nature’.Not only are we are disposed to the company and society of others, we are also dis-posed to enter into each other’s sentiments so that similar feelings and inclinationstend to run throughout the group. Given this and the frequent opportunities forcommunication with each other through a common language it is almost inevitablethat we come to share a national character. The point that Hume is making hereabout our tendency to enter into each other’s feelings is one with which I will beconcerned in Chapter 8.

9 We shall see the importance of these ideas for Hume’s account of moral agency inthe next chapter, where the difference in moral status between human and non-human animals is at issue.

10 There is in fact a twofold connection between the virtues and vices and the pas-sions. For it is a crucial part of Hume’s account of moral distinctions that theyarise from the distinctive kinds of feeling or sentiment experienced in response tocertain kinds of mental quality. Thus, in Hume’s own words ‘these two particularsare to be consider’d as equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, virtue andthe power of producing love or pride, vice and the power of producing humility orhatred’ (T, 3.3.1.3). So it is not only that the virtues and vices (those classified byHume as ‘natural’ at least) consist in the occurrence of certain kinds of passion, butthey also give rise to passions both on the part of the moral agents themselves andalso those who observe their actions. The indirect passions which arise in theselatter circumstances are related through the feelings of pain and pleasure theyinvolve to the moral sentiments we experience in response to virtue and vice.

11 I have commented previously on Hume’s rejection of the philosophical notionthat the idea of duration may be applied to ‘unchangeable’ objects in the context ofmy discussion of Hume’s treatment of the idea of identity in Chapter 2.

12 The ceteris paribus clause is required for various reasons. As Hume points out,someone may have a character which is naturally beneficial to society and thus beappraised as virtuous; but accidental circumstances may prevent the agent fromproducing these benefits. Thus, ‘Virtue in rags is still virtue’ (T, 3.3.1.19). We alsohave to allow for the possibility of contrary motives or passions (T, 2.3.3.10). Thequestion may be raised as to how often someone would have to act generously,where the opportunity for doing so arises, in order to be considered a generousperson. Hume does not pursue this kind of question – perhaps understandably, inview of the impossibility of providing any determinate answer.

13 As this indicates, on Hume’s account there is a two-way process of inference con-cerning the relationship between character and action. On the one hand, we

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become aware of people’s ‘inclinations and motives, from their actions, expressions,and even gestures’; on the other hand, we interpret ‘their actions from ourknowledge of their motives and inclinations’ (EHU, 8.9). This is no more viciouslycircular than, for example, arriving at knowledge of the properties of astronomicalbodies from observation of their appearance and movements, and then using thisknowledge to explain further observations of those bodies. There are, however,issues here concerning our knowledge of the mental states of others with which Iwill be concerned in more detail in Chapter 8.

14 Thus, Hume would be committed to rejecting what might be described as a‘Summary Theory’ of character traits (Brandt 1970: 25). A theory of this kindwould identify possession of a character trait with the performance, with a certaindegree of frequency, of some particular kind of action – and/or the occurrence ofcertain feelings, etc.

15 See Rorty 1976: 306. Although Rorty does not appear to have Hume especially inmind, the point is one that may be seen to apply to his own account of character.

16 According to Bricke Hume restricts the class of character traits to those mentalattributes which play a distinctive motivational role in the determination of humanbehaviour – and while these traits would include, for example, ambition, avarice,courage, patience and integrity, they would exclude such features as prudence anddiscretion (Bricke 1974: 108). Given, however, the relation of the intellectual virtuesto our conduct it is difficult to see why Hume should be so interpreted.

17 As we shall see, this point is related to Hume’s conception of the self as a kind ofnarrative existence.

18 The interrelation among the traits which go to make up a certain sort of characterinvolves a kind of balance among the traits themselves – as Hume points out, anexcess of a virtue like martial bravery may undermine another virtue like human-ity (EPM, 7.14; cf. T, 3.3.3.3). We may, it seems, draw from this the moral that avirtuous character is one in which the various traits are possessed to a certaindegree in which excess is avoided. In this spirit, Hume himself indicates that thepossession of moderate passions is associated with conduct which conforms to therules of morality (‘The Sceptic’, Essays 169).

19 In this context I should mention Hume’s well-known reference to love of literaryfame as his ‘ruling passion’ in ‘My Own Life’. It is worth noting also here Hume’sremark about the ‘ruling qualities’ of Rousseau’s character (Letters: vol. II, 165).

20 This discussion is omitted from some editions of the first Enquiry.21 I note here the obvious parallel with the way in which, according to Hume’s

account of personal identity in T, 1.4.6, principles of association so influence theimagination that we give a kind of unity to the perceptions of the self.

22 Thus, a person’s view of his character is essentially historical: witness Hume’sobservations about his own character at the end of ‘My Own Life’.

23 Thus, as Hume says, ‘’Tis usual to see men lose their levity, as they advance inyears’ (T, 3.3.4.12). From this Hume draws the general moral that a quality weapprove of in one person may not be an object of approval in another, simply onaccount of the difference in age between them.

24 This idea is developed in detail, and with great subtlety, by Schechtman (1996: ch.5). I am very much indebted to this discussion in the brief remarks that follow. AsSchechtman points out, the view of persons as narrative existences has a prominentphilosophical advocate in MacIntyre 1981: ch. 15.

25 This process of surveying ourselves in reflection provides a constraint on the kindsof narrative self-conception we construct for ourselves. While the potential for self-deception is always present, our sympathetic awareness of the way in which othersrespond to our actions and characters helps to preserve our self-narratives fromwhat might be described as ‘interpretive inaccuracies’ (Schechtman 1996: 125).

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26 I shall have much more to say about these supposed differences between ourselvesand other kinds of animal in the next chapter.

27 There is an excellent discussion of Hume’s position on excusing considerations inRussell 1995b: ch. 7, sec. 5.

28 See Baier 1991: 187 for a discussion of the means by which character may be indi-rectly changed for the better.

6 HUMAN AND ANIMAL NATURE

1 Throughout this discussion it is the relation between human and non-human ani-mals that is in question, though in general I shall speak loosely of humans andanimals.

2 Articles which concern themselves with what Hume has to say about animalsinclude Seidler 1977 and Baier 1985. There are brief discussions of some of theissues raised here in Stroud 1977: 76–7 and Baier 1991: 79. Norton 1982: 38–40contains useful discussion of Shaftesbury’s comparison between human andanimal nature.

3 The following part of my discussion is based on my ‘The Souls of Beasts: Humeand French Philosophy’, in France and Scotland in the Enlightenment, edited by D.Dawson and P. Morère, Bucknell University Press, forthcoming.

