Humes 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

First published 2002 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2002 A. E. Pitson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN 0-203-99478-7 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0–415–24801–9 (Print Edition)

TO CAROLE, LIZZIE AND LAURA

CONTENTS

Preface Hume texts

ix xi

Introduction

1

PART I The 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 II The 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 Bibliography Index

160 186 191

vii

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 provided 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’ published 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.

ix

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 number), 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 number), 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 SelbyBigge 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. xi

HUME TEXTS

Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (1993) (hereafter, Dialogues with references to Part and page number) and The Natural History of Religion (hereafter, 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: The Philosophical 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.

xii

INTRODUCTION

This book is about Hume’s account of the self.1 There are various good reasons 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 secondary 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 sections 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: ‘personal 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 convenience 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

INTRODUCTION

‘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 perceptions 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 ourselves 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 fundamental 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 passions 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 discuss 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 liberty 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 2

INTRODUCTION

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 essentially 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 opening 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 perception 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 provide 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 synchronic 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 perceptions 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 contemporary discussions of materialist accounts of the mind. My second principal topic is Hume’s position on the question of mental/physical interaction. 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 treatment 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 speculate 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 character 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 discussion 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 participating in an ongoing debate about the nature of animal mentality – and one which has important implications not only for the kinds of reasoning 4

INTRODUCTION

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 philosophical 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, especially, 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 certainty 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 centuries 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 rationality 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 substance, 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

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 identifying 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 philosophical 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 science 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 differences 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 understanding 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 immaterial 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 (Essay II 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 investigation 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 6

INTRODUCTION

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 Religion which 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 Ideas of Beauty and Virtue – is associated with such major figures, in addition to Hume himself, as Hutcheson (philosopher), Adam Smith (economist, historian 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 concern 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 important factor is evidently the belief that it is possible to arrive at an understanding of human nature itself – and, therefore, of our moral and intellectual 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 understanding 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, Essays on the Intellectual Powers, and Essays on the Active Powers). Even the title of Adam Smith’s principal philosophical work – The Theory of Moral Sentiments – indicates the concern to investigate an issue of special significance 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 Moral and Christian Philosophy) and Henry Home, Lord Kames (author of Essays on the Principles of Morality and Natural Religion) – do not appear to have provided 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 epistemology, 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 presupposes 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 indicated, 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.

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 ‘science 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

THE MENTAL ASPECTS OF PERSONAL IDENTITY

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 distinct 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, memories, 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 distinction between impressions and ideas, but I am not directly concerned here with the merits of this classification, nor with the general validity of the distinction 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, impressions 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 experience, and we may for the moment think of them as constituting our thoughts about these experiences. In general terms, Hume’s distinction between impressions 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 simples. 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 impressions or ideas which he would count as simple, but it is nevertheless important 12

THE SELF AND HUMAN NATURE

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 corresponding 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 subsequent 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 corresponding 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 consisting in resemblance, contiguity, and cause and effect (T, 1.1.4.1). In the 13

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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 naturally 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 represent 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

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‘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 reflection, 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 provides 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 properly 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 correspondent 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 following sequence: impressions of sensation → ideas → impressions of reflection → ideas, etc. But this is not invariably so, as Hume’s re-statement of the 15

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impressions/ideas distinction at the beginning of Book 2 of the Treatise illustrates. Hume here identifies the distinction between impressions of sensation and impressions of reflection with the distinction between original and secondary 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 Treatise Hume has provided us with a picture of the mind itself. It is one which represents mental activity as consisting in the occurrence of different sorts of perception related to each other partly by resemblance (as in the case of complex 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 complex 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 perceptions. 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 perceptions 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 perceptions 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

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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 treatment 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 concerned 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 throughout 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

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the ordinary, non-philosophical view, or that of ‘the vulgar’ as Hume describes them elsewhere. This distinction, between philosophers and the vulgar, underlies 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 concerned? He begins his discussion of personal identity rather enigmatically in the following way: There are some philosophers, who imagine we are every moment intimately 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 example, 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 unintelligible 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 mentioned 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 accordingly 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

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so by invoking his first principle, i.e. that for any idea there must be some corresponding impression; and then arguing that we have no impression of a simple and identical self. Indeed, according to Hume, we could have no impression 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 following 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 anything but the perception (T, 1.4.6.3).12 The conclusion Hume draws from this failure to introspect the self as conceived 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 existence of body. There he writes as follows: . . . what we call a mind, is nothing but a heap or collection of different 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 perceptions 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 tendency 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, respectively, simplicity and composition, identity and variation. The explanation 19

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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 relations 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 imagination 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 confound 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 fiction 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 reflection 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 discussion has taken. For his original question about belief in the self and its 20

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identity has become transformed into one about the mind – something that Hume makes explicit when he links his explanation of ‘the nature of personal identity’ 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 comment. 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 something 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 subject of these perceptions. There is perhaps another reason for approaching the issue of personal identity 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

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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 different 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 inexplicable. 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

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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 perceptions 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 association 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 impressions 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, producing 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 subpersonal ‘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 relation between emotions like pride and humility and their objects or causes are essentially contingent ones, to be determined experimentally: see Treatise 2.2.2, ‘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

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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 ‘indirect’, 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 concerning, 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 corresponding 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 relations 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).

IDEAS

BELIEF

MEMORY

Primary

Secondary

IMAGINATION

IMPRESSIONS OF REFLECTION

IMPRESSIONS OF SENSATION

External/bodily PAIN PLEASURE

VOLITION

Bodily motions

PASSION

Bodily action

24

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Some aspects of this representation of Hume’s view of the mind are controversial. 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 interpretation 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 possible 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. (IDEAS OF MEMORY/IMAGINATION)

(Indirect) PASSION IMPRESSIONS OF SENSATION

External/bodily PAIN PLEASURE

(Direct)

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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 ‘natural 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 reductionism 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 ordinarily 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

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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 mislead 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 presenting 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 members 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 personal 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 discussion 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

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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 anything 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 unchanging; 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 something 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 different 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 relation 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 availability 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 intermittently, 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 indistinguishability 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

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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 relation 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 identity (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 external 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 confounded 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 uninterrupted, 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 succession 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

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confound identity with diversity. This propensity is at odds with the recognition that we are presented with a related succession which is variable and interrupted, but it is maintained by the supposition of something that connects 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 whenever 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 constitutes 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 unified 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 confounded with composition, and identity with variation; in each case a kind of 30

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identity or unity is ascribed to the mind – which may be distinguished as synchronic 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 substance 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 principle 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.

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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 philosophical 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 literature, 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

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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 contribute 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 perceptions, then we would observe resemblances among them arising from the person’s memory of his past perceptions.2 And this would provide a succession 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 perceptions 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 perceptions 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 selfidentity. 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

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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 occurrence 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 perceptions 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 recollection 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 perception 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 perceptions 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 corresponding 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

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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 perceptions 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 personal 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 produce 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 resemblance 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 throughout 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 consciousness 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 difference 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 continuance 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 independently of whether the same substance, either spiritual or material, is involved. 35

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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 therefore 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 personal 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 attempting 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 – including 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

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mind similarly lead to the mistaken notion of its simplicity, and the consequent 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: resemblance, 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 something 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 present 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 ‘qualities’ 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 contiguous 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 37

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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-ofperceptions-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 temporal 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 consider 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 continuing 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 problems 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 conception – we then extend this idea to those times in our lives of which we have 38

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no present recollection. There are at least two sorts of problem with this explanation 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 concerned 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 consciousness 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 adequately 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 identical. 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 identical 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 responsible 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 perceptions 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

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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 relation 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 perceptions simply do not, as a matter of fact, manifest the requisite systematic causal connections (Stroud 1977: 125–6; Noonan 1999: 206). Our experiences 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 perceptions 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 perceptions 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 relations 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 sensations I might experience; and my original intention results in other intentions which find expression in the particular bodily movements I 40

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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 coexistent 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 principle 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 simplicity 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

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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 synchronic 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 perceptions according to their causal role within the overall system to which they belong. The implication is that a particular kind of perception may be identified 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 resemblance 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 perceptions 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

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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 different 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 persons 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 persons 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 constituting 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 essentially 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 synchronic and diachronic unity of the mind indicate that the different aspects of personal identity with which Hume is concerned cannot, after all, be 43

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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 acknowledges this as follows: . . . our identity with regard to the passions serves to corroborate that with regard to the imagination, by the making our distant perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present concern for our past or future pains or pleasures (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 various 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 recollection, 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 following 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 something that is obviously impossible. The second kind of objection concerns the particularity of perceptions, i.e. the fact that we apparently individuate particular 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

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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 independently 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 existence 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 senseorgans 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 perceptions 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 noncircular 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 context 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

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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 nothing 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 particularity 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 synchronic 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 perceptions; and in the latter case, the relations among our perceptions result in the imaginative fiction of an identical mind or self which connects our perceptions 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 identity in different’ (T, 1.4.6.4). One way of understanding what Hume is saying 46

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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 mistaken 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 considerations 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 inconsiderable; 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 collections of perceptions, and there are certain conditions that attach to our attribution of identity to them; but these conditions do not allow for their possession 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

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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 appropriate 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 consists 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 existences 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 difficulties 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, discussion (which I will be providing in Chapter 4). For the moment I suggest 48

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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 position that it locates self-identity in relations among perceptions rather than in the continuing existence of some mysterious and perhaps unintelligible principle of union. This, however, invites the question of where Hume himself stands on the question of the relation of mind – whether understood as a substance or as a bundle of perceptions – to body. This is the question with which I am concerned in the next chapter.

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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 perceptions 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 impossible 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 qualities 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 discussion 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

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There are various reasons why Hume’s views on these matters should be considered 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 individual 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 relationship 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 dispute 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 proceeds, essentially, as follows. Whatever is extended consists of parts, and whatever consists of parts is divisible. If it were possible for a thought or perception 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 conjoined 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

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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 conceptual 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 difficult 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 apparently 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 formulate 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

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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 et totum 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 certain 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 immateriality 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

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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 possibility 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 substance (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 immaterialist view is to be rejected, so also is that of materialism. We might consider at this point how Hume’s remarks about ‘local conjunction’ would bear on the problem with which both Nagel and McGinn are concerned. To the extent that it is impossible to establish any spatial contiguity 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 contiguous with those events; but, from Hume’s perspective, there is no further issue to be resolved as to the relation between these states and the corresponding 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

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various forms of substance theory. As we have seen, Hume himself appears committed to a dualistic distinction between objects which belong to fundamentally 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 perceptions 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, however, 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 present 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

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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 experience 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 possible for conscious states to depend upon brain states. We lack any understanding of how the brain can provide the causal basis of consciousness – 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 intelligibility 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

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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 differs 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 possibility 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 general 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 conjunction 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

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It would be of interest to consider Hume’s position in regard to the phenomenon 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 alternative 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 not aware of any energy or power in ourselves by which bodily movements are produced, 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 (intentional) 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’ evidence, 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 possibility 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 physical one (or, presumably, vice-versa) (Smith and Jones 1986: 53–4). The 58

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Humean response to this, however, would surely be that the idea of identifying something which would enable us to understand how certain events are causally related itself reflects a mistaken ‘rationalistic’ conception of the relation 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 causation 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 possible 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 ourselves 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

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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 physiological 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 context 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 influences, 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

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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 misleading, 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 Treatise 1.4.6. where, as we have seen, Hume elaborates on his bundle theory by comparing 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 the successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind; nor have we the most distant 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 something 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 perspective, given his observation about the ‘absurdity’ of ‘the notion of external existence, when taken for something specifically different from our perceptions’ (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 specifically 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 specifically 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 distinct 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

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indeed, the preceding remarks would suggest). If we are unable to form any significant idea of a material substratum of the sensible qualities we experience, 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 extension, 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 position, 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 representation. 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 extension 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

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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, according to Hume, may exist and yet be nowhere. There is, however, the further matter to be considered of those sensible qualities 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 precise 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 auditory 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 location. 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 immaterialism (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 distraction 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 dispute 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

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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 special problem 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 is a 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 question. 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 distinguished 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 conception 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 philosophers 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

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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 different kinds of substance, in the philosophical sense of this notion – which nevertheless stand in causal relations to each other. At the same time, the difficulties 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 chapter 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.