4 It is important to note that these two tests, as Descartes himself describes them, bywhich we can distinguish between ourselves and mere machines, enable him todeal with an apparent difficulty with his view of animals as automata. The diffi-culty is well expressed in Bayle’s discussion, to which I refer below, namely, that ifwe view animals as machines, in spite of the appearance their behaviour presents ofthought and feeling, then we will be forced to reach a similar view of our fellowmen. Descartes’ reply would be that the tests of language and action show thathuman beings are not just machines, while at the same time distinguishing them inthis respect from non-human animals.

5 The remarks of Bayle to which I will be referring form part of an extended dis-cussion which occurs in the entry on Rorarius. That Hume was, in general, familiarwith the writings of Bayle is borne out by his reference to a book by Bayle in aletter of March 1732 (Letters, 12); there is also a reference in the Treatise(1.4.5.22n), to the entry on Spinoza in Bayle’s Dictionary.

6 Bayle is, however, concerned that Descartes’ view of animals as automata mightlead to a similar view of other men – something which he judges to be the weakestside of Cartesianism (Bayle 1991: 231).

7 The works of La Mettrie with which I am especially concerned are L’hommemachine, originally published anonymously in 1747, and Histoire naturelle de l’âme,originally published under a pseudonym in 1745. These works achieved consider-able notoriety and it seems reasonable to suppose that Hume would have becomeacquainted with the views they contain. These two works of La Mettrie, togetherwith other writings, have recently been republished in Machine Man and OtherWritings, translated and edited by Ann Thomson, Cambridge: CambridgeUniversity Press, 1996. My references will be to this edition.

8 This image of the clockwork man resonates throughout a debate about the possi-bility of thinking matter which occurred in both Britain and France in theeighteenth century. The debate reflects various themes which may be traced back toDescartes – the possibility of providing mechanistic explanations of various typesof animal behaviour, for example, and the notion that properties like thought andvolition can belong only to something which is immaterial. Hence, a focus for thisdebate was provided by Locke’s suggestion in the Essay that God might have madeit possible for matter to think. In fact, it is Locke who links the debate about

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thinking matter in eighteenth century British philosophy with La Mettrie’s devel-opment of the idea of man as a machine. Hume’s own comments on thematerialist/immaterialist debate occur, as we saw in Chapter 3, in Treatise 1.4.5. Fora valuable overview of this important phase of philosophical discussion aboutmen, machines and animals see Yolton 1983.

9 One thinks here, for example, of the well-known case of the horse Clever Hans,whose apparent ability to count was revealed as a response to subtle behaviouralcues. (For an account of this case see Carruthers 1992: 122–3.) It is worth com-paring this case with Montaigne’s own example of the counting oxen (1987: 29).

10 The same example is to be found in Montaigne 1987: 19.11 Montaigne also stresses the importance of sympathy in the lives both of ourselves

and of animals (1987: 36), though his understanding of this notion may differsomewhat from that of Hume. I shall have more to say about Hume’s account ofsympathy in Chapter 8.

12 We are reminded here of Bayle’s discussion, referred to above.13 Huntley 1972: 457–70 contains an interesting discussion of the possible influences

of Hume upon Darwin. Also worth noting here is Huxley 1886: ch. V, which drawsattention to the break with tradition involved in Hume’s view of the continuitybetween our mental states and those of animals.

14 More precisely, what Hume says here is that ‘animals have little or no sense ofvirtue or vice’.

15 There is thus, as I have noted, an important difference between the self which pro-vides the object of pride in our case – namely, one that comprises both mental andbodily qualities (T, 2.1.9.1) – and the bodily self which provides the object of pridein the case of animals.

16 There is no doubt that Hume thinks that we may indeed approve and disap-prove of animals, and even that animals may take pride in our approbation ofthem (T, 2.1.12.4). But not all approval or disapproval is of a moral kind. Humeis quite clear that our approval of some inanimate object on account of its util-ity is to be distinguished from our approval of moral virtue (T, 3.3.5.6; EPM,5.1n). When he points out that we may approve of an animal which is useful orbeneficial in some way (EPM, 2.9), it seems possible, at least, that what he has inmind is a kind of aesthetic sentiment, bearing in mind the close connection hefinds between the beauty we admire in animals and their convenience and utility(T, 2.1.8.2).

17 In so far as Hume regards the sense of duty as an artificial substitute for a virtu-ous motive such as parental affection his position stands in obvious contrast tothat of Kant. While Hume and Kant agree on the important principle that actionsderive their moral value entirely from the motives from which they are performed,they are diametrically opposed in regard to the nature of moral motivation itself.Thus, while Hume rejects the possibility that the original motive from which a vir-tuous action derives its merit might consist in a regard to the virtue of the actionitself (as opposed to a ‘natural’ motive – T, 3.2.1.4), Kant insists that an action canbe good only if it is done for the sake of the moral law (1963b: Preface). FromKant’s point of view, the action of helping someone as a result of a sympatheticconcern with their well-being – almost the paradigm of a virtuous action onHume’s account – has no genuine moral worth. As Kant expresses it, an actionqualifies as being morally good only to the extent that it is performed from dutyrather than inclination (1963b: ch. 1). Kant is prepared to classify reverence for themoral law as a kind of motivating feeling, but it is one that arises from the ratio-nal side of our nature in contrast to our inclinations. This is obviously not theplace to adjudicate on such a profound disagreement about the nature of moralmotivation, but it is worth noting that Kant’s difference from Hume represents,

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among other things, a very different conception of the nature of human freedomand its bearing on moral agency.

18 Hume returns to this issue in the second Enquiry, Appendix 4, ‘Of VerbalDisputes’. Once again he emphasises the need for philosophers to avoid encroach-ing on the province of grammarians; and he declares the distinction between talentsand defects, on the one hand, and virtues and vices on the other, to be a matter forgrammatical enquiry, a merely verbal question of no importance reflecting‘caprices of language’ (EPM, Appendix 4, 1–2).

19 It certainly appears true that, for Hume, it makes sense to apply moral epithets toanimals. Thus, we may conceive of a virtuous horse, just as we may also think of agolden mountain, by joining together ideas which are quite consistent with eachother (EHU, 2.5). It is, of course, another matter whether anything corresponds tothe complex ideas in question, or whether they are merely ideas of imagination (asI take it each of these ideas is for Hume).

20 According to Arnold 1995: 311 Hume never did mean to suggest that sympathy isthe ultimate source of moral sentiment: even in the Treatise this role is played bythe sentiment of humanity. The evidence for this last claim is slender, at best, butI shall not pursue the matter here.

21 In this respect Arnold appears to be mistaken when he says that Hume ‘seems toassume that no species other than our own possesses a sentiment akin to the sen-timent of humanity’ (1995: 310).