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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 discussion 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

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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 consciousness’. 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 distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences. Did our perceptions 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 principles, 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 principle. 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

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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 difficulty 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 distinctions 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 evidently 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 idea of 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 (fictitious) 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 ideas of particular qualities’, so ‘we have no notion of [the mind] , distinct from the particular perceptions’ (App. 19).5 As I have argued previously, Hume’s rejection 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 interpretations 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

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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, perhaps, 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 differentiates 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 perceptions 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 limited 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 interruptions 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 ‘general rule’ enables him to explain the beliefs in external existence and ‘first 69

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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 distinct 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 interrupted 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 confounded 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 successive 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 satisfactorily ‘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 personal identity, when reflecting on the train of past perceptions, that compose a mind, 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 consciousness 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 simultaneous perceptions, including ideas of memory (i.e. ideas of past perceptions) 70

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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 underdetermined (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 perceptions 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

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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 corresponding 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 reference 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 causation, 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 obvious point of comparison here with the case of personal identity, because persons by their nature undergo continuous changes and it is the causal relations 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 Treatise 1.3 is concerned), simply because in this instance we are ascribing a greater regularity 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 principle 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 sufficient 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

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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 perceptions 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 probably 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 substance, 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, uninterruptedness; 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 existence of some ‘unintelligible principle’ which connects the objects and ‘prevents their interruption and variation’ (T, 1.4.6.6). We can now see, however, that the relevant principle of explanation, i.e. that relation is apt to be 73

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confounded with identity, cannot be applied unproblematically in this context, simply because the objects involved – our variable and interrupted perceptions – 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 principles (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 intellectual 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 difference 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 suggested, 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

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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 fiction 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 as a 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 difficulty 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 consequent 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 committed. 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 problem 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 synchronic unity or identity. He credits this interpretation of Hume’s problem to 75

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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 simplicity 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 concerned 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 associated 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 association 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

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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 discussion 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 perceptions 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 unifying 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 associations 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-philosophical 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 imagination 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

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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-perceptions 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 question are referred (as Hume perhaps means to indicate when he refers to ‘a single existence, which I shall call indifferently object or perception . . . understanding 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 de dicto attributions of belief concerning the nature of these objects (i.e. where the character of these objects as broken and interrupted perceptions is explicitly 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 existence depends on relations among sense-impressions as the immediate objects of perception.) 78

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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 philosophers; 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 perceptions 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 relation 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 complex 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 collection 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

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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-philosophical 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 ‘character’, and this provides the central topic of the next chapter.

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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 ourselves’ – 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 character 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

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of certain kinds of relation among our perceptions. Given that these perceptions 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 dispense 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 connected 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 possibility – 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 character 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 84

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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 recognise 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 different person from that child. It seems, therefore, that we should distinguish between the identity I may ascribe to myself as a person over time notwithstanding 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 identity). 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 distinguished 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 85

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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, however, 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 judgement 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 understanding 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 capacities 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 character 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

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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 universal 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 passions (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 pursued below). According to Hume these differences are due either to ‘moral’ causes (like the nature of a country’s government, the country’s economic situation 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 supposed to work insensibly on the temper’. Hume’s own conclusion is that causes of the former kind predominate: nations which are immediately adjacent, 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 characters 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

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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 contribute 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 necessarily 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 persons 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 different 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 friendship (EHU, 8.7; T, 3.3.3.5; EPM, Appendix 2.4). More generally, Hume classifies 88

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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 passion 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 four principles 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 general, 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 discussions 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 passions, 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 character 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

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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 gradually 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 passage 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 understanding 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 distinctive 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 something 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 dispositions. 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 generous 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 dispositions 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

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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 character 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, represent 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 qualities 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 personal 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 central 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 91

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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 perceptions, 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 different 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 ‘softens 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 identified 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 cluster, 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 artificial 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, biographies 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 different 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 association, 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 connection: 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 historian 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 relation 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 recognising those qualities or dispositions which provide the dominant motives to his actions. He does so by occupying a certain temporal point of view made possible 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 features 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 93

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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 narrative 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 dependence 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 imagination 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 anticipated 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 present 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 particular 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 narrative.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

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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 possibility 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 relation 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 natural world (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 perspective 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 perspective, 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 associated 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 humility 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 95

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a reflection of the fact that character presupposes a social context. If, for example, 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 existences. 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 vegetables 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 features 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 institutions 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

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(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 corresponding passage from the discussion of liberty and necessity in the first Enquiry is subtly different, namely, ‘repentance wipes off every crime, if attended with a reformation of life and manners’ (EHU, 8.30). The latter suggests that repentance 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 originally 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 impossibility 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 holding 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 influence of moral causes which not only function as motives or reasons but also 97

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‘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 disposition (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 less blam’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 naturalistic 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 someone 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 difficulty 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 accidental’ 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 someone’s behaviour if we are able to establish that it did not arise from any 98

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intention to injure or offend, though the ‘natural connexion’ between uneasiness 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, however, 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 unexpected 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 circumstances 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 conception 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 particular 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 someone 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. 99

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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 dimension 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 ‘constant 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 present 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 pleasures 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 constitutive 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’, Essays 577–89). Again, in his controversial remarks about the motivating role of passion, 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 enlightened 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 relationship between human and animal nature, where I shall be concerned with a number of issues on which I have touched above.

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Hume’s account of the similarities and differences between ourselves and animals 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 crucial 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 revolution 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 PHILOSOPHY 3 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

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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 animals? 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 elsewhere. 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 accordingly, 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 fluids 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 associated 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 language (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 seriously compared with any human language. We are able, for example, to arrange our speech in different ways, in order to reply appropriately to whatever is said to us. Animals, on the other hand, emit sounds or perform movements 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 communicate 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

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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 suppose 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 performances 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 particular. 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, suffering 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 principle or suppose them capable of moral agency. Descartes’ view of animals 103

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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 activities 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 preestablished 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’homme machine indicates, La Mettrie is here extending the Cartesian view of animals 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 suggestion 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 distinction’ between man and animals, ‘external signs’ reveal the possession by animals 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 identified 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 universe, 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

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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 bearing 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 suggestion 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 instrument’, 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 ignorance and the limitations of reason in arriving at truth. Our predicament is summarised in the following aphorism: ‘There is a plague on man: his opinion 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 fallibility effectively prevents there from being any such thing as knowledge (170–5). In these respects, as in others, Montaigne’s epistemology is in striking 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 ratiocination 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 corresponding internal activities (1970: 54). 105

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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 intelligence, 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’, Essays 582). 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 association 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 expectations as it is for the conditioned responses of animals. Thus, rather than 106

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oppose reason in human beings to what might be dismissed as instinctive behaviour in animals, we should recognise that reason itself characteristically 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 observations 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 acknowledging 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 reason 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

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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 philosophical 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 superior 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 curiosity 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 development 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 passion, 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

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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 having 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 animal 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 continuity 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 feelings 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 character is considered in general, without reference to our particular interest, that 109

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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 experiences 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 common 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, however, 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 evidently 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 qualities 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

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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 important 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 neglecting 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 normally 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

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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 reputation 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 sentiments of approbation associated with each of them are of somewhat different 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 position on the distinction between natural abilities and virtues. However, the relevant 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 certain of their qualities, given their possession of other qualities which do clearly 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

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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 ourselves 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 specieswide 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, functions 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 obligations 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

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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 tendency of qualities and characters to the interests of society’; that ‘our concern 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, however, 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 distinctions 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 system 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, contrary 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 considered an ultimate principle of human nature which provides a rival explanation 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 characterises the principle involved in various ways: as ‘social sympathy’ (EPM, 5.35); as a kind of ‘natural philanthropy’ which inclines us to prefer the happiness 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

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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 accepted 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 ‘universal 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 something like a counterpart to this sentiment in animals: they appear to be capable 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 provided by the ‘selfish theory’. This point of comparison between ourselves and animals indicates that we should not expect to find an explanation in our fellow-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 question 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 ourselves 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 emotional lives of animals. To recap on points referred to above: the moral sentiments through which virtue and vice are discerned are associated with a steady or general point of view which transcends those features which are 115

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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 consists 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 animals: 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 sentiments (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 explanation 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 ultimately to the superiority of our reasoning abilities.24 While animals do resemble 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 reason 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 artificial. As he himself points out, the marriage laws concerning half-siblings, for 116

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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 therefore 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 concerned, 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 capable (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 animals 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

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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 passion 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 pleasure 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 cannot 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 passion 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 rejection 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 relations 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 provide 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 disapprove 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

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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 temptation’ (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 capable 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 assessment 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 capacities. 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 temptation of present ease or pleasure, and carry them forward in the search of more distant profit and enjoyment. Our affections, on a general prospect of their objects, form certain rules of conduct, and certain measures of preference of one above another: And these decisions, 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 its object, 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 119

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the violent, and the idea that the operation of the calm passions may be mistaken 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 necessity’ (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 incapable 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 themselves 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

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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 sympathetic 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 contrast 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 existence 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 language 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 provides 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 language. 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 animals 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 intelligible 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 significance 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

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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 distinctive 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.

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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 background 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 sometimes 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 THE AGENCY ASPECT OF PERSONAL IDENTITY AND THE PASSIONS 2 The passions themselves, as we know, are classified by Hume as impressions of reflection. The distinctive characteristic of such impressions, in 123

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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 further, crucial, distinction made by Hume between two kinds of passion: direct and indirect (T, 2.1.1.4). Direct passions – which include such widely different 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 (including 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 considered 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 sensation 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 recognition of my relation to that cause (T, 2.1.5.5, 9).4 As Hume acknowledges, 124

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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 contrary 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 relevant 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 characterises 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 humility) 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 reminding us that ‘the immediate object of pride and humility is self, or that identical person, of whose thoughts, actions, and sensations we are intimately 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 consciousness: 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 recognition 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 humility 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 125

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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 qualities 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 complex 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-appropriation’, what make a certain past action my action is precisely my ability to remember that action (or more precisely, perhaps, to remember performing that 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 referring 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

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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 phenomenology 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 performing it – forms part of that ongoing (if not, strictly speaking, identical) system of perceptions which makes up the self and, to that extent, it belongs to 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 passions 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 provides 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 127

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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 certain 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 connection 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 existence 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 operation 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

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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 communication 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 impression, ’tis evident, that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception 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 association 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 experiences in the future would be converted into sentiments or passions of the kind anticipated. This gives a further dimension to the notion of an identification 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 probability 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 forcefully 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.9 129

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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 general 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 circumstances 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 concern 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 distinctive 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 operation 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 conceive 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

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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 possibility 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 personal 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 fictional 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 distinctive 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 considered 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 131

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own character and, hence, the nature of ourselves as agents. Given the generally 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 question 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 conception 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 nonhuman 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 nonhuman 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

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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 presuppose 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 voluntary 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 relation 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 philosophical 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 133

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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 foundation 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 evidently 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 reductionist 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 general 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 understood 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

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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, committed 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 distinguished 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 consisting 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 disagreement 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 efficient 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 experience 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, possess the corresponding notion (1969b: IV vi, 305). 135

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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 occasional 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 possession 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 counterpart in our experience. Once again, Reid’s position might be thought to be remarkably close to that of Hume himself. Thus, Hume stresses the inadequacy 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 provided 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

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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 obvious 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 ultimately 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 distinguishing 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 producing 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, 137

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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 impetus 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 further 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 extraordinary 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, nestbuilding 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 inappropriate.) 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 reasoning’ (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 interests. 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

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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 experience 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 contrasted 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 product of any kind of external constraint (Frankfurt 1982: 90). In the first Enquiry Hume defines this notion of liberty rather narrowly as consisting in ‘a power of 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, however, 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 139

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Hume regards the idea of personal identity as a fiction. How is this to be reconciled 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 existence. His comparison with the republic or commonwealth may also be of some value in this context. While, for Hume, the members of such an institution 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 example, 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 different 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

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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 provide 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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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 discussion 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 established 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 discussion 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 perceptions, 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 problematic 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

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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 content of the ideas involved in the belief to be accounted for; the differences, if any, between the philosophical and ‘vulgar’ (or non-philosophical) perspectives 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 distinct from our minds and perceptions. There is, as Hume points out, an intimate connection between the two principal ideas of continuity and distinctness – 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

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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 perceptions 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 considered 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 continued 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 difference 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 whatever 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 objections 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

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If neither the senses nor reason are capable of accounting for the other minds belief, this leaves us with the imagination. Hume contrasts the imagination 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 accordance with these principles of association the relations are classified as natural, in contrast to the philosophical relations which result from comparing 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 subjects 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 proceed by probable rather than by demonstrative argument if only because what is involved here is a matter of existence which can, for Hume, be established 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 conjunction 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

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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 understanding 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 Treatise results 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 experience (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 distinguished 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 inference 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 distinctive 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 distinctive 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, however, to regard the discussion of T, 1.3.6 as being concerned essentially with the 146

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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 all reasonings 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 understanding 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 understanding 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 represents 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 principal ‘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 establishing 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 understanding. 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 crucial 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 147

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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 weakened 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 circumstances, 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

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the fact that ‘we see other creatures, in millions of instances, perform like actions, 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 following 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 resemble 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 existence 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 argument’ 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 capacities 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 questioned 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.14 149

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What, then, are we to make of Hume’s apparent willingness to rely on analogical 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 existence 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 prepared 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 example, 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 conversation, 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 discovers 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 mentality, 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

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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 certain 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 constantly 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 philosophical 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 subjects 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 argument 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 voluntary 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 genuinely agents and thus capable of motivated action. This latter belief, however, cannot itself be accounted for by reference to ‘experimental inference’. 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). 151

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III IMAGINATION AND THE OTHER MINDS BELIEF 17 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 characterisation 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 reference 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 sympathy and the communication of motion from one object to another: As in strings equally wound up, the motion of the one communicates 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 sentiments 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 impossibility 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

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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 alternative – 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 experienced 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 sympathy (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 perceptions 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 ‘succession 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 perceptions, 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 constantly conjoined). This seems to provide the scenario for an inductive 153

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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 arriving 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, following 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):

SELF

Idea of: mental state m (As cause or effect of) Idea of: behaviour b

OTHER

Idea of ------------------------------ mental state m' (As cause or effect of) Impression of: --------------------- behaviour b'

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 certain 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 philosophical 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 difference 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

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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 philosophical 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 movements (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 perception. 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 movements, 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 argument 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 relation 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, according to Hume, on ‘a gross illusion’, namely, that our resembling impressions are 155

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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 sympathy, 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 outcome of any form of inference from one’s own case; they are essentially prelinguistic, though the relevant language game is based on them 156

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(Wittgenstein 1967: §§ 537, 540, 541, and 545). Wittgenstein remarks elsewhere 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 circumstances 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 different 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 independently 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 immediate 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 aesthetic) 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 communication 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 157

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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 – sometimes 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 ‘instinctive’ 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 previously, ‘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 nothing 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 inseparable from that concern with self which belongs to our practice of 158

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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, obviously 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 argument 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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INTRODUCTION 1 I should perhaps acknowledge immediately that the phrase ‘the self’ is one that requires some explanation, since its use tends to be confined to philosophical contexts. One familiar philosophical use is that in which ‘self’ refers to one’s mental or conscious 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 this kind 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 evident that persons possess both bodily as well as mental features (T, 1.4.2.5–9). This distinction – 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 basis for the way in which my discussion is organised. 2 While it is important to distinguish these different aspects of Hume’s account of personal identity, this should not be taken to suggest that they are not importantly related to each other. On the contrary, we will find that it is impossible to deal adequately with the issues raised by Hume’s discussion of the mental aspect without taking into account also what he has to say about the agency aspect. This might be taken to reflect Hume’s own observation from his ‘Advertisement’ to the Treatise, that ‘The subjects of the Understanding and Passions make a compleat chain of reasoning by themselves’. He also claims that on his account of the ‘true idea of the human mind’ it may be seen that ‘. . . our identity with regard to the passions 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. I shall be saying more about this in the first chapter, but we might take it as Hume’s way of referring to any type of mental act or state, including those involved in the process 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 contains criticism of Locke – is of significance for what Hume has to say (Shaftesbury 1999: 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 criticises 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 he appears to pay lip-service, at least, to the existence of spirit as the substance in which thoughts subsist (Essay II xxiii 5, 15); and he compares this to the equally obscure idea of bodily or material substance. In fact, he goes on to suggest – in striking contrast to Descartes’ position in Meditation II – that we are even more in the 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 about thinking matter: ‘We have the ideas of matter and thinking, but possibly shall never be 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, it may be material in nature. Even if this is so, however, Locke would not be a materialist of a straightforward kind, because he insists that it would require the intervention of God to give to some systems of matter the power of perception or thought. In any case, as we shall see in Chapter 3, Hume would reject both a materialist 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, to the distinction between the natural or physical sciences, as we should now classify them, and philosophy as something which we would now identify as a separate discipline (one which would include, for example, the investigation of ideas). What we now call ‘moral philosophy’ represents only one aspect of the latter. We should note, however, that it is a touch anachronistic, at least, to see Hume as committed to drawing this distinction as we might now wish to do. Thus, Hume sees a continuity in the methodologies employed by the two kinds of ‘philosophy’ he distinguishes – as the sub-title of the Treatise indicates (‘An attempt to introduce the experimental method of reasoning into moral subjects’). 2 This is reflected in Hume’s own reference to his project in the second Book of the Treatise, ‘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 crops up at various places in Hume’s writings (for example, in the Abstract of the Treatise, Abs. 2). 3 Among those who question how far Hume does retain this view of the self in his later writings is Daniel Flage (1990: ch. 8). For a contrary view – one which I would 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 empiricism. As Hume himself points out it has an important bearing on the philosophical debate about innate ideas (T, 1.1.1.12). In effect, Hume’s principle provides a clear way of stating the point that all of our ideas are derived from sensation and reflection. This is the view for which Locke had earlier argued in his Essay and Hume recognises 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 that some ideas may be the product of impressions of reflection, even if it should be true that we would have no ideas at all independently of the occurrence of impressions of sensation. Hume makes it clear in the Abstract of the Treatise that the real importance of his first principle lies with its use in clarifying and investigating ideas (Abs. 7) – something which belongs to Hume’s examination of philosophical debates, 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 be more easily understood by relating it to the agent aspect of the self (Everson 1988). I comment on this again below. Though Hume seems to have no obvious ground for saying so (Noxon 1976: 273). 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, where it stands for the contents of the mind generally. In regard to the philosophical view of 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 earlier described as impressions of sensation – ‘sense impressions’, as we might call them. The association of the idea of material substance with the view that bodies themselves possess both simplicity and identity is explored by Hume in T, 1.4.3. (‘Of the antient philosophy’). The criticisms Hume provides of this conception of substance are strongly echoed in his treatment of the philosophical view of the person or self. Note that there is a gap in Hume’s argument at this point as I have described it. For why should an impression of a substantial self have to possess features like constancy and invariability? The missing part of Hume’s argument is supplied in the previous Section: ‘. . . how can an impression represent a substance, otherwise than 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 peculiar qualities or characteristics of a substance?’ (T, 1.4.5.3). There is an air of paradox about Hume’s position on this point. If there is really no idea of the self of the kind ascribed by Hume to philosophers then how can he be confident that he fails ever to observe such a thing as a self, distinct from perceptions 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 arguing precisely from the failure of introspection to reveal any self beyond perceptions themselves that the idea of such a self – to which his opponents appeal – cannot be a genuine or meaningful one (Penelhum 2000: 105–6). I will be concerned in due course with the particular issue that leads Hume to introduce his bundle theory at this stage. I will say more later, in the third chapter, both about Hume’s treatment of such views of the mind in Treatise 1.4.5, and also the version of dualism that Hume appears to adopt in the same section. We should note the ambiguity here which arises from Hume’s distinction, previously noted, between natural and philosophical relations. The causal relations to which he goes on to refer in T, 1.4.6.19 appear to belong to the latter category of relations. 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 the claim about the simplicity of the mind (or what I referred to in my introduction as its synchronic identity). In other words, this view may be understood as denying that there is any substantial connection between the various perceptions which make up the mind at a given time. The system view, on the other hand, seems to bear on the claim about the diachronic identity of the mind, i.e. what makes it the same mind over a period of time. For the kinds of connection to which Hume refers in elaborating this view – where perceptions ‘produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other’ – are obviously not momentary ones, but part of the life of the mind throughout a period of its existence. The idea of flow charts as models of various kinds of mental state or activity has been a prominent feature of recent philosophy of mind (Dennett 1978, 1981). I am suggesting 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 natural relation is that the ordinary use of a word like ‘same’, which is governed by the influence of natural relations, may fail to reflect the demands of the philosophical notion of identity – as, indeed, is confirmed by the discussion of T, 1.4.6. Hume goes on to make a further distinction, within the category of philosophical relations, between those that are, and those that are not, affected by the order in which the related ideas come before the mind (T, 1.3.1.1). The relation of identity belongs to the former category. 22 For this kind of reason, identity as a philosophical relation provides a basis for probability, 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 time itself. 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 infers that an unchanging object cannot give us the idea of time – it is only through a kind of fiction that we apply the idea of time to an unchanging object by thinking of it in conjunction with a succession of perceptions (cf. T, 1.2.5.29). It is through this fiction of the imagination, according to Hume, that an object which is observed for a time without apparently undergoing any interruption or variation is able to give us the idea of identity. 24 It has been suggested that Hume’s account of our acquisition of the idea of identity can avoid circularity only by supposing that perceptions may be more than merely momentary existences (Baxter1987). Without exploring the circularity issue (whose significance might be disputed – cf. Waxman 1994: 319, n2) I note that Baxter’s claim about perceptions requires him to distinguish between perceptions having duration and their occupying an interval of time. I shall be coming back, in Chapter 5, to the question of whether Hume allows for the possibility of perceptions having a more than momentary existence. I would just remark here that the distinction drawn by Baxter is problematic and appears to be unmotivated by any of Hume’s own remarks about time and duration. I also find it difficult to reconcile with Hume’s treatment of extension (the spatial equivalent of duration, so to speak) in T, 1.4.5, a topic with which I shall be directly concerned in the next chapter. 25 We recall that identity is classified by Hume as an exclusively philosophical relation and that, so understood, identity is incompatible with any kind of change or variation. At this point, however, Hume recognises that natural propensities of the imagination result in a tendency to ascribe an identity to objects which fail to satisfy this kind of condition. To this extent, there is an ‘imperfect’ notion of identity which represents the influence on the imagination of relations which are natural as well 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. The point is one that applies to the other cases with which Hume is concerned, including that of personal identity. I do not think, incidentally, that Hume should be read here as endorsing this ordinary use of ‘same’ – on the contrary, it is one that he evidently regards as erroneous. (Thus, his position may be compared with that of Butler who while denying that personal identity has to do with ‘same’ in the ‘loose and 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’ is part of ‘the propriety of language’ (T, 1.4.6.13), it is not surprising if Hume should seem sometimes to be assuming the legitimacy of this use when describing our practice of making identity-attributions. For helpful comments on these points see Penelhum (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 of Shaftesbury – though Shaftesbury’s conclusion about personal identity, that we remain 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 Hume believes we sometimes confuse specific and numerical identity, as in the case of resembling perceptions. He now provides another example to illustrate the point: a noise that is frequently interrupted and renewed but which the hearer continues to describe 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 we will 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 of the mind as a system of perceptions. 2 We should note that the supposition that we might be directly acquainted with the perceptions of another mind must, for Hume, be understood counter-factually. Thus, he says that the passions – and, presumably, other perceptions – of another mind 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’s view of our knowledge of other minds, and I will be addressing this topic directly in 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 to ascribe to Hume. 4 It is just this aspect of Hume’s account of the source of the idea of personal identity to which he seems to be referring in his famous second thoughts in the Appendix to the Treatise (App. 20 – penultimate sentence). I shall be returning to this in Chapter 4. 5 I owe the gist of this defence of Hume to Ward (1985). We will see later in this chapter that the possibility of a perception which is a perception of the perceptions constituting the mind as a bundle is one that has an important bearing on the viability of Hume’s bundle theory. 6 It is also a reminder that while Hume tends to approach the questions associated with personal identity with which he is concerned in Treatise 1.4.6 from a first person point of view, this is not to say that his account of the self more generally is a solipsistic one. On the contrary, as we shall see, the nature of the self is, for Hume, essentially bound up with its relation to other selves. 7 As I mentioned in my introduction, Locke’s theory anticipates that of Hume to the extent that the issue of personal identity is resolved independently of appeal to the role 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 is more 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’s theory which has, indeed, received a variety of interpretations. It is perhaps worth stressing that Locke’s primary interest in developing this theory seems to have

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14 15 16

been with our accountability for actions which might be the subject of praise or blame, whether in the human setting of a court of law or the divine setting of an after-life. This is reflected in Locke’s own reference to ‘person’ as a forensic term (1979: II xxvii 26). In a little more detail: Hume is prepared to treat the perceptions of sight and touch, from which our idea of space is originally derived, as being themselves extended. Other perceptions exist while yet being nowhere. But the coexistence of qualities 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 qualities of the former kind. This is one of various cases in which principles of imagination and of reason come into conflict with each other. I shall have much more to say about Hume’s position here in the next chapter. The fact that Hume is prepared to accept that we nevertheless regard ourselves as remaining the same persons in such cases emphasises the difference between his position and that of Locke. 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 identity not only to ourselves but also to such things as artefacts, plants and animals embodies 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, since the conventions associated with the ordinary use of ‘same’ arguably provide the only relevant criteria of identity. In any case, it seems evident that from the point of view of these conventions Hume is simply wrong to accuse us of error in so far as we are prepared to ascribe an identity to something that consists in a succession of distinct but related objects, or to something which undergoes change. Indeed, as Penelhum has pointed out, Hume’s own distinction between numerical and specific identity may be 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 difficult to believe that he would be much concerned by the fact that he finds himself at odds with 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 are mistaken 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 the natural relations in question. In the case of personal identity, there is also the crucial point that more is involved than any merely grammatical or verbal issue – for here the attribution of identity results in a fiction which in one form consists in a mistaken philosophical account of the nature of personal identity (T, 1.4.6.7, 21). It is worth adding that one may agree with Hume’s assessment of the philosophical view of personal identity he wishes to reject independently of accepting Hume’s own account of the relation of identity. This is reflected in remarks such as the following: ‘[A]s the ideas of the several distinct successive qualities of objects are united together by a very close relation, the mind, in looking along the succession, must be carry’d from one part of it to another by an easy transition’ (T, 1.4.3.3; the latter emphasis is mine). 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). Something like this view was presupposed in my attempt above to defend Hume against the objection that the perceptions available to us as self-observers could not be distinguished in the way required from our other perceptions. It should be said that Pike regards Hume’s bundle theory as a reductionist one concerning statements about the mind and its activities (Pike 1967: 164). I have already given reasons, in the previous chapter, for supposing that we should not ascribe reductionism in this form to Hume. Pike’s ‘limited’ defence of Hume does not