22 This point about animal sympathy reminds us that while sympathy is a mechanismwhich depends on the idea of self, this is not to say that it has to be an especially self-conscious process. Hume accepts that even in the case of human beings sympathy issometimes a pretty unreflective process, so that what is involved may be little morethan a kind of emotional contagion which allows passions to pass ‘with the great-est facility’ from one person to another (T, 3.3.3.5). This is certainly how he seemsto regard the communication of passions in animals. Thus, ‘affections’ such as fearand anger may be communicated from one animal to another quite independentlyof any knowledge of their original causes – as in the case of the ‘howlings andlamentations of a dog’ which produce ‘a sensible concern in its fellows’ (T, 2.2.12.6).

23 Hume argues in ‘Of the Standard of Taste’ that our ability to take the common orgeneral view is also a requirement for judging ‘universal beauty’. There are rules forjudging the merits of works of art which represent generalisations from our expe-rience of ‘what has been found to please in all countries and in all ages’ (Essays231). But a certain ‘delicacy of imagination’ is required in order that our responsesshould conform to these rules there (ibid.). Our judgements of beauty or uglinessreflect an ability to view the objects to which they are directed with a degree ofdetachment while also attending to their features of form or style (237–8). WhenHume remarks on the comparative imperfections of feeling in animals, and theirlack of susceptibility to the pleasures and pains of the imagination, he is surelyimplying the absence of that delicacy of imagination on which our aesthetic sensi-bilities depend. The distinctive viewpoint associated with the operation of ouraesthetic taste can be achieved only if we free ourselves from prejudice or bias. Butprejudice can interfere with any sort of judgement, evaluative or otherwise. It istherefore essentially a matter of good sense to check its influence in all these dif-ferent cases (240). The delicacy of imagination to which Hume has referred itselfdepends on a ‘sound understanding’ which enables us to discern the end or purposeof a work of art, and the degree to which it succeeds in this (240–1). It is clear thatthis is just the kind of case in which, for Hume, we display a knowledge and under-standing which is superior to that of animals. It seems equally clear that theseobservations apply equally to what Hume has to say about the operation of themoral sense. This also requires a kind of imaginative ability to detach ourselves

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from our personal relation to the agent whose mind or character is the object ofour appraisal. And in doing so we obviously exercise our capacities for rationalreflection. As Hume puts it, reason ‘pave[s] the way’ for sentiments of praise andblame: in order that our moral judgements should achieve the objectivity associ-ated with the general view distinctions need to be made, conclusions drawn,comparisons formed, relations examined, and facts ascertained (EPM, 1.9). It isjust this kind of exercise of understanding of which animals appear to be inca-pable; and it is also, therefore, this that would explain their lack of a moral sense.

24 I have argued for this view in Pitson 1993. A similar account of Hume is offered inTranöy 1959. It should be noted, however, that Tranöy finds Hume’s positioninconsistent in this respect.

25 One thinks here of philosophers like Samuel Clarke and William Wollaston asexponents of the kind of rationalist view which Hume rejects in Treatise 3.1.1.Especially worthy of note, for example, is Clarke’s remark that ‘from the differentrelations of different persons one to another, there necessarily arises a fitness orunfitness of certain manners of behaviour’ (1969: 192). But the view of moralitywhich Locke develops in his Essay – where he claims, for example, that moralityprovides us with a kind of knowledge which concerns ‘the agreement or disagree-ment of ideas’ (IV iii 18) – is a clear illustration of the kind of rationalist positionwhich Hume has in mind, and invites just the kind of critical comment whichHume goes on to make about this position.

26 One might of course query the assumption that an animal can engage in ‘the verysame action’ as that of a human being who commits an act of incest, on the groundthat reference to the action involved would normally assume a certain social andlegal context. Hume appears to identify ‘the action’ here with a certain set of exter-nal bodily occurrences and, similarly, to treat ‘the relation’ involved as one which isexternal to such contextual considerations. I shall have more to say about some ofthe differences between the actions of humans and of animals in the next chapter.

27 This relates to the distinction drawn by Hume in another context, between a mis-take of fact and a mistake of right (EPM, Appendix, 1.12). The latter requires notonly that a person’s actions involve him in certain relations, but that they do so inaccordance with his recognition of those relations.

28 This appears to be implicit in Hume’s observation that our voluntary actions areamenable to the influence of the motives of reward and punishment, praise andblame (T, 3.3.4.4).

29 Hume finds in the calm passions a ready explanation of why it should have beenmistakenly supposed that reason itself is a motive to action: since these passions areknown more by the effects produced than by the feelings or sensations involved,they are easily mistaken for judgements of reason (T, 2.3.3.8).

30 The arguments of this section derive from my ‘Hume on Morals and Animals’, TheBritish Journal for the History of Philosophy (forthcoming).

7 HUME AND AGENCY

1 It is perhaps fair to say that until relatively recently Book 2 of the Treatise has beensomewhat neglected by commentators. This situation changed with the publicationof Árdal 1966. Since then Baier 1991 has appeared, and there have been furtherimportant discussions of Hume’s moral psychology in Bricke 1996 and Penelhum1993.

2 Important discussions of issues addressed in the following have recently been pro-vided by McIntyre 1989 and Rorty 1990.

3 When Hume describes the self as the object of the indirect passion of pride, forexample, he is not referring to its intentional object, i.e. the particular thing of which

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one feels proud. He is indicating, rather, that whatever the particular object of one’spride may be it must bear some significant relationship to oneself. It is in this sensethat pride (and humility) are always self-directed. Incidentally, one may get a bettersense of what Hume means by describing pride and humility as contrary passions ifhumility is understood to be equivalent to something like shame. See Árdal 1966: 34.The point is that I cannot at the same time be both proud of myself in a certainrespect and yet also ashamed of myself in that very same respect.

4 This account of pride obviously gives rise to many questions – such as, for exam-ple, the legitimacy of supposing that there is a pleasurable impression of reflectiondistinctive of pride itself, or that this impression then turns the mind to oneself (sothat pride is somehow placed between the ideas of its cause and its object – T,2.1.2.4). I shall, however, largely ignore such questions in order to concentrate onthe implications of this account for Hume’s view of the person or self.

5 Even in this kind of case, as we shall see, pride appears to depend for Hume on thefact that one enjoys a social existence which transcends that of the mind itself.

6 As we saw in Chapter 5.7 This, as we saw in Chapter 2, represents a standard reading of Locke’s account of

personal identity in Book II Chapter xxvii of his Essay.8 These conditions are referred to by Hume as ‘limitations’ on the general account of

the causes of pride, for example, as ‘all agreeable objects, related to ourselves, by anassociation of ideas and impressions’ (T, 2.1.6.1). We should recognise that Humedoes not see himself as offering conditions for the correct application of the con-cept of pride (or humility) so much as an empirically based account of thecircumstances under which the passion occurs.

9 An especially interesting example in this context is that of the miser as Humedescribes his situation (T, 2.1.10.9). The miser delights from the power his moneyprovides him of procuring pleasure even though his money has never been soemployed. According to Hume, the miser must imagine pleasure coming to him inthis way were the present counter-motives of interest and danger to be removed.This must, however, be a more than merely imagined possibility in order for thepassions of the miser to be so affected that he is motivated to hoard his riches.Perhaps, then, this might be explained by supposing that the miser identifies hisinterests now with those of a sympathetically imagined self in the future which isable to obtain pleasure from these riches.

10 And I shall in fact be saying more about it in the next chapter.11 This concern about Hume’s account of the self was raised by one of his foremost

contemporary critics, Thomas Reid. According to Reid, the notions of agencyand responsibility imply the existence of a self which is more than merely a set ofideas or perceptions (1997: 35, 1969a: 622). Not only, for Reid, is there a questionas to how a succession of perceptions can do anything; there is also a question asto how it could be held responsible for what another set or succession does at a dif-ferent time. I shall be addressing these issues in more detail below.

12 This was illustrated in the flow chart picture of the mind to which I referred inChapter 1.

13 I discussed this aspect of Hume’s treatment of the mind/body relation in moredetail in Chapter 3.

14 Hume points out that the man with the palsy may initially try to move a limbbefore he discovers that it is paralysed. If he is not conscious of any power to bringabout such movements neither, Hume suggests, is the person who in the ordinarycase moves a limb by trying to do so. But the same kind of example may be usedto establish that ordinary bodily actions are preceded by volitions in the form ofacts of trying – as in the case of William James’ famous discussion of theanaesthetised and blindfolded patient who tries unsuccessfully to move an arm

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which has been restrained (James 1950, vol. II: 490). The example thus provides anargument in favour of the kind of volitionist view of action to which Humeappears to be committed.

15 See my earlier discussion of consciousness of self in Chapter 2.16 We should note that Reid’s notion of active power issues in a very different account

of action from that provided by Locke. As we saw in Chapter 3 Locke claims tofind the source of the idea of active power in the operations of the will (Essay II xxi4). In other words, such power is manifested in the relation between the will andmovements of the body. Hume, of course, denies that our experience of this rela-tion provides us with any impression of power or necessary connection (EHU, 7.14;T, 1.3.14.12). But he appears to agree with Locke in supposing that actions are dis-tinguished from (mere) bodily movements by their mental causes in the form ofacts of volition. It is just this view of action that Reid wishes to reject. We – not anyof our mental acts or operations – are the cause of those bodily movements whichprovide examples of action. For a more recent defence of this kind of view seeChisholm 1982.

17 The issue is obviously relevant to the earlier discussion of Hume’s account of thedifferences between human and animal selves in Chapter 5.

18 As we saw in the discussion of character in Chapter 5.19 As we have seen, Hume suggests that while our thoughts are limited by neither

spatial nor temporal boundaries, an animal is limited in the exercise of its mind tothe objects around it and acts without curiosity or foresight (‘Of the Dignity orMeanness of Human Nature’, Essays 82). See the earlier discussion of Chapter 6 onthe distinctive way in which the calm passions operate in the case of human beings.

20 It should be acknowledged that this explanation of why we do not attach blame toactions performed from ignorance may be questioned on the basis, for example,that ignorance excuses in its own right, independently of the kind of considerationto which Hume refers.

21 The other aspect of necessity – the inference we are accustomed to make from oneof the constantly conjoined items to the other – also obtains in the case of humanactions. This provides us with what Hume describes as ‘moral evidence’, a basis forpredicting the actions of human beings in accordance with our experience ofhuman nature generally, and also the patterns of motivation associated with theparticular agents in question (T, 2.3.1.15–17; EHU, 8.19).

8 HUME AND OTHER MINDS

1 Hence the charge that Hume fails to explain how we come by this belief. See, forexample, Penelhum 2000: 52, 121.

2 All this might be taken only to illustrate the point that belief in the existence ofother minds is to be categorised as ‘natural’, to use a Humean term, i.e. the kind ofbelief which is irresistible for us in spite of (or, perhaps, even because of) its lack ofany rational foundation. As I shall go on to argue, this conception of the otherminds belief may well be correct. The fact remains, however, that while our naturalbeliefs generally rest in various kinds of imaginative fiction, Hume does not appar-ently feel any need to account for the other minds belief in a similar kind of way.It is this that requires explanation.

3 One place, possibly, where the existence of other minds is not taken for granted isin Hume’s summary of the disturbing questions raised by metaphysical reflection,including ‘What beings surround me?’ (T, 1.4.7.8).

4 While these are not the only mental faculties recognised by Hume, they wouldappear to be the only ones which could account for the presence of the ideas to beexplained.

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5 Hume does also use ‘imagination’ in an inclusive way to comprise the activities ofreason or the understanding itself (T, 1.4.7.3–7); the implications of this will beexplored below.

6 ‘Abstract reasonings cannot decide any question of fact or existence’ (‘Of theImmortality of the Soul’, Essays 591). See also Dialogues, 9.91.

7 The following remarks about the relation of imagination to, respectively, memoryand the understanding owe a great deal to Garrett 1997: ch. 1.

8 Hume also expresses this as a distinction between those principles of imaginationwhich are ‘permanent, irresistible, and universal’ – such as those involved in ourcausal inferences; and principles of the imagination which are ‘changeable, weak,and irregular’ (T, 1.4.4.1).

9 We should note that Hume himself indicates that it is not possible immediately toperceive the sentiments or opinions of others, and that we can become aware ofthem only by their effects (T, 1.3.13.14).

10 It appears that we must therefore reject Penelhum’s suggestion that Hume ‘wouldthink of our awareness of the mental lives of others as an inference from ourknowledge of (or belief in) the behaviour of their bodies taken as signs of theirmental lives’ (Penelhum 2000: 52–3).

11 Hume does recognise a sense in which all causal or inductive inference rests on aspecies of analogy. Thus, he writes as follows: ‘All our reasonings concerning mat-ters of fact are founded on a species of analogy which leads us to expect from anycause the same events which we have observed to result from similar causes’ (EHU,9.1). It is possible, nevertheless, to focus on ANALOGY as involving the relationof resemblance between the events presently observed and those experienced in thepast, and to distinguish this from the question of how far the past events have beenconstantly conjoined.

12 This seems to capture the gist of the well-known statement of the argument byJohn Stuart Mill (1889: 243–4).

13 See the discussion of Chapter 6, Part I.14 In the corresponding discussion in the first Enquiry (‘Of the reason of animals’, § 9)

Hume draws a parallel between the science of anatomy which enables us to arriveat general principles about the bodies of animals and his own ‘moral’ sciencewhich is concerned, for example, with the human understanding. For the latter gen-erates a theory concerning the nature of experimental reasoning which is able,according to Hume, to explain the same data or ‘phenomena’ in animals. Thus, heclaims that ‘animals, as well as men, learn many things from experience, and infer,that the same events will always follow from the same causes’, and he attributes thisto the effects of custom on analogy with our own case.