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19

20

21 22

23

24

seem to depend on taking this kind of view of his reductionism, in so far as we may treat Hume’s references to the mind as a bundle (collection, system, etc.) as a claim about the nature of the mind itself. As, indeed, is illustrated in the flow chart employed in Chapter 1. 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 perceptions we are bound to wonder what sort of account he would be able to give of what it is that so relates certain perceptions that they are those of this particular mind or self. I have noted already the complicating factor that on Hume’s own account there is a 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). This kind of approach to the problem of the synchronic identity of the self has been discussed and ultimately rejected by Carruthers (1986: 56). Carruthers’ point is that I may well not be conscious of the simultaneous occurrence of my mental states at a time, even if I am conscious of each of them separately. Indeed, the attempt to become conscious of them collectively may make it difficult, if not impossible, to sustain each of these mental states. While Hume sometimes seems to imply 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 intimately conscious of ourselves’ – my emphasis), I am not sure how far this is really necessary for his purposes. It does seem enough to cater for belief in the simplicity (or synchronic unity) of the mind that it should in general be possible for there to be a perception of the other perceptions which make up the mind or self, even if there are circumstances in which a second-order perception of this kind may not occur. (Circumstances of this latter kind – where, for example, one’s attention is divided – would appear to be of just the kind in which the belief in synchronic unity might not be formed.) It is therefore evident that on this account a synthetically unified mind or self must have a more than merely momentary existence. This will be found to have implications for the notion of diachronic unity. This in effect is the solution to the problem of synchronic unity which is suggested by Shoemaker and Swinburne (1984: 93–4). As Shoemaker points out, it reflects a functionalist account of mental states, i.e. as states definable by their relation to sensory inputs, behavioural outputs, and other states of the same kind. I am not of course suggesting that Hume explicitly endorses any such account of mental states (or ‘perceptions’); nevertheless, his account of the mind as a system – and one whose members are linked, in particular, by the relation of cause and effect – does point to a similar view of the character of mental states and thus a similar account of what it is for them to belong to the same person. A further issue which would have to be addressed here is that of the apparent circularity of these accounts of the synchronic and diachronic unity of the mind. For they rest upon functionalist characterisations of mental states which themselves make use of the notion of same person. Since Hume thinks that claims of synchronic or diachronic identity are, strictly speaking, false, there is little point in pursuing this issue on his behalf. But it is worth noting that the circularity objection may not be an insuperable one (Shoemaker and Swinburne 1984: 98–101). When the question about diachronic unity or identity is understood in these terms it requires that we should be able to give an account of the synchronic unity of each of the bundles involved without knowing whether the relation between them is one of diachronic unity. Any such bundle must, as we have seen, have a more than momentary existence; but since it appears impossible to be more specific about its

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25

26

27 28

29

30

duration it will also be impossible to provide any general account of what it is for a relation of diachronic untiy or identity to obtain between one such bundle and another (cf. Schechtman 1996: 10). The part played here by these different aspects of personal identity appears to reflect what is often described as a ‘psychological continuity’ theory (bearing in mind that Hume is not proposing a theory of personal identity so much as diagnosing 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 consists in a certain kind of psychological – as opposed to bodily – continuity. While Hume is committed to rejecting the psychological continuity approach to personal identity 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 about personal identity have to do with various kinds of psychological connection between the mind or self at different times in its existence. Even if we are prepared to allow that someone may remain the same in spite of changes in his character or disposition, we still suppose that underlying these changes are systematic causal connections between his psychological states at different times. I say more about this in Chapter 5. It may be true that the rate of change in the membership of a republic is rather slower than that of the perceptions constituting a mind at different times (Flage 1990: 142). But the crucial point for Hume’s purposes is the kind of continuity that one finds in each case. 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 this context. I am much indebted to this latter essay in what follows. 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 had earlier 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 related qualities of objects, Hume now considers the possibility that his opponent might try to find a basis for the idea of substance by defining it – as, for example, both Descartes and Spinoza do – as ‘something which may exist by itself’. Hume’s point then is that this definition would apply to everything, including our perceptions. He supports this by appealing to two principles which are of central importance for him. One of these is the ‘establish’d maxim’ that ‘whatever the mind clearly conceives includes the idea of possible existence’ – or, in other words, that ‘nothing we can imagine is absolutely impossible’ (T, 1.2.2.8). The other is that ‘whatever objects are different are distinguishable, and . . . whatever objects are distinguishable are separable by the thought and imagination’ (T, 1.1.7.3; cf. 1.1.3.4). The latter principle applies directly to perceptions in so far as they are different from each other, so that they may be conceived as separately existent; but the former principle then implies that they may exist in separation. (The argument is summarised at T, 1.4.2.39.) It is important to note that Hume is arguing only that perceptions themselves satisfy a certain definition of substance; this is not, or not obviously, the same as to argue that they are substances, especially given Hume’s dismissive remarks about the idea of substance in T, 1.4.3. In response to the question of how a perception may be supposed to be absent from the mind without being annihilated, Hume declares for the first time that the mind is nothing but a heap or collection of perceptions and that given the distinguishability and separability of perceptions from each other it follows that ‘there is no absurdity in separating any particular perception from the mind’ (T, 1.4.2.39). The case of the republic evidently would not fit the bill; for while the republic itself is arguably nothing more than its individual members related to each other in

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31 32 33 34

various ways, it does seem possible that any one of these members might have led an 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 human nature upon society: ‘We can form no wish, which has not a reference to society’ (T, 2.2.5.15). See Carruthers, Introducing Persons, 57–8; also Brennan, ‘Disunity of the Self’, 179. An illustration of this idea would be provided, for example, by Hume’s account of the way in which the indirect passions of pride and humility arise in the mind (T, 2.1.5.5). I shall say more in Chapter 8 about the way in which the idea of self might help to generate the idea of other selves. That is, the conditions – whatever they are – associated with our ordinary ascriptions 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 particular section should be viewed as a digression from the main arguments of the Treatise, and that it is primarily concerned to offer a satirical account of certain philosophical positions which are peripheral to Hume’s own concerns. This is exemplified in one of Hume’s most recent commentators, Oliver Johnson, who writes 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 Hume taking positions ‘that clearly do not represent his own thought and which are only of peripheral relevance to his own philosophical views’ (Johnson 1995: 279). Another commentator refers to the ‘elaborately paradoxical argument’ of Treatise 1.4.5 (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’s tone 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 suggest that Hume is not contributing to philosophical debates of direct relevance to his own 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 and Anthony Collins about the nature of the self – and, furthermore, it emerges that this has a direct bearing on the account of the self and its identity which Hume goes on to offer in the following section of the Treatise. Thus, Hume may be seen as responding directly to Clarke’s view that the self cannot be composite and that thought must inhere in a simple immaterial substance (something which Collins denies, as we shall see below). A similar interpretation has been offered by Paul Russell (1995a: 95–115). The historical background to this section, and the philosophical position which emerges from it, has recently been explored also by Falkenstein (1995) and Cummins (1995). I shall be saying something later about issues raised in their articles. 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 is not. Leibniz responded by suggesting that God is not present to things by spatial location. In similar vein, John Jackson challenged the idea that God acts upon things by contact, and appealed to the relation between soul and body in support of the claim that local presence does not entail action by contact. We may note that

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5 6

7 8

issues about extension also arise in this context. On one view, for example, God’s omnipresence requires that he should act in space and be extended, albeit in a nonbodily way. Hume alludes to such views in a discussion of anthropomorphic conceptions of God in the Dialogues (4, 60–1). How can the deity be similar to a human mind if the mind itself is ‘A composition of various faculties, passions, sentiments, ideas – united, indeed, into one self or person, but still distinct from each other’; while the deity is – as all ‘true theists’ claim – perfectly immutable and simple? One response is to represent the deity as being ‘entire in every point of space, and complete in every instant of duration’. (It is obviously worth noting that the view of the mind or soul mentioned here echoes the account of T, 1.4.6, in spite of the fact that Hume is often said to have abandoned that account in light of the difficulties referred to in the Appendix to the Treatise.) For a valuable survey of this area of philosophical debate see Yolton (1984: ch. IV). In a little more detail, Hume argues that ‘internal’ impressions – i.e. reflective impressions such as passion and desire – cannot be the source of the idea of space or 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 from impressions of sensation associated with the senses of sight and touch. The relevant 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 of points and hence the idea of space or extension as the manner or order in which objects exist. We might note the implication of Hume’s view that there is no idea of space where there is nothing visible or tangible, namely, that the idea of a vacuum or extension without matter – ‘pure extension’ – is to be rejected. Hume had earlier observed that sounds, tastes and smells appear to have no existence in extension – T, 1.4.2.9. This kind of view of perceptions would obviously be encouraged by the claim, to which I have referred previously, that they satisfy a widespread definition of ‘substance’. For if perceptions are logically capable of independent existence then they must presumably be objects of some kind. Nevertheless, this latter view should be distinguished from what Hume has said about perceptions as substances. It seems quite possible, for example, to regard perceptions – or some particular subclass of perceptions, such as sense-impressions – as kinds of mental object, but ones which are 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 of perception has been concerned throughout the twentieth century. Hume’s tendency 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). We may note that Locke represents the sensible qualities of taste and smell as being non-extended (Essay II xiii 24). He does so in the context of his discussion of the claim that extension provides the essence of body. This principle is employed by Aquinas in his discussion of the relation of the mind or soul to the body (1964–1980: vol. 11, 83–5). Aquinas rejects the Aristotelian view that the soul does not have to be in each part of the body (De Anima II, 1) in favour of Augustine’s claim that the soul is whole in the whole body, and whole in every part (De Trinitate vi, 6). His principal reason for doing so lies with the view that the soul is the substantial form of the body. Aquinas attempts to make sense of the Augustinian principle by distinguishing different kinds of whole – for example, there is the whole that divides into parts quantitatively and the whole that has as its parts the different things it can do (its powers). Thus, while the whole soul is in 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 as absurd makes an appearance in Gassendi’s criticisms of Descartes’ account of the mind/body relation (Objections V). This account, Gassendi points out, apparently commits 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 can exist as a whole in different places at the same time; but the former would apparently 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 philosophical pedigree, and versions of it are to be found in philosophers with whose writings Hume would have been familiar, such as Clarke and Bayle. Bayle’s version of the argument, for example, occurs in the article on Leucippus (1991: 129–34). The essential point of the argument, in Bayle’s version, is to establish the immateriality and indivisibility of all that thinks by demonstrating the incompatibility of thought with matter as something which is composite. A thinking being is unified in a way which prevents us from supposing that thought or feeling might somehow be distributed across the different parts of something composite. (The similarity to Nagel’s remarks about consciousness, as described above, is striking.) A full account 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 the second Paralogism as ‘the Achilles of all dialectical inferences in the pure doctrine of the soul’ (1963a: 351). In Kant’s version of it, the point of the argument is to establish the simplicity of that which thinks. While Kant denies that it is an analytic or conceptual truth that the collective unity of a thought cannot be related to the collective unity of different substances acting together, he argues that the subjective ‘I’ presupposed by all thinking could not be distributed and divided among many subjects. A version of the argument also occurs in the context of the important debate between Samuel Clarke and Anthony Collins about the nature of the soul which appears 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 soul cannot be material. Matter, being divisible, consists of distinct parts; and unless every particle consists of innumerable separate and distinct consciousnesses, no system composed of such particles can be an individual conscious being (1978: 757). An important principle to which Clarke appeals is that no real quality can result from the composition of different qualities, so as to be a new quality of the same subject. Thus, consciousness as a real quality cannot result from the composition 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). The principle to which Clarke appeals here receives an effective rebuttal from Collins, who points out that a ‘power’ such as the harmonious sound associated with a musical instrument is not the sum of powers of the same kind in parts of the instrument considered singly. The conclusion Collins draws is that consciousness may inhere in a system of matter without being the sum of the consciousnesses of its parts (1978: 806, cf. 819). 10 In fact, Hume subsequently confirms that what is involved here is another general tendency of the mind which is liable to lead us into error on just these kinds of point. Thus, he writes as follows: ‘’Tis a quality . . . in human nature, that when two objects appear in close relation to each other, the mind is apt to ascribe to them an additional 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 and matter) if we find that they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions are incapable of place or local position; and yet those very impressions we suppose to