15 We should note here, incidentally, that this is a point at which a crucial differencebetween the other minds belief and belief in the existence of body emerges. In thelatter case Hume finds himself faced with the challenge of explaining how it is pos-sible to arrive at the very idea of body. But from his point of view there is noparallel difficulty about explaining one’s possession of the idea of mind, for thisappears to be something which is obtained from one’s own case given the suppos-edly self-intimating character of our mental states (T, 1.4.2.7: ‘since all actions andsensations of the mind are known to us by consciousness, they must necessarilyappear in every particular what they are, and be what they appear’).There is still thequestion, however, of how one is supposed to arrive at the belief that there existother minds, given that they are not ‘known to us by consciousness’ in the same wayas our own states of mind.

16 We should bear in mind also that in his discussion of the Argument from Designin the first Enquiry Hume makes much of the principle that if a cause is knownonly by its effect then we ought to ascribe to it no more than is requisite to produce

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that effect (EHU, 11.13). This principle seems particularly disturbing in the presentcontext since the thought occurs that the behaviour of others might be explainedin some way which does not assume their possession of mental states (for example,on the hypothesis that they are no more than highly complex machines orautomata somehow contrived to behave as they do – see the reference to LaMettrie, for example, in Chapter 6).

17 The remaining part of my discussion is based on Pitson 1996: esp. 261–7.18 In a different context ‘receive by communication’ might be taken to refer to a

process of verbal communication. But that does not in general seem to be whatHume has in mind in writing about sympathy: witness his remark about sympathyas involving the communication of passion among animals (T, 2.2.12.6).

19 I therefore disagree with the suggestion to be found in Gordon 1995: 727–8 thatHume makes the sympathetic communication of emotion essentially dependentupon cognition and inference.

20 There is of course a real question as to just how the ‘vulgar’, or non-philosophical,view of perception and its objects should be characterised. There is also a questionas to how we should understand Hume’s characterisation of this view – a topic withwhich I was concerned in some detail in Chapter 4.

21 Compare: ‘. . . so vast an edifice, as is that of the continu’d existence of all externalbodies’ (T, 1.4.2.23).

22 Belief in the existence of other selves is one to which Kemp Smith refers as aHumean natural belief (1949: 75–6, 176). He seems, however, simply to include thisbelief within the more general category of belief in the existence of independentobjects (116, 124), as though belief in other selves failed to raise distinctive issuesof its own considered from a Humean perspective. Incidentally, on Kemp Smith’saccount, belief in the existence of independent objects is one of the two naturalbeliefs recognised by Hume, the other being belief in the causal interrelation ofthese objects (409–10, 455, 483 and 543). It is not obvious, perhaps, why the cate-gory of Humean natural beliefs should be restricted in this way (so as to exclude,for example, belief in the self as something unified and identical over time), thoughthat is not an issue here. More important in this context is Kemp Smith’s view ofthe features distinctive of natural belief, namely, that it is non-theoretical (76),rationally unaccountable (86), inevitable and indispensable (87), explicable solely byreference to human (and brute animal) nature and the causes associated with these(94, 454), an involuntary product of the mechanisms of association (114, 170,176), and a kind of belief that is general in character. It appears that belief in otherselves, as it figures in Hume’s account of sympathy, satisfies most, if not all, ofthese criteria.

It is worth noting here that Kemp Smith seems to find some difficulties inHume’s treatment of belief in other selves as a type of natural belief. More specif-ically, Kemp Smith sees Hume as committed to the view, arrived at by generalisingthe Hutchesonian thesis concerning the primacy of feeling over reason, that cog-nition is a mode of immediate awareness. At the same time, Kemp Smith appearsto suggest that our consciousness of other selves cannot involve this kind of imme-diacy, but requires a kind of cognitive judgement for which Hume fails to allow(550–1). But Kemp Smith does not really explain why Hume should be committedto the view of cognition as ‘immediate awareness’, nor why an account of thebelief in other selves which invokes the various principles of association (together,for example, with the propensity to ‘project’ our emotions) should be inadequate.

23 The comparison with Wittgenstein is worth noting once more at this point. ThusWittgenstein writes as follows: ‘At the foundation of well-founded belief lies beliefthat is not founded’ (1969: § 253; cf. § 166). Wittgenstein 1969: §§ 475 and 499 alsoseem to contain striking Humean echoes.

185

NOTES

186

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190

INDEX

191

action: causes of 57, 60, 89, 100; natureof 132–6, 181 n26; and the passions126–31; volitionist view of 182–3 n14;see also character; responsibility

active power 58, 135–6, 172 n17, 182n14, 183 n16; see also liberty

Adam, Robert and James 7aesthetic judgements 180 n23agency 1–4; and character 83, 96; and

identity 48, 50, 160 n2, 167 n25, 175n3; rational 137–9; Reid on 134–7, 182n11, 183 n16; self and 131; ‘thin’ and‘thick’ notions of 132–9; see alsomoral: agency

Ainslie, D. C. 76–80, 173 n4analogy 148–56, 159, 171 n12, 184

n11Anderson, R. F. 173 n25animal: agency 138–9, 176 n9; mentality

108–9, 138, 148–50, 183 n19, 184 n14;morality 2, 110–13, 115–20, 180 n19;sympathy 116, 157; see also Descartes

approval and disapproval 86, 100,109–14, 121, 128, 132, 179 n16; seealso moral: sentiments

Aquinas, St T. 169 n8Árdal, P. 192 n3Arnold, D. G. 190 n20, n21Ashley, L. 26association of ideas 13–14; and identity

31, 32–3, 36–8, 78; and narrative 92–3;and natural relations 145

association of impressions 37Augustine, St 103, 169 n8Ayer, A. J. 45

Baier, A. 91, 175 n1, n4, 178 n28, n2, 181n1

Barresi, J. 160 n5Basson, A. H. 173 n8Baxter, D. 163 n24, 173 n4, 174 n11Bayle, P: on the Cartesian view of

animals 103–4, 178 n4, n5, n6, 179n12; on the incompatibility of thoughtwith matter 170 n9; on Spinoza 171n11

Beauchamp, T. xi, 26belief 13, 23–4, 57, 146, 158; de dicto

and de re 78; natural 4, 8, 79, 156, 183n2, 185 n22

benevolence 89–90, 113–15Berkeley, G. 6, 18Black, J. 7body: belief in the existence of 18–20,

28, 69, 72–5, 79, 142–4, 147,155–6,184 n15; nature of 61–2, 162 n10; seealso mind/body: relation

Boyle, R. 6Brandt, R. 177 n14Brennan, A. 45, 167 n27, 168 n31Bricke, J. 25, 33, 90–1, 97, 99, 164 n3,