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12

13

14

15

have a local conjunction with the impressions of sight and touch, merely because they 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 compleat any union, ’twill easily be imagin’d, that if there be any relations, which depend on the mind, ’twill readily conjoin them to any preceding relation, and unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the fancy.’ Hume goes on to say that this tendency to complete any union between objects which are closely related to each other is something which ‘is easily accounted for from the known properties of human nature’ (T, 3.2.3.4n). While Spinoza is committed to the category of substance as that which has independent existence (1993: Part I, def. III), he differs from Descartes in proposing a monistic ontology of substance while recognising a duality or multiplicity of attributes. Hume’s reference to this ‘hideous hypothesis’ echoes Bayle’s comments on Spinoza (1991: note N, 300–1). While Hume’s characterisation of Spinoza’s substance monism as a form of atheism might be seen as satirical, it does point to a problem in Spinoza’s metaphysics about the relation of God to the material universe – one which provides a counterpart to the problem of the mind/body relationship which Spinoza finds in Descartes. Spinoza’s reference to Deus seu Natura (1993: Part IV, Preface) suggests that God is in some sense identified with the material universe – this is certainly how he is interpreted by Clarke (1978: vol. II, 532). On Hume’s view the causal dependence of thought and perception on bodily events has important implications for the idea of human immortality. Thus, he suggests that ‘The physical arguments from the analogy of nature are strong for the mortality of the soul’. And he continues: ‘Where any two objects [in this case, body and soul] are so closely connected, that all alterations, which we have ever seen in the one, are attended with proportionable alterations in the other; we ought to conclude, by all rules of analogy, that, when there are still greater alterations produced in the former, and it is totally dissolved, there follows a total dissolution of the latter (‘Of the Immortality of the Soul’, Essays 596). We should note that Hume’s reference to the ‘mysterious . . . union of soul with body’ in the first Enquiry occurs in the context of the idea that soul and body considered as substances are able to operate on each other. The only meaningful issue which 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 any supposed connection between cause and effect (EHU, 7.11–13). Locke’s position here came under attack in the well-known controversy with Stillingfleet. The gist of Stillingfleet’s objection to Locke was that by allowing for the possibility that God might superadd to matter the faculty of thinking, Locke had left the existence of spiritual substance open to question. Locke responded by distinguishing the question of whether a substance has the faculty of thinking from that of whether it is immaterial, and he continued to maintain that while it may be in the highest degree probable that thinking substance is immaterial, this is not something which is capable of demonstration. Again, we may be unable to conceive how matter can think, any more than we can conceive, for example, how matter may attract matter at a distance; but the possibility of thinking matter still cannot be excluded. In any case, it is no easier to conceive how the soul thinks, than it is to conceive how an extended solid object should do so. (The Stillingfleet correspondence is to be found in Locke 1996: 339–57; see esp. 347–54.) In similar fashion to Locke, Cudworth rejects the possibility that thought might arise from matter in motion (1978: 761). As Yolton points out (1983: 7), Cudworth’s position reflects the assumption that thought and motion are properties 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 the intervention 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 discussion of necessary connection in the first Enquiry (Section 7). His purpose is, as it was in the Treatise (T, 1.3.14.12), to deny that we are provided here with any idea of power or necessary connection. This is reflected in our ignorance of the nature of the immediate effects of volition. We know that bodily action depends upon such events as muscular contractions, but there are many other antecedents of which we are unaware (EHU, 7.14). Hume’s insistence on our failure to discover in volition anything like power or necessary connection represents his reaction to those who, like Locke, claimed to find the source of active power in the operations of the will (Essay II xxi 4). 18 All this is in fact reflected in the flow chart conception of the mind ascribed to Hume in Chapter 1. I shall be discussing Hume’s account of our voluntary actions in 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 of the self in Chapter 7. 21 Similar passages are to be found elsewhere. For instance, ‘We learn the influence of our will from experience alone. And experience only teaches us, how one event constantly follows another; without instructing us in the secret connexion, which binds them 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 been read differently, as expressing a kind of agnosticism about the existence or nature of the ‘place’ where our perceptions are to be found (Craig 1987: 113–16; G. Strawson 1989: 128–30). I cannot discuss the complex issues of interpretation involved here in detail but I should like to comment briefly on the suggestion that the bundle theory is best seen as an account of what we can know about the mind rather than what the mind really is (G. Strawson 1989: 129). It is true that in the Introduction to the Treatise Hume does refer to ‘the essence of the mind being equally unknown to us with that of external bodies’ (Intro. 8). I take this, however, to be an acknowledgement that it will be impossible to provide any ultimate explanation as to why the perceptions of the mind present themselves to us in the way they do, rather than another way of saying that there may be a mind existing apart from our perceptions but, if so, that it remains unknown to us (cf. Craig 1987: 116). Hume does appear quite explicitly to exclude the possibility that the mind exists as any kind of thing or substance separate from perceptions themselves. In fact, as we have seen, he claims that we cannot even understand the question as to whether perceptions inhere in a material or immaterial substance (T, 1.4.5.6, 17, 33). Moreover, given that our perceptions are all different, separable, and distinguishable from each other and everything else, Hume concludes ‘’tis impossible to conceive, how they can be the action or abstract mode of any substance’ (T, 1.4.5.27). I therefore see no reason not to take at face value the following remarks from the Abstract in which Hume is referring to one of the many opinions peculiar to himself: ‘. . . it must be our several particular 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 Hume might appear to be locating perceptions in the brain; as I have indicated, they appear in general to be concerned with the neurophysiological causes of our perceptions. Thus, even those of our perceptions which are, in some sense, extended share the same dependence as other perceptions on the brain and other bodily organs. 4 HUME’S SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT PERSONAL IDENTITY 1 A footnote indicates that Hume appears to be referring here to paragraph 17 and following 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 that Hume’s sole philosophical concern was with the origin of the relevant ideas and their contents (Waxman 1994: 223). Yet, as he points out in the course of this discussion, Hume himself declares his view of the mind as a system of perceptions to be ‘the true idea of the human mind’ (T, 1.4.6.19, my italics). While Waxman himself appears to regard this as merely a phenomenological claim, it is natural to regard it as Hume’s alternative to the mistaken idea of the mind for which he attempts to account in the preceding part of his discussion of personal identity. In fact, 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 have gained 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 of the mind or soul as ‘a system or train of different perceptions . . . all united together, 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 Hume requires 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 contains a recantation of the ‘reductive theory’ of personal identity set out earlier in the Treatise, i.e. a theory according to which the mind is composed of perceptions related by resemblance and causation. 8 There are many such interpretations. It was argued by Basson (1958: 131–3) that the relations of resemblance and causation might hold between the perceptions of different minds and cannot, therefore, account for the unity of the perceptions which belong to a particular mind. More recently, Stroud (1977: 126–7) has pointed out that these relations may not hold between the perceptions which do belong to one person’s mind. It has also been suggested that Hume’s difficulty can be traced to the fact that resemblance and causation are inadequate to account for the ‘necessary ownership of perceptions’ – the phrase is from Pears 1993: 290. So far as this last suggestion is concerned, we should note that even in the Appendix Hume continues to reject any such view of perceptions: ‘Whatever is distinct, is distinguishable; and whatever is distinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. All perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable, and separable, and may be conceiv’d as separately existent, and may exist separately,