168 n2, 175 n1, 177 n16, 181 n1Broad, C. D. 59Butler, J. 6, 18, 36, 163 n25

Capaldi, N. 25Carruthers, P. 45, 166 n20, 167 n27, 168

n31, 179 n9causal inference 72, 146–7, 183 n21, 184

n8; see also reasoning: probable;experimental: inference

causal necessity 58–60, 181 n21; see alsoliberty

causation 8, 72, 135, 174 n10; agent 135;homogeneity principle 58; mental57–60, 64

cause and effect 5, 13, 42, 55–9, 64, 133,184–5, n16; temporal priority of cause42; union between 147–8, 151; see alsonecessary connection

character 2; and action 90–1,176–7 n13;and narrative conception of self 96–9;and personal identity 48, 83–5, 91–2,167 n25; and reputation 85–6, 95, 100;and responsibility 97, 139–40; traits85–91, 177 n18; and virtue and vice83, 86, 92, 97, 109, 117

Chisholm, R. 183 n16Clark, S. 117Clarke, S. 6, 168 n3, 171 n11, 181 n25;

on the nature of mind or self 18, 160n6, 168 n2, 170 n9

coherence 72–5, 131Collins, A. 160 n6, 168 n2, 170 n9conceivability 56–7consciousness: and the brain 52, 170 n9;

discontinuities of 74–5, 175 n18; as aperception 34; of perceptions 41–2;and personal identity 35–6; of self21

conservation of energy 59constancy 72–3, 75constant conjunction: and the

mind/body relation 64; and therelation of cause and effect 55–6, 59;and the relation between volition andbodily movement 133

contiguity 13, 37–8copy principle 13, 15, 42Cottingham, J. 56Craig, E. 5, 172 n24Cudworth, R. 171 n15Cummins, P. 168 n2, 172 n22

Daiches, D. P. 7, 160 n8Davie, W. ix, 96, 175 n1Dawson, D. 178 n3demonstration 5, 18, 171 n14Dennett, D. 162 n17, 163 n20Descartes, R: on animal and human

nature 2, 101–8, 121, 149, 178 n4, n6,n8; and the image of God doctrine 5;on mind as immaterial substance 6,18, 21, 51, 160–1 n9; andphilosophical justification 8; onsubstance 168 n28, 171 n11

desires: as direct passions 26, 128determinism 83; see also causal

necessity; liberty

Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion,xii, 7, 57, 121, 168–9 n3, 184 n6

Dissertation on the Passions, A xii, 119,152

distinctness and real connection,principles of 67–8, 74

divisibility: of matter 170 n9dualism: of perceptions and qualities

60–2, 65, 142; substance 5, 21, 54, 63,101–2

duration 29; of causes of action 98; andGod 168–9 n3; and identity 176 n11;of perceptions 90, 163 n24, 176 n11;of self 127–8

Edinburgh 7education 97emotions: and animals 107, 116, 180

n22; and anticipated pain andpleasure 129; causes and effects of150; and character 86, 89, 92; asimpressions of reflection 12, 14–16,23

empiricism 174 n9Enlightenment: French 104; Scottish

5–8, 11Enquiry Concerning Human

Understanding, An xi, 14, 16, 92–4, 97,139, 171 n13, 172 n17, n23, 177 n20,184 n14, 184–5 n16

Enquiry Concerning the Principles ofMorals, An xi, 113–15, 180 n18

epiphenomenalism 57Everson, S. 162 n7evidence: moral 151, 183 n21; see also

wisdomexperience: conscious 75; and knowledge

of cause and effect 55–7, 64–5, 133,135, 172 n21; see also causal inference

experimental: inference 58, 107, 151,158, 184 n14; method 6, 11, 26

experiments 23, 45, 61, 87extension 74; and God 168–9 n3; and

impressions 37, 53–4, 62–3, 169 n5,n7; and thought 38, 51, 54, 56, 64

external: existence 18–19, 45, 61, 67, 69,72, 76–7; world 5, 8

Falkenstein, L. 168 n2, 170 n9feeling: and reason 7–8, 185 n22; and

sentiment 21, 152; and thinking 12fellow-feeling 114–15Ferguson, A. 7

INDEX

192

Flage, D. 16, 161 n3, 167 n26, 172 n22,n24

Fogelin, R. 7Foot, P. 98force: and energy 59, 136; and vivacity

13, 146friendship 87, 89, 113–14, 120functional view of mental states 23, 27,

166, n22, n23

Garrett, D. 147, 173 n4, 174 n10, 184 n7

Gassendi, P. 169–70 n8God: image of doctrine 5, 101; in Locke

160–1 n9, 171 n14, 178–9 n8; inMalebranche 6, 58; omnipresence 52;in Spinoza 171 n11

good and evil 88, 95, 110, 179 n17Gordon, R. 185 n19gravity 14, 59

habit 84, 97, 100, 106, 136, 147Hobbes, T. 135human: agency 4, 139; mind 5–6, 22, 57,

106–9, 152, 160 n2, 168–9 n3, 173 n3,176 n8; nature 7–8, 87, 108, 114, 149,161 n2; see also Descartes

humanity 89, 113–15, 121, 177 n18, 180n20, n21

Huntley, W. B. 179 n13Hutcheson, F. 7–8, 185 n22Hutton, J. 7Huxley, T. H. 179 n13

ideas: of imagination 146; innate 161 n6;of memory 26; nature of 12–14;relation to impressions 23–4, 40; asrepresentations 62; see alsoassociation of ideas

identity: principle of 27–9; synchronicand diachronic 3, 31, 41–3, 68, 70, 162n16, 166 n23, n24; see also personalidentity

imagination: and aesthetic sensibility180 n23; and the fiction of continuedexistence 79; and the fiction ofidentity 20, 29–31, 33, 36–8, 83–4,163–4 n25; and memory 16, 24, 26;and the other minds belief 152–3; andreason 8, 53, 165 n10, 184 n5, n8; andsympathy 130

impressions: and ideas, 12–16, 19, 23, 33,40; see also copy principle

impressions of reflection 23–4, 88–90,123–4, 161 n6, 182 n4

impressions of sensation 23–4, 124, 155,162 n9, 174 n13

inconstancy 30, 99, 127individuation 29, 46, 69instinct: in animals 120, 139, 149; and

parental affection 111; and reason107, 157

intention 40–1, 60, 90, 93, 98–9, 128

James, W. 75, 175 n18, 182 n14Johnson, O. A. 68, 168 n2Jones, O. R. 58–9judgement 91, 112, 158,180 n23justice 92, 100, 110, 113, 115, 120–1, 125

Kames, Lord 8Kant, I. 170 n9, 179 n17Kemp Smith, N. 8, 68, 185 n22Kierkegaard, S. 94knowledge: of cause and effect 55, 133;

and morality 181 n25; of other minds83, 142, 152, 164; and probability 163n22; and understanding 108, 111, 116,118, 180–1 n23

La Mettrie, J. O. de 104, 178 n7, n8,184–5 n16

language 102–5, 121, 163–4 n25, 165n12, 176 n8, 178 n4

Leibniz, G. W. 6, 18, 104, 168 n3Lesser, H. 134liberty: and necessity 4, 58, 60, 83, 89,

97; of spontaneity and indifference139

Livingston, D. W. 94–5, 164 n8Locke, J. 4, 7; on active power 172 n17,

183 n16; on the idea of space 169 n4;on innate ideas 161 n6; on matter andthought 56–7, 171 n14, 178–9 n8; onmorality 181 n25; on the nature ofmind or self 160–1 n9; on personalidentity 6, 35–6, 48, 160 n1, n7, 164n7, 164–5 n9, 165 n11, 167 n25, 182n7; on persons 96; on primary andsecondary qualities 74; on sensiblequalities 169 n7

Lowe, E. J. 60

MacNabb, D. G. C. 39Malebranche, N. 6, 58, 172 n19Martin, R. 160 n5

193

INDEX

matter 30, 37, 47, 169 n4, 171–2 n16;and thought 53–7, 104, 160–1 n9, 170n9, 171 n14, n15, 178–9 n8

matters of fact 156; see alsoexperimental: inference

McGinn, C. 52, 54, 56McIntyre, J. L. ix, 88, 90, 91, 128–9, 161

n3, 168 n2, 173 n6, 175 n1, 181 n2memory 13, 15–16, 23–6, 93, 145–6, 184

n7; and belief in personal identity32–5, 39, 50, 71, 75; and self 126–8,131; theory of personal identity 35–6,43, 84, 167 n25; and virtue 112

mental/physical interaction 3, 50–1,60

Mijuskovic, B. L. 170 n9Mill, J. S. 184 n12mind: actuating principles of 124; belief

in the identity of 73, 76, 79; as abundle of perceptions 43–6, 69, 73,91, 96, 134, 162 n16, 164 n5, 165–6n16, 166 n18, 166–7 n24; flow chartaccount of 23, 25–6, 42, 162 n17, 163n20, 172 n18; identity of 30–3, 46;materialist and immaterialist views of3, 18, 51, 54, 63, 160–1 n9, 178–9 n8;nature of 1–6, 11–12, 93, 101, 172n24; reductionist view of 26, 134,165–6 n16, 173 n7; Spinoza on 56;substance view of 51, 54–5, 67, 84,128; as a system of perceptions 22–7,42, 48, 50, 162 n17

mind/body: problem 3–4, 51–2, 56, 64–5;relation 3, 50–1, 53–6, 169–70, n8, 171n13; see also dualism

Montaigne, M. de 2, 105–6, 179 n9, n10,n11

moral: agency 5, 86, 96, 109, 112, 123,128, 137–9, 176 n9, 179 n17; causes60, 87, 97–8, 176 n8; distinctions 6, 88,111–12, 157, 176 n10; evidence 151,183 n21; judgements 7–8, 109, 157–8,180–1 n23; liberty 135, 139; necessity58; philosophy 11, 15, 87, 161 n1, 184n14; psychology 89, 181 n1;rationalism 117–19; sense 109, 121,180–1 n23; sentiments 47, 98, 109–10,115–16, 157, 176 n10, 180–1 n23;world 95

morality 2, 7–8, 113, 177 n18, 181 n25Morère, P. 178 n3motives: as causes of action 128, 151;

and character 60, 87–8, 132, 176–7

n13; and morality 97, 109–11, 114,126, 179 n17; and reason 118–19, 181n29; and the will 2, 89, 135, 137–9,181 n28

Mounce, H. O. 8

Nagel, T. 22, 52, 54, 170 n9narrative order 95, 130natural: abilities 91, 112, 175–6 n5;

evidence 58, 151; philosophy 6, 11, 15,87, 161 n1; relations 14, 20, 28, 40, 95,145, 162 n15, 163 n21, 163–4 n25, 165n12; science 14, 161 n1; world 5–7, 74,95, 106

naturalism 6, 8, 98, 154necessary connection 59, 172 n17, 183

n16Newton, I. 6, 14, 59, 152Noonan, H. 40, 162 n12, 169 n6Norton, D. F. xi, 178 n2

objects: external 111, 135, 185 n22; andidentity 28–30, 36–7, 69–70, 78, 163–4n25, 165 n12, 174 n11, 175 n17, 176n11; and perceptions 18, 28, 72, 77–8,147, 153, 155; and qualities 62, 74, 165n13

occasionalism 58, 172 n19other minds belief 2–3, 142–4, 156, 158,

164 n2, 183 n2, n3, 184 n15; andimagination 152–5; and reason145–51; the vulgar and philosophicalperspectives on 143–4, 154–6

pain and pleasure 12, 15–16, 24–6, 44,57, 84, 94, 100; as the actuatingprinciple of the mind 107; in animals132; and the imagination 108, 180–1n23; and the moral sentiments 109–10,176 n10; and passion 89, 124, 138; andsympathy 129, 158

passions 12, 14, 23–5, 47, 51, 128, 150,158–9, 164 n2; and action 57, 133; andanimals 107–8, 148; calm 89, 100,117–20, 139, 181 n29; and character86–90, 95; as contagious 156, 180 n22;direct 16, 57, 124, 133; indirect 2, 16,24, 26, 57, 98, 109, 124–7, 142; andmorality 113–14, 117–18, 176 n10, 177n18; productive and responsive 26;and reason 89, 100, 119, 137–8, 181n29

Passmore, J. A. 39, 68

INDEX

194

Pears, D. 50, 161 n4, 173 n7, 173–4 n8,174 n9

Penelhum, T. 25–6, 70, 75, 162 n12, 163–4n25, 165 n12; 181 n1, 183 n1, 184 n10

perception: the vulgar and philosophicalviews 18, 77–8, 147, 155, 162 n9, 185n20

perceptions: and body 61; duration of163 n24; and extension 52–3, 62–4,165 n10, 173 n25; and identity 20, 28,32, 37, 48, 70, 84, 164 n27;independent existence of 69, 173–4 n8;and mind 12–16, 19, 27, 30–1, 38, 75;as objects 53; separability of 67, 167n29; simple and complex 12–13; andsimplicity 41–2, 70; singularity andparticularity of 44–6

personal identity 1–4, 21–2, 35–6, 43, 84,164 n6, 165 n12, 167 n25, 172 n3;agency aspect of 1, 3, 21, 24, 44, 48,50, 83–5, 126–7; mental aspect of 1–4,22, 30, 44, 48, 50, 91, 160 n2; and thepassions 130–1; second thoughtsabout 66–71, 74–5, 173 n7, 174 n10,n11, 175 n17; sense of 2, 84, 96, 159;and Shaftesbury 160 n7, 164 n26; seealso memory