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10

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without any contradiction or absurdity’ (App. 12, my emphasis). While we might not share 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, we should note that perceptions between which there are no direct causal relations may nevertheless still form part of one system to the extent that the perceptions involved are linked in a network of such relations – as we saw in Chapter 2. 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, but that this account of the internal structure of the mind cannot in itself serve to mark off one mind from another. See also Pears 1975: 216. There is another problem about the relation between the perceptions of different minds to which Garrett has drawn attention. This depends on the principle, derived from Hume’s account of causation, that two simultaneous qualitatively identical perceptions occurring in distinct minds can differ in their causal relations only by differing in their spatial locations. But according to Hume, as we saw in the previous chapter, many of our perceptions have no spatial location (‘exist without any place’). Thus, Hume has deprived himself of any basis for assigning two such perceptions to different minds and, hence, for explaining how we can conceive 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 the problem that Hume was concerned in the Appendix, and the fact is that he appears simply to take for granted that each of us is conscious only of a certain set of perceptions. Any two perceptions of the kind to which Garrett refers will therefore belong to the same (for Hume, imperfectly identical) mind provided that they are perceived as part of the same succession of related perceptions; and if they are not so perceived, then they will belong to different minds (cf. Waxman 1994: 327, n35). This point bears on Donald Baxter’s recent and intriguing discussion of the Appendix (Baxter 1998). The gist of his argument is that the source of Hume’s problem lies with his theory of representation which requires him to suppose that ideas representing our many perceptions as one must themselves be one, contrary to his denial of any real connection among distinct perceptions (1998: 214). As Baxter acknowledges, the problem he has identified is in fact a general one which would 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 indeed a general one and that he may simply not have thought of its relevance to other contexts. Given, however, that even in the first paragraph of the Appendix Hume indicates that personal identity provides the only ‘article’ in which he has been able to discover a considerable mistake, and that he reserves his subsequent admissions of error and inconsistency for his account of personal identity, it is obviously worth seeking an interpretation which would have a particular bearing on this case. We have seen previously that the third of Hume’s associative relations – contiguity – is discounted in this context. I shall not pause to comment here on Hume’s assumption that our awareness of bodies consists in the occurrence of certain kinds of perception (in the form of impressions of sensation – see Chapter 1, n9). To stress the point referred to earlier, the idea is one which forms part both of the vulgar belief in personal identity and also the philosophical view of the self as an immaterial substance. 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 perceptions 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 ‘easy transitions’ that would enable us to ignore the perceived differences between our perceptions. However, the explanation then given for this is different from the one to 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 beliefs about the identity of objects or bodies and those concerning the identity of the mind or self in each case depend on awareness of a succession of perceptions. But is there not an opposition between the tendencies involved, to the extent that our attributions of object identity involve grouping together only a certain segment of the succession of perceptions to which we attribute an identity as a whole in so far as they are taken to constitute the same continuing self ? (Roth, 2000: 101–7). Even if we accept, however, that there is indeed an opposition of this kind it is difficult to see why Hume would find this any more problematic than our tendency to adopt conflicting 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 at the 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-gaps in 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 perspective belief in the simplicity of the mind or self is in fact mistaken. The problem of accounting for the unity of our reflective idea of consciousness with the corresponding perceptions presumably arises only for a philosopher who accepts the truth 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 of Hume 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: chs 7–9. 2 We might say the same sort of thing about a republic or nation, i.e. that it has an identity which is bound up with such features as its culture and form of government. 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 links between 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 difference between two kinds of question about the self: the reidentification question (i.e. the question of what makes a person at time t2 the same person as a person at time t1); and the characterisation question (i.e. the question of which beliefs, values, desires and other psychological features make someone the person he is) (Schechtman 1996: 1–2). It is further argued here that aspects of personal identity which are of practical importance to us – including, for example, self-interested concern and moral 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 in this kind of context, as we shall see. It might be said that the characterisation question to which Schechtman refers concerns roughly the same sorts of issue as those raised by the agency aspect of the self. 4 For comments on this and other aspects of Hume’s account of character see Baier 1991: 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’s character is impugned only to the extent that he is the sort of person who is prone to such errors. I will be saying more about this kind of point in the discussion of the nature of character traits which follows. The fact that Hume is prepared to count wisdom, for example, as a virtue – given that it is a mental quality of which we 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). These observations about character are summarised by Hume in the remark that ‘. . . the qualities of heart and temper and natural understanding are the most essential to the personal character’ (Letters, vol. II, 111). It appears that this is, for Hume, one of the factors that tends to distinguish human from non-human animals – a topic with which we will be concerned in more detail in the next chapter. There is a further dimension to Hume’s emphasis on the role of moral causes in this context. Part of the explanation of their influence – as compared with that of physical 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 disposed to enter into each other’s sentiments so that similar feelings and inclinations tend to run throughout the group. Given this and the frequent opportunities for communication with each other through a common language it is almost inevitable that we come to share a national character. The point that Hume is making here about our tendency to enter into each other’s feelings is one with which I will be concerned in Chapter 8. We shall see the importance of these ideas for Hume’s account of moral agency in the next chapter, where the difference in moral status between human and nonhuman animals is at issue. There is in fact a twofold connection between the virtues and vices and the passions. For it is a crucial part of Hume’s account of moral distinctions that they arise from the distinctive kinds of feeling or sentiment experienced in response to certain kinds of mental quality. Thus, in Hume’s own words ‘these two particulars are to be consider’d as equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, virtue and the power of producing love or pride, vice and the power of producing humility or hatred’ (T, 3.3.1.3). So it is not only that the virtues and vices (those classified by Hume as ‘natural’ at least) consist in the occurrence of certain kinds of passion, but they also give rise to passions both on the part of the moral agents themselves and also those who observe their actions. The indirect passions which arise in these latter circumstances are related through the feelings of pain and pleasure they involve to the moral sentiments we experience in response to virtue and vice. I have commented previously on Hume’s rejection of the philosophical notion that the idea of duration may be applied to ‘unchangeable’ objects in the context of my discussion of Hume’s treatment of the idea of identity in Chapter 2. 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 be appraised as virtuous; but accidental circumstances may prevent the agent from producing these benefits. Thus, ‘Virtue in rags is still virtue’ (T, 3.3.1.19). We also have to allow for the possibility of contrary motives or passions (T, 2.3.3.10). The question 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 generous person. Hume does not pursue this kind of question – perhaps understandably, in view of the impossibility of providing any determinate answer. As this indicates, on Hume’s account there is a two-way process of inference concerning 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 our knowledge of their motives and inclinations’ (EHU, 8.9). This is no more viciously circular than, for example, arriving at knowledge of the properties of astronomical bodies from observation of their appearance and movements, and then using this knowledge to explain further observations of those bodies. There are, however, issues here concerning our knowledge of the mental states of others with which I will be concerned in more detail in Chapter 8. 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 kind would identify possession of a character trait with the performance, with a certain degree of frequency, of some particular kind of action – and/or the occurrence of certain feelings, etc. See Rorty 1976: 306. Although Rorty does not appear to have Hume especially in mind, the point is one that may be seen to apply to his own account of character. According to Bricke Hume restricts the class of character traits to those mental attributes which play a distinctive motivational role in the determination of human behaviour – and while these traits would include, for example, ambition, avarice, courage, patience and integrity, they would exclude such features as prudence and discretion (Bricke 1974: 108). Given, however, the relation of the intellectual virtues to our conduct it is difficult to see why Hume should be so interpreted. As we shall see, this point is related to Hume’s conception of the self as a kind of narrative existence. The interrelation among the traits which go to make up a certain sort of character involves a kind of balance among the traits themselves – as Hume points out, an excess of a virtue like martial bravery may undermine another virtue like humanity (EPM, 7.14; cf. T, 3.3.3.3). We may, it seems, draw from this the moral that a virtuous character is one in which the various traits are possessed to a certain degree in which excess is avoided. In this spirit, Hume himself indicates that the possession of moderate passions is associated with conduct which conforms to the rules of morality (‘The Sceptic’, Essays 169). In this context I should mention Hume’s well-known reference to love of literary fame as his ‘ruling passion’ in ‘My Own Life’. It is worth noting also here Hume’s remark about the ‘ruling qualities’ of Rousseau’s character (Letters: vol. II, 165). This discussion is omitted from some editions of the first Enquiry. 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 the imagination that we give a kind of unity to the perceptions of the self. Thus, a person’s view of his character is essentially historical: witness Hume’s observations about his own character at the end of ‘My Own Life’. Thus, as Hume says, ‘’Tis usual to see men lose their levity, as they advance in years’ (T, 3.3.4.12). From this Hume draws the general moral that a quality we approve of in one person may not be an object of approval in another, simply on account of the difference in age between them. 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. As Schechtman points out, the view of persons as narrative existences has a prominent philosophical advocate in MacIntyre 1981: ch. 15. This process of surveying ourselves in reflection provides a constraint on the kinds of narrative self-conception we construct for ourselves. While the potential for selfdeception is always present, our sympathetic awareness of the way in which others respond to our actions and characters helps to preserve our self-narratives from what 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 ourselves and other kinds of animal in the next chapter. 27 There is an excellent discussion of Hume’s position on excusing considerations in Russell 1995b: ch. 7, sec. 5. 28 See Baier 1991: 187 for a discussion of the means by which character may be indirectly changed for the better. 6 HUMAN AND ANIMAL NATURE 1 Throughout this discussion it is the relation between human and non-human animals that is in question, though in general I shall speak loosely of humans and animals. 2 Articles which concern themselves with what Hume has to say about animals include Seidler 1977 and Baier 1985. There are brief discussions of some of the issues raised here in Stroud 1977: 76–7 and Baier 1991: 79. Norton 1982: 38–40 contains useful discussion of Shaftesbury’s comparison between human and animal nature. 3 The following part of my discussion is based on my ‘The Souls of Beasts: Hume and 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, by which we can distinguish between ourselves and mere machines, enable him to deal with an apparent difficulty with his view of animals as automata. The difficulty is well expressed in Bayle’s discussion, to which I refer below, namely, that if we view animals as machines, in spite of the appearance their behaviour presents of thought and feeling, then we will be forced to reach a similar view of our fellow men. Descartes’ reply would be that the tests of language and action show that human beings are not just machines, while at the same time distinguishing them in this respect from non-human animals. 5 The remarks of Bayle to which I will be referring form part of an extended discussion which occurs in the entry on Rorarius. That Hume was, in general, familiar with the writings of Bayle is borne out by his reference to a book by Bayle in a letter 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 might lead to a similar view of other men – something which he judges to be the weakest side of Cartesianism (Bayle 1991: 231). 7 The works of La Mettrie with which I am especially concerned are L’homme machine, originally published anonymously in 1747, and Histoire naturelle de l’âme, originally published under a pseudonym in 1745. These works achieved considerable notoriety and it seems reasonable to suppose that Hume would have become acquainted with the views they contain. These two works of La Mettrie, together with other writings, have recently been republished in Machine Man and Other Writings, translated and edited by Ann Thomson, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. My references will be to this edition. 8 This image of the clockwork man resonates throughout a debate about the possibility of thinking matter which occurred in both Britain and France in the eighteenth century. The debate reflects various themes which may be traced back to Descartes – the possibility of providing mechanistic explanations of various types of animal behaviour, for example, and the notion that properties like thought and volition can belong only to something which is immaterial. Hence, a focus for this debate was provided by Locke’s suggestion in the Essay that God might have made it 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 development of the idea of man as a machine. Hume’s own comments on the materialist/immaterialist debate occur, as we saw in Chapter 3, in Treatise 1.4.5. For a valuable overview of this important phase of philosophical discussion about men, machines and animals see Yolton 1983. 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 behavioural cues. (For an account of this case see Carruthers 1992: 122–3.) It is worth comparing this case with Montaigne’s own example of the counting oxen (1987: 29). The same example is to be found in Montaigne 1987: 19. 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 differ somewhat from that of Hume. I shall have more to say about Hume’s account of sympathy in Chapter 8. We are reminded here of Bayle’s discussion, referred to above. 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 draws attention to the break with tradition involved in Hume’s view of the continuity between our mental states and those of animals. More precisely, what Hume says here is that ‘animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice’. There is thus, as I have noted, an important difference between the self which provides the object of pride in our case – namely, one that comprises both mental and bodily qualities (T, 2.1.9.1) – and the bodily self which provides the object of pride in the case of animals. There is no doubt that Hume thinks that we may indeed approve and disapprove of animals, and even that animals may take pride in our approbation of them (T, 2.1.12.4). But not all approval or disapproval is of a moral kind. Hume is quite clear that our approval of some inanimate object on account of its utility 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 or beneficial in some way (EPM, 2.9), it seems possible, at least, that what he has in mind is a kind of aesthetic sentiment, bearing in mind the close connection he finds between the beauty we admire in animals and their convenience and utility (T, 2.1.8.2). In so far as Hume regards the sense of duty as an artificial substitute for a virtuous motive such as parental affection his position stands in obvious contrast to that of Kant. While Hume and Kant agree on the important principle that actions derive 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 virtuous action derives its merit might consist in a regard to the virtue of the action itself (as opposed to a ‘natural’ motive – T, 3.2.1.4), Kant insists that an action can be good only if it is done for the sake of the moral law (1963b: Preface). From Kant’s point of view, the action of helping someone as a result of a sympathetic concern with their well-being – almost the paradigm of a virtuous action on Hume’s account – has no genuine moral worth. As Kant expresses it, an action qualifies as being morally good only to the extent that it is performed from duty rather than inclination (1963b: ch. 1). Kant is prepared to classify reverence for the moral law as a kind of motivating feeling, but it is one that arises from the rational side of our nature in contrast to our inclinations. This is obviously not the place to adjudicate on such a profound disagreement about the nature of moral motivation, 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 freedom and its bearing on moral agency. Hume returns to this issue in the second Enquiry, Appendix 4, ‘Of Verbal Disputes’. Once again he emphasises the need for philosophers to avoid encroaching on the province of grammarians; and he declares the distinction between talents and defects, on the one hand, and virtues and vices on the other, to be a matter for grammatical enquiry, a merely verbal question of no importance reflecting ‘caprices of language’ (EPM, Appendix 4, 1–2). It certainly appears true that, for Hume, it makes sense to apply moral epithets to animals. Thus, we may conceive of a virtuous horse, just as we may also think of a golden mountain, by joining together ideas which are quite consistent with each other (EHU, 2.5). It is, of course, another matter whether anything corresponds to the complex ideas in question, or whether they are merely ideas of imagination (as I take it each of these ideas is for Hume). According to Arnold 1995: 311 Hume never did mean to suggest that sympathy is the ultimate source of moral sentiment: even in the Treatise this role is played by the sentiment of humanity. The evidence for this last claim is slender, at best, but I shall not pursue the matter here. In this respect Arnold appears to be mistaken when he says that Hume ‘seems to assume that no species other than our own possesses a sentiment akin to the sentiment of humanity’ (1995: 310). This point about animal sympathy reminds us that while sympathy is a mechanism which depends on the idea of self, this is not to say that it has to be an especially selfconscious process. Hume accepts that even in the case of human beings sympathy is sometimes a pretty unreflective process, so that what is involved may be little more than a kind of emotional contagion which allows passions to pass ‘with the greatest facility’ from one person to another (T, 3.3.3.5). This is certainly how he seems to regard the communication of passions in animals. Thus, ‘affections’ such as fear and anger may be communicated from one animal to another quite independently of any knowledge of their original causes – as in the case of the ‘howlings and lamentations of a dog’ which produce ‘a sensible concern in its fellows’ (T, 2.2.12.6). Hume argues in ‘Of the Standard of Taste’ that our ability to take the common or general view is also a requirement for judging ‘universal beauty’. There are rules for judging the merits of works of art which represent generalisations from our experience of ‘what has been found to please in all countries and in all ages’ (Essays 231). But a certain ‘delicacy of imagination’ is required in order that our responses should conform to these rules there (ibid.). Our judgements of beauty or ugliness reflect an ability to view the objects to which they are directed with a degree of detachment while also attending to their features of form or style (237–8). When Hume remarks on the comparative imperfections of feeling in animals, and their lack of susceptibility to the pleasures and pains of the imagination, he is surely implying the absence of that delicacy of imagination on which our aesthetic sensibilities depend. The distinctive viewpoint associated with the operation of our aesthetic taste can be achieved only if we free ourselves from prejudice or bias. But prejudice can interfere with any sort of judgement, evaluative or otherwise. It is therefore essentially a matter of good sense to check its influence in all these different cases (240). The delicacy of imagination to which Hume has referred itself depends on a ‘sound understanding’ which enables us to discern the end or purpose of a work of art, and the degree to which it succeeds in this (240–1). It is clear that this is just the kind of case in which, for Hume, we display a knowledge and understanding which is superior to that of animals. It seems equally clear that these observations apply equally to what Hume has to say about the operation of the moral 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 of our appraisal. And in doing so we obviously exercise our capacities for rational reflection. As Hume puts it, reason ‘pave[s] the way’ for sentiments of praise and blame: in order that our moral judgements should achieve the objectivity associated with the general view distinctions need to be made, conclusions drawn, comparisons formed, relations examined, and facts ascertained (EPM, 1.9). It is just this kind of exercise of understanding of which animals appear to be incapable; and it is also, therefore, this that would explain their lack of a moral sense. I have argued for this view in Pitson 1993. A similar account of Hume is offered in Tranöy 1959. It should be noted, however, that Tranöy finds Hume’s position inconsistent in this respect. One thinks here of philosophers like Samuel Clarke and William Wollaston as exponents 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 different relations of different persons one to another, there necessarily arises a fitness or unfitness of certain manners of behaviour’ (1969: 192). But the view of morality which Locke develops in his Essay – where he claims, for example, that morality provides us with a kind of knowledge which concerns ‘the agreement or disagreement of ideas’ (IV iii 18) – is a clear illustration of the kind of rationalist position which Hume has in mind, and invites just the kind of critical comment which Hume goes on to make about this position. One might of course query the assumption that an animal can engage in ‘the very same action’ as that of a human being who commits an act of incest, on the ground that reference to the action involved would normally assume a certain social and legal context. Hume appears to identify ‘the action’ here with a certain set of external bodily occurrences and, similarly, to treat ‘the relation’ involved as one which is external to such contextual considerations. I shall have more to say about some of the differences between the actions of humans and of animals in the next chapter. This relates to the distinction drawn by Hume in another context, between a mistake of fact and a mistake of right (EPM, Appendix, 1.12). The latter requires not only that a person’s actions involve him in certain relations, but that they do so in accordance with his recognition of those relations. This appears to be implicit in Hume’s observation that our voluntary actions are amenable to the influence of the motives of reward and punishment, praise and blame (T, 3.3.4.4). Hume finds in the calm passions a ready explanation of why it should have been mistakenly supposed that reason itself is a motive to action: since these passions are known 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). The arguments of this section derive from my ‘Hume on Morals and Animals’, The British 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 been somewhat neglected by commentators. This situation changed with the publication of Árdal 1966. Since then Baier 1991 has appeared, and there have been further important discussions of Hume’s moral psychology in Bricke 1996 and Penelhum 1993. 2 Important discussions of issues addressed in the following have recently been provided by McIntyre 1989 and Rorty 1990. 3 When Hume describes the self as the object of the indirect passion of pride, for example, 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’s pride may be it must bear some significant relationship to oneself. It is in this sense that pride (and humility) are always self-directed. Incidentally, one may get a better sense of what Hume means by describing pride and humility as contrary passions if humility 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 certain respect and yet also ashamed of myself in that very same respect. This account of pride obviously gives rise to many questions – such as, for example, the legitimacy of supposing that there is a pleasurable impression of reflection distinctive of pride itself, or that this impression then turns the mind to oneself (so that 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 on the implications of this account for Hume’s view of the person or self. Even in this kind of case, as we shall see, pride appears to depend for Hume on the fact that one enjoys a social existence which transcends that of the mind itself. As we saw in Chapter 5. 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. 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 an association of ideas and impressions’ (T, 2.1.6.1). We should recognise that Hume does not see himself as offering conditions for the correct application of the concept of pride (or humility) so much as an empirically based account of the circumstances under which the passion occurs. An especially interesting example in this context is that of the miser as Hume describes his situation (T, 2.1.10.9). The miser delights from the power his money provides him of procuring pleasure even though his money has never been so employed. According to Hume, the miser must imagine pleasure coming to him in this 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 the passions 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 his interests now with those of a sympathetically imagined self in the future which is able to obtain pleasure from these riches. And I shall in fact be saying more about it in the next chapter. 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 agency and responsibility imply the existence of a self which is more than merely a set of ideas or perceptions (1997: 35, 1969a: 622). Not only, for Reid, is there a question as to how a succession of perceptions can do anything; there is also a question as to how it could be held responsible for what another set or succession does at a different time. I shall be addressing these issues in more detail below. This was illustrated in the flow chart picture of the mind to which I referred in Chapter 1. I discussed this aspect of Hume’s treatment of the mind/body relation in more detail in Chapter 3. Hume points out that the man with the palsy may initially try to move a limb before he discovers that it is paralysed. If he is not conscious of any power to bring about such movements neither, Hume suggests, is the person who in the ordinary case moves a limb by trying to do so. But the same kind of example may be used to establish that ordinary bodily actions are preceded by volitions in the form of acts of trying – as in the case of William James’ famous discussion of the anaesthetised 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 an argument in favour of the kind of volitionist view of action to which Hume appears to be committed. See my earlier discussion of consciousness of self in Chapter 2. 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 to find the source of the idea of active power in the operations of the will (Essay II xxi 4). In other words, such power is manifested in the relation between the will and movements of the body. Hume, of course, denies that our experience of this relation 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 distinguished from (mere) bodily movements by their mental causes in the form of acts of volition. It is just this view of action that Reid wishes to reject. We – not any of our mental acts or operations – are the cause of those bodily movements which provide examples of action. For a more recent defence of this kind of view see Chisholm 1982. The issue is obviously relevant to the earlier discussion of Hume’s account of the differences between human and animal selves in Chapter 5. As we saw in the discussion of character in Chapter 5. 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 to the objects around it and acts without curiosity or foresight (‘Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature’, Essays 82). See the earlier discussion of Chapter 6 on the distinctive way in which the calm passions operate in the case of human beings. It should be acknowledged that this explanation of why we do not attach blame to actions performed from ignorance may be questioned on the basis, for example, that ignorance excuses in its own right, independently of the kind of consideration to which Hume refers. The other aspect of necessity – the inference we are accustomed to make from one of the constantly conjoined items to the other – also obtains in the case of human actions. This provides us with what Hume describes as ‘moral evidence’, a basis for predicting the actions of human beings in accordance with our experience of human nature generally, and also the patterns of motivation associated with the particular 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, for example, Penelhum 2000: 52, 121. 2 All this might be taken only to illustrate the point that belief in the existence of other minds is to be categorised as ‘natural’, to use a Humean term, i.e. the kind of belief which is irresistible for us in spite of (or, perhaps, even because of) its lack of any rational foundation. As I shall go on to argue, this conception of the other minds belief may well be correct. The fact remains, however, that while our natural beliefs generally rest in various kinds of imaginative fiction, Hume does not apparently 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 is in 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 would appear to be the only ones which could account for the presence of the ideas to be explained.