persons: as narrative existences 2, 4, 83,92–6, 177 n24; three-dimensional andfour-dimensional views of 43

philosophical relations 14, 95, 145, 162n15

philosophy: ‘antient’ 162 n10; ‘modern’74; and the passion of hunting 88; andthe sciences 161 n1; and the ScottishEnlightenment 7; and the temper 97

physical world 59Pike, N. 39, 165–6 n16Pitson, A. E. 181 n24, 185 n17place 37–8, 53–4, 63–4, 165 n10, 170–1

n10, 174 n10pride and humility 2, 12, 23, 90, 168 n32,

182 n8; and animals 107, 116; and theself 95–6, 124–7, 130–1, 181–2 n3

principles of association 14, 37, 92–3,145–7, 177 n27, 185 n22

Pyrrhonism 105

qualities: mental 83, 86, 88, 91–2, 112,138, 176 n10; moral 109–11, 126;primary and secondary 74; sensible19, 31, 50, 61–3, 79; and substance14–15, 68

rationalism: and cause and effect 59, 64;and mind 6, 17–18; and morality 7,118–19, 181 n25

reason 5, 8, 56, 159; in animals 103, 105,107–8, 116, 119; and belief in theexistence of body 144; and belief inthe existence of other minds 145–51,155; as an instinct 107; and moraldistinctions 118, 180–1 n23; andnatural belief 126; see alsoimagination; passions

reasoning: demonstrative 145; probable2, 4, 145–9, 158

reflection: as a source of ideas 12–14,161 n6

Reid, T. 7–8, 36; on agency 2, 134–6, 182n11, 183 n16

resemblance: and identity 28, 36–9,47–8, 50; and memory 33–4; amongperceptions 3, 13, 16, 20, 73, 95, 116n19, 173–4 n8; and simplicity 41; andsympathy 129

responsibility, moral 2, 4, 83, 89, 98–9,139, 175 n3; and personal identity 140

Rorty, A. 92, 125, 127, 130–1, 177 n15,181 n2

Roth, A. 173 n4, 175 n17rules: of analogy 171 n12; of conduct

119–20; general 130, 151; for judgingworks of art 180–1 n23; of justice 110;of morality 177 n18; of property 125;of society 117

Russell, P. 98–9, 168 n2, 175 n1, 178 n27

scepticism 142Schechtman, M. 43, 95–6, 99, 166–7

n24, 175 n3, 177 n24, n25science: of human nature 13; of man 8,

11, 74, 142; of mind 11, 14; moral 7,58, 184 n14

Seidler, M. 178 n2self, the 160 n1; as agent 131–2; awareness

of 33–4, 40, 93,162 n12, 166 n20;bundle view of 1–3, 21, 27, 160 n1,existence of 47; ‘external’ and ‘internal’ideas of 21–2; identity and simplicityof 68; sense of 85, 91, 99–100; as asubstance 18–21; the vulgar andphilosophical views of 17–20, 30, 32,77–80; see also mind; personal identity

self-concern 2, 100, 126, 128–9, 131sensation: as a source of ideas 12–14,

161 n6

195

INDEX

sensations: of animals 102, 104sense-data 169 n6senses, the: and the idea of continued

existence 72; and imagination 146; ofsight and touch 37, 52, 169 n4

Shaftesbury, Third Earl of 36, 160 n7,164 n26, 178 n2

Shaver, R. 113Shoemaker, S. 42–3, 160 n4, 166 n22,

n23simplicity: of mind or self 3, 17–20, 37,

41–2, 68–70, 76–9, 162 n16, 166 n20,170 n9, 175 n19; of objects 30, 47, 162n10

Smith, A. 7Smith, P. 58–9soul: and animals 102–4, 121; and

extension 51–4, 169–70 n8, n9;mortality of 107–8, 171 n12; as asubstance 3, 11, 17, 20, 70, 77, 128

space 52, 62–3, 165 n10, 169 n4Spinoza, B. 5–6, 54–6, 167 n28, 171 n11,

178 n5Stack, M. 26Strawson, G. 172 n24Strawson, P. 156Stroud, B. 39–40, 69, 161 n4, 173 n4,

173–4 n8, 178 n2substance: and Butler on personal

identity 36; and essence 102; God as 5;idea of 4, 14–15, 63, 160–1 n9, 162n10, n11, 167 n28; and La Mettrie104; scholastic notion of 17; andSpinoza 54–6, 171 n11

succession: and identity 29–30, 36–7,69–70, 165 n12; and perceptions ofthe mind or self 38–9, 74–5, 95, 124–5,134, 182 n11

sympathy 3, 47, 130, 185 n18; andagency 131–2; and other minds 142–3,150–4, 156–7, 185 n22; and self-concern 126, 129; as source of moraldistinctions 114–15, 157; see alsoanimal: sympathy

testimony 22, 126–7thought: causes of 55–6, 63–4, 171 n12;

human 107; James on 75; andlanguage 102–3; see also extension

time: idea of 163 n23, n24; and identity

29; and the passions 129Tranöy, K. E. 181 n24Treatise of Human Nature, A xi, 11, 13,

75, 142, 160 n2, 161 n1, n2, 163 n18truth: love of 88, 138; reason and 105Turnbull, G. 8

understanding: of animals and humans111, 115–16, 118, 180–1 n23; andcharacter 176 n6; and imagination146–7, 184 n5; and the passions 160n2; and sympathy 158

uniformity: and causation 40, 58union, principle of 20, 30–1, 37, 41unity: of action 93–5; of mind or self 3,

17, 37, 68–71, 75–6, 173–4 n8; andnumber 28–9

Urmson, J. O. 63

values 85, 95, 99–100virtue and vice 89, 109–10; artificial 100,

110; as involuntary 97, 112; natural87, 110–12; and natural abilities111–12, 175–6 n5, 180 n18; and thepassions 88–9, 126, 176 n10; see alsocharacter

vivacity: of impressions and ideas 13, 15,146

volition 2, 23–5; as the immediate effectof pleasure and pain 107; andnecessary connection 172 n17;physiological effects of 171 n13; andvoluntary action 57–8, 60, 132–3,182–3 n14, 183 n16

Ward, A. 164 n5Watt, J. 7Waxman, W. 163 n24, 173 n3, 174 n10will 25, 57–8, 60; and active power 172

n17, 183 n14; and liberty 139; see alsomotives

Winkler, K. 173 n4, 174–5 n16wisdom: as a virtue 138, 175–6 n8Wittgenstein, L. 133, 156–7, 185 n23Wollheim, R. 94, 100Wollaston, W, 181 n25

Yolton, J. 62, 168 n2, 168–9 n3, 171 n15,178–9 n8

INDEX

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0415248019 - A. E. Pitson - Hume's Philosophy of the Self

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