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5 Hume does also use ‘imagination’ in an inclusive way to comprise the activities of reason or the understanding itself (T, 1.4.7.3–7); the implications of this will be explored below. 6 ‘Abstract reasonings cannot decide any question of fact or existence’ (‘Of the Immortality of the Soul’, Essays 591). See also Dialogues, 9.91. 7 The following remarks about the relation of imagination to, respectively, memory and the understanding owe a great deal to Garrett 1997: ch. 1. 8 Hume also expresses this as a distinction between those principles of imagination which are ‘permanent, irresistible, and universal’ – such as those involved in our causal 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 to perceive the sentiments or opinions of others, and that we can become aware of them only by their effects (T, 1.3.13.14). 10 It appears that we must therefore reject Penelhum’s suggestion that Hume ‘would think of our awareness of the mental lives of others as an inference from our knowledge of (or belief in) the behaviour of their bodies taken as signs of their mental lives’ (Penelhum 2000: 52–3). 11 Hume does recognise a sense in which all causal or inductive inference rests on a species of analogy. Thus, he writes as follows: ‘All our reasonings concerning matters of fact are founded on a species of analogy which leads us to expect from any cause 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 relation of resemblance between the events presently observed and those experienced in the past, and to distinguish this from the question of how far the past events have been constantly conjoined. 12 This seems to capture the gist of the well-known statement of the argument by John 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 arrive at general principles about the bodies of animals and his own ‘moral’ science which is concerned, for example, with the human understanding. For the latter generates a theory concerning the nature of experimental reasoning which is able, according to Hume, to explain the same data or ‘phenomena’ in animals. Thus, he claims 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 this to 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 difference between the other minds belief and belief in the existence of body emerges. In the latter case Hume finds himself faced with the challenge of explaining how it is possible to arrive at the very idea of body. But from his point of view there is no parallel difficulty about explaining one’s possession of the idea of mind, for this appears to be something which is obtained from one’s own case given the supposedly self-intimating character of our mental states (T, 1.4.2.7: ‘since all actions and sensations of the mind are known to us by consciousness, they must necessarily appear in every particular what they are, and be what they appear’).There is still the question, however, of how one is supposed to arrive at the belief that there exist other minds, given that they are not ‘known to us by consciousness’ in the same way as our own states of mind. 16 We should bear in mind also that in his discussion of the Argument from Design in the first Enquiry Hume makes much of the principle that if a cause is known only by its effect then we ought to ascribe to it no more than is requisite to produce

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17 18

19 20

21 22

23

that effect (EHU, 11.13). This principle seems particularly disturbing in the present context since the thought occurs that the behaviour of others might be explained in 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 or automata somehow contrived to behave as they do – see the reference to La Mettrie, for example, in Chapter 6). The remaining part of my discussion is based on Pitson 1996: esp. 261–7. 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 what Hume has in mind in writing about sympathy: witness his remark about sympathy as involving the communication of passion among animals (T, 2.2.12.6). I therefore disagree with the suggestion to be found in Gordon 1995: 727–8 that Hume makes the sympathetic communication of emotion essentially dependent upon cognition and inference. 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 question as to how we should understand Hume’s characterisation of this view – a topic with which I was concerned in some detail in Chapter 4. Compare: ‘. . . so vast an edifice, as is that of the continu’d existence of all external bodies’ (T, 1.4.2.23). Belief in the existence of other selves is one to which Kemp Smith refers as a Humean natural belief (1949: 75–6, 176). He seems, however, simply to include this belief within the more general category of belief in the existence of independent objects (116, 124), as though belief in other selves failed to raise distinctive issues of its own considered from a Humean perspective. Incidentally, on Kemp Smith’s account, belief in the existence of independent objects is one of the two natural beliefs recognised by Hume, the other being belief in the causal interrelation of these objects (409–10, 455, 483 and 543). It is not obvious, perhaps, why the category 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), though that is not an issue here. More important in this context is Kemp Smith’s view of the features distinctive of natural belief, namely, that it is non-theoretical (76), rationally unaccountable (86), inevitable and indispensable (87), explicable solely by reference 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 other selves, as it figures in Hume’s account of sympathy, satisfies most, if not all, of these criteria. It is worth noting here that Kemp Smith seems to find some difficulties in Hume’s treatment of belief in other selves as a type of natural belief. More specifically, Kemp Smith sees Hume as committed to the view, arrived at by generalising the Hutchesonian thesis concerning the primacy of feeling over reason, that cognition is a mode of immediate awareness. At the same time, Kemp Smith appears to suggest that our consciousness of other selves cannot involve this kind of immediacy, 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 committed to the view of cognition as ‘immediate awareness’, nor why an account of the belief in other selves which invokes the various principles of association (together, for example, with the propensity to ‘project’ our emotions) should be inadequate. The comparison with Wittgenstein is worth noting once more at this point. Thus Wittgenstein writes as follows: ‘At the foundation of well-founded belief lies belief that is not founded’ (1969: § 253; cf. § 166). Wittgenstein 1969: §§ 475 and 499 also seem to contain striking Humean echoes.

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190

INDEX

action: causes of 57, 60, 89, 100; nature of 132–6, 181 n26; and the passions 126–31; volitionist view of 182–3 n14; see also character; responsibility active power 58, 135–6, 172 n17, 182 n14, 183 n16; see also liberty Adam, Robert and James 7 aesthetic judgements 180 n23 agency 1–4; and character 83, 96; and identity 48, 50, 160 n2, 167 n25, 175 n3; rational 137–9; Reid on 134–7, 182 n11, 183 n16; self and 131; ‘thin’ and ‘thick’ notions of 132–9; see also moral: agency Ainslie, D. C. 76–80, 173 n4 analogy 148–56, 159, 171 n12, 184 n11 Anderson, R. F. 173 n25 animal: 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; see also moral: sentiments Aquinas, St T. 169 n8 Árdal, P. 192 n3 Arnold, D. G. 190 n20, n21 Ashley, L. 26 association of ideas 13–14; and identity 31, 32–3, 36–8, 78; and narrative 92–3; and natural relations 145 association of impressions 37 Augustine, St 103, 169 n8 Ayer, A. J. 45 Baier, A. 91, 175 n1, n4, 178 n28, n2, 181 n1

Barresi, J. 160 n5 Basson, A. H. 173 n8 Baxter, D. 163 n24, 173 n4, 174 n11 Bayle, P: on the Cartesian view of animals 103–4, 178 n4, n5, n6, 179 n12; on the incompatibility of thought with matter 170 n9; on Spinoza 171 n11 Beauchamp, T. xi, 26 belief 13, 23–4, 57, 146, 158; de dicto and de re 78; natural 4, 8, 79, 156, 183 n2, 185 n22 benevolence 89–90, 113–15 Berkeley, G. 6, 18 Black, J. 7 body: 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; see also mind/body: relation Boyle, R. 6 Brandt, R. 177 n14 Brennan, A. 45, 167 n27, 168 n31 Bricke, J. 25, 33, 90–1, 97, 99, 164 n3, 168 n2, 175 n1, 177 n16, 181 n1 Broad, C. D. 59 Butler, J. 6, 18, 36, 163 n25 Capaldi, N. 25 Carruthers, P. 45, 166 n20, 167 n27, 168 n31, 179 n9 causal inference 72, 146–7, 183 n21, 184 n8; see also reasoning: probable; experimental: inference causal necessity 58–60, 181 n21; see also liberty causation 8, 72, 135, 174 n10; agent 135; homogeneity principle 58; mental 57–60, 64

191

INDEX

cause and effect 5, 13, 42, 55–9, 64, 133, 184–5, n16; temporal priority of cause 42; union between 147–8, 151; see also necessary 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; traits 85–91, 177 n18; and virtue and vice 83, 86, 92, 97, 109, 117 Chisholm, R. 183 n16 Clark, S. 117 Clarke, S. 6, 168 n3, 171 n11, 181 n25; on the nature of mind or self 18, 160 n6, 168 n2, 170 n9 coherence 72–5, 131 Collins, A. 160 n6, 168 n2, 170 n9 conceivability 56–7 consciousness: and the brain 52, 170 n9; discontinuities of 74–5, 175 n18; as a perception 34; of perceptions 41–2; and personal identity 35–6; of self 21 conservation of energy 59 constancy 72–3, 75 constant conjunction: and the mind/body relation 64; and the relation of cause and effect 55–6, 59; and the relation between volition and bodily movement 133 contiguity 13, 37–8 copy principle 13, 15, 42 Cottingham, J. 56 Craig, E. 5, 172 n24 Cudworth, R. 171 n15 Cummins, P. 168 n2, 172 n22 Daiches, D. P. 7, 160 n8 Davie, W. ix, 96, 175 n1 Dawson, D. 178 n3 demonstration 5, 18, 171 n14 Dennett, D. 162 n17, 163 n20 Descartes, 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; and philosophical justification 8; on substance 168 n28, 171 n11 desires: as direct passions 26, 128 determinism 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 n9 dualism: of perceptions and qualities 60–2, 65, 142; substance 5, 21, 54, 63, 101–2 duration 29; of causes of action 98; and God 168–9 n3; and identity 176 n11; of perceptions 90, 163 n24, 176 n11; of self 127–8 Edinburgh 7 education 97 emotions: and animals 107, 116, 180 n22; and anticipated pain and pleasure 129; causes and effects of 150; and character 86, 89, 92; as impressions of reflection 12, 14–16, 23 empiricism 174 n9 Enlightenment: French 104; Scottish 5–8, 11 Enquiry 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 of Morals, An xi, 113–15, 180 n18 epiphenomenalism 57 Everson, S. 162 n7 evidence: moral 151, 183 n21; see also wisdom experience: 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, 87 extension 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 n9 feeling: and reason 7–8, 185 n22; and sentiment 21, 152; and thinking 12 fellow-feeling 114–15 Ferguson, A. 7

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INDEX

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, 127 individuation 29, 46, 69 instinct: in animals 120, 139, 149; and parental affection 111; and reason 107, 157 intention 40–1, 60, 90, 93, 98–9, 128

Flage, D. 16, 161 n3, 167 n26, 172 n22, n24 Fogelin, R. 7 Foot, P. 98 force: and energy 59, 136; and vivacity 13, 146 friendship 87, 89, 113–14, 120 functional view of mental states 23, 27, 166, n22, n23 Garrett, D. 147, 173 n4, 174 n10, 184 n7 Gassendi, P. 169–70 n8 God: image of doctrine 5, 101; in Locke 160–1 n9, 171 n14, 178–9 n8; in Malebranche 6, 58; omnipresence 52; in Spinoza 171 n11 good and evil 88, 95, 110, 179 n17 Gordon, R. 185 n19 gravity 14, 59

James, W. 75, 175 n18, 182 n14 Johnson, O. A. 68, 168 n2 Jones, O. R. 58–9 judgement 91, 112, 158,180 n23 justice 92, 100, 110, 113, 115, 120–1, 125 Kames, Lord 8 Kant, I. 170 n9, 179 n17 Kemp Smith, N. 8, 68, 185 n22 Kierkegaard, S. 94 knowledge: of cause and effect 55, 133; and morality 181 n25; of other minds 83, 142, 152, 164; and probability 163 n22; and understanding 108, 111, 116, 118, 180–1 n23

habit 84, 97, 100, 106, 136, 147 Hobbes, T. 135 human: 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, 180 n20, n21 Huntley, W. B. 179 n13 Hutcheson, F. 7–8, 185 n22 Hutton, J. 7 Huxley, T. H. 179 n13 ideas: of imagination 146; innate 161 n6; of memory 26; nature of 12–14; relation to impressions 23–4, 40; as representations 62; see also association of ideas identity: principle of 27–9; synchronic and diachronic 3, 31, 41–3, 68, 70, 162 n16, 166 n23, n24; see also personal identity imagination: and aesthetic sensibility 180 n23; and the fiction of continued existence 79; and the fiction of identity 20, 29–31, 33, 36–8, 83–4, 163–4 n25; and memory 16, 24, 26; and the other minds belief 152–3; and reason 8, 53, 165 n10, 184 n5, n8; and sympathy 130 impressions: and ideas, 12–16, 19, 23, 33, 40; see also copy principle

La Mettrie, J. O. de 104, 178 n7, n8, 184–5 n16 language 102–5, 121, 163–4 n25, 165 n12, 176 n8, 178 n4 Leibniz, G. W. 6, 18, 104, 168 n3 Lesser, H. 134 liberty: and necessity 4, 58, 60, 83, 89, 97; of spontaneity and indifference 139 Livingston, D. W. 94–5, 164 n8 Locke, J. 4, 7; on active power 172 n17, 183 n16; on the idea of space 169 n4; on innate ideas 161 n6; on matter and thought 56–7, 171 n14, 178–9 n8; on morality 181 n25; on the nature of mind or self 160–1 n9; on personal identity 6, 35–6, 48, 160 n1, n7, 164 n7, 164–5 n9, 165 n11, 167 n25, 182 n7; on persons 96; on primary and secondary qualities 74; on sensible qualities 169 n7 Lowe, E. J. 60 MacNabb, D. G. C. 39 Malebranche, N. 6, 58, 172 n19 Martin, R. 160 n5

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matter 30, 37, 47, 169 n4, 171–2 n16; and thought 53–7, 104, 160–1 n9, 170 n9, 171 n14, n15, 178–9 n8 matters of fact 156; see also experimental: inference McGinn, C. 52, 54, 56 McIntyre, J. L. ix, 88, 90, 91, 128–9, 161 n3, 168 n2, 173 n6, 175 n1, 181 n2 memory 13, 15–16, 23–6, 93, 145–6, 184 n7; and belief in personal identity 32–5, 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 n9 Mill, J. S. 184 n12 mind: actuating principles of 124; belief in the identity of 73, 76, 79; as a bundle of perceptions 43–6, 69, 73, 91, 96, 134, 162 n16, 164 n5, 165–6 n16, 166 n18, 166–7 n24; flow chart account of 23, 25–6, 42, 162 n17, 163 n20, 172 n18; identity of 30–3, 46; materialist and immaterialist views of 3, 18, 51, 54, 63, 160–1 n9, 178–9 n8; nature of 1–6, 11–12, 93, 101, 172 n24; 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, 171 n13; 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; causes 60, 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; necessity 58; philosophy 11, 15, 87, 161 n1, 184 n14; 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 n25 Morère, P. 178 n3 motives: 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, 181 n29; and the will 2, 89, 135, 137–9, 181 n28 Mounce, H. O. 8 Nagel, T. 22, 52, 54, 170 n9 narrative order 95, 130 natural: 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, 165 n12; science 14, 161 n1; world 5–7, 74, 95, 106 naturalism 6, 8, 98, 154 necessary connection 59, 172 n17, 183 n16 Newton, I. 6, 14, 59, 152 Noonan, H. 40, 162 n12, 169 n6 Norton, D. F. xi, 178 n2 objects: external 111, 135, 185 n22; and identity 28–30, 36–7, 69–70, 78, 163–4 n25, 165 n12, 174 n11, 175 n17, 176 n11; and perceptions 18, 28, 72, 77–8, 147, 153, 155; and qualities 62, 74, 165 n13 occasionalism 58, 172 n19 other minds belief 2–3, 142–4, 156, 158, 164 n2, 183 n2, n3, 184 n15; and imagination 152–5; and reason 145–51; the vulgar and philosophical perspectives on 143–4, 154–6 pain and pleasure 12, 15–16, 24–6, 44, 57, 84, 94, 100; as the actuating principle of the mind 107; in animals 132; and the imagination 108, 180–1 n23; and the moral sentiments 109–10, 176 n10; and passion 89, 124, 138; and sympathy 129, 158 passions 12, 14, 23–5, 47, 51, 128, 150, 158–9, 164 n2; and action 57, 133; and animals 107–8, 148; calm 89, 100, 117–20, 139, 181 n29; and character 86–90, 95; as contagious 156, 180 n22; direct 16, 57, 124, 133; indirect 2, 16, 24, 26, 57, 98, 109, 124–7, 142; and morality 113–14, 117–18, 176 n10, 177 n18; productive and responsive 26; and reason 89, 100, 119, 137–8, 181 n29 Passmore, J. A. 39, 68

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Pears, D. 50, 161 n4, 173 n7, 173–4 n8, 174 n9 Penelhum, T. 25–6, 70, 75, 162 n12, 163–4 n25, 165 n12; 181 n1, 183 n1, 184 n10 perception: the vulgar and philosophical views 18, 77–8, 147, 155, 162 n9, 185 n20 perceptions: and body 61; duration of 163 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, 167 n29; simple and complex 12–13; and simplicity 41–2, 70; singularity and particularity 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 the passions 130–1; second thoughts about 66–71, 74–5, 173 n7, 174 n10, n11, 175 n17; sense of 2, 84, 96, 159; and Shaftesbury 160 n7, 164 n26; see also memory persons: as narrative existences 2, 4, 83, 92–6, 177 n24; three-dimensional and four-dimensional views of 43 philosophical relations 14, 95, 145, 162 n15 philosophy: ‘antient’ 162 n10; ‘modern’ 74; and the passion of hunting 88; and the sciences 161 n1; and the Scottish Enlightenment 7; and the temper 97 physical world 59 Pike, N. 39, 165–6 n16 Pitson, A. E. 181 n24, 185 n17 place 37–8, 53–4, 63–4, 165 n10, 170–1 n10, 174 n10 pride and humility 2, 12, 23, 90, 168 n32, 182 n8; and animals 107, 116; and the self 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; sensible 19, 31, 50, 61–3, 79; and substance 14–15, 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 the existence of body 144; and belief in the existence of other minds 145–51, 155; as an instinct 107; and moral distinctions 118, 180–1 n23; and natural belief 126; see also imagination; passions reasoning: demonstrative 145; probable 2, 4, 145–9, 158 reflection: as a source of ideas 12–14, 161 n6 Reid, T. 7–8, 36; on agency 2, 134–6, 182 n11, 183 n16 resemblance: and identity 28, 36–9, 47–8, 50; and memory 33–4; among perceptions 3, 13, 16, 20, 73, 95, 116 n19, 173–4 n8; and simplicity 41; and sympathy 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 n17 rules: of analogy 171 n12; of conduct 119–20; general 130, 151; for judging works 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 142 Schechtman, M. 43, 95–6, 99, 166–7 n24, 175 n3, 177 n24, n25 science: of human nature 13; of man 8, 11, 74, 142; of mind 11, 14; moral 7, 58, 184 n14 Seidler, M. 178 n2 self, 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 simplicity of 68; sense of 85, 91, 99–100; as a substance 18–21; the vulgar and philosophical views of 17–20, 30, 32, 77–80; see also mind; personal identity self-concern 2, 100, 126, 128–9, 131 sensation: as a source of ideas 12–14, 161 n6

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sensations: of animals 102, 104 sense-data 169 n6 senses, the: and the idea of continued existence 72; and imagination 146; of sight and touch 37, 52, 169 n4 Shaftesbury, Third Earl of 36, 160 n7, 164 n26, 178 n2 Shaver, R. 113 Shoemaker, S. 42–3, 160 n4, 166 n22, n23 simplicity: 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, 162 n10 Smith, A. 7 Smith, P. 58–9 soul: and animals 102–4, 121; and extension 51–4, 169–70 n8, n9; mortality of 107–8, 171 n12; as a substance 3, 11, 17, 20, 70, 77, 128 space 52, 62–3, 165 n10, 169 n4 Spinoza, B. 5–6, 54–6, 167 n28, 171 n11, 178 n5 Stack, M. 26 Strawson, G. 172 n24 Strawson, P. 156 Stroud, B. 39–40, 69, 161 n4, 173 n4, 173–4 n8, 178 n2 substance: and Butler on personal identity 36; and essence 102; God as 5; idea of 4, 14–15, 63, 160–1 n9, 162 n10, n11, 167 n28; and La Mettrie 104; scholastic notion of 17; and Spinoza 54–6, 171 n11 succession: and identity 29–30, 36–7, 69–70, 165 n12; and perceptions of the mind or self 38–9, 74–5, 95, 124–5, 134, 182 n11 sympathy 3, 47, 130, 185 n18; and agency 131–2; and other minds 142–3, 150–4, 156–7, 185 n22; and selfconcern 126, 129; as source of moral distinctions 114–15, 157; see also animal: sympathy testimony 22, 126–7 thought: causes of 55–6, 63–4, 171 n12; human 107; James on 75; and language 102–3; see also extension time: idea of 163 n23, n24; and identity

29; and the passions 129 Tranöy, K. E. 181 n24 Treatise of Human Nature, A xi, 11, 13, 75, 142, 160 n2, 161 n1, n2, 163 n18 truth: love of 88, 138; reason and 105 Turnbull, G. 8 understanding: of animals and humans 111, 115–16, 118, 180–1 n23; and character 176 n6; and imagination 146–7, 184 n5; and the passions 160 n2; and sympathy 158 uniformity: and causation 40, 58 union, principle of 20, 30–1, 37, 41 unity: of action 93–5; of mind or self 3, 17, 37, 68–71, 75–6, 173–4 n8; and number 28–9 Urmson, J. O. 63 values 85, 95, 99–100 virtue and vice 89, 109–10; artificial 100, 110; as involuntary 97, 112; natural 87, 110–12; and natural abilities 111–12, 175–6 n5, 180 n18; and the passions 88–9, 126, 176 n10; see also character vivacity: of impressions and ideas 13, 15, 146 volition 2, 23–5; as the immediate effect of pleasure and pain 107; and necessary connection 172 n17; physiological effects of 171 n13; and voluntary action 57–8, 60, 132–3, 182–3 n14, 183 n16 Ward, A. 164 n5 Watt, J. 7 Waxman, W. 163 n24, 173 n3, 174 n10 will 25, 57–8, 60; and active power 172 n17, 183 n14; and liberty 139; see also motives Winkler, K. 173 n4, 174–5 n16 wisdom: as a virtue 138, 175–6 n8 Wittgenstein, L. 133, 156–7, 185 n23 Wollheim, R. 94, 100 Wollaston, W, 181 n25 Yolton, J. 62, 168 n2, 168–9 n3, 171 n15, 178–9 n8

196