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[323]Gilbert Elliot of Minto, to Hume.
February, 1751.
Dear Sir,—I have read over your Dialogue, with all the application I am master of. Though I have never looked into any thing of your writing, which did not either entertain or instruct me; yet, I must freely own to you, that I have received from this last piece an additional satisfaction, and what indeed I have a thousand times wished for in some of your other performances. In the first part of this work, you have given full scope to the native bent of your genius. The ancients and moderns, how opposite soever in other respects, equally combine in favour of the most unbounded scepticism. Principles, customs, and manners, the most contradictory, all seemingly lead to the same end; and agreeably to your laudable practice, the poor reader is left in the most disconsolate state of doubt and uncertainty. When I had got thus far, what do you think were my sentiments? I will not be so candid as to tell you; but how agreeable was my surprise, when I found you had led me into this maze, with no other view, than to point out to me more clearly the direct road. Why can't you always write in this manner? Indulge yourself as much as you will in starting difficulties, and perplexing received opinions: but let us be convinced at length, that you have not less ability to establish true principles, than subtlety to detect false ones. This unphilosophical, or, if you will, this lazy disposition of mine, you are at liberty to treat as you think proper; yet am I no enemy to free inquiry, and I would gladly flatter myself, no slave to prejudice or authority. I admit also that there is no writing or talking of any subject that is of importance enough to become the object of reasoning, without having recourse to some degree of subtlety or refinement. The only question is, where to stop,—how far we can go, and why no farther. To this question I should be extremely happy to receive a satisfactory answer. I can't tell if I shall rightly express what I have just now in my mind: but I often imagine to myself, that I perceive within me a certain instinctive feeling, which shoves away at once all subtle refinements, and tells me with authority, that these air-built notions are inconsistent with life and experience, and, by consequence [324]cannot be true or solid. From this I am led to think, that the speculative principles of our nature ought to go hand in hand with the practical ones; and, for my own part, when the former are so far pushed, as to leave the latter quite out of sight, I am always apt to suspect that we have transgressed our limits. If it should be asked—how far will these practical principles go? I can only answer, that the former difficulty will recur, unless it be found that there is something in the intellectual part of our nature, resembling the moral sentiment in the moral part of our nature, which determines this, as it were, instinctively. Very possibly I have wrote nonsense. However, this notion first occurred to me at London, in conversation with a man of some depth of thinking; and talking of it since to your friend H. Home, he seems to entertain some notions nearly of the same kind, and to have pushed them much farther.
This is but an idle digression, so I return to the Dialogue.
With regard to the composition in general, I have nothing to observe, as it appears to me to be conducted with the greatest propriety, and the artifice in the beginning occasions, I think, a very agreeable surprise. I don't know, if, in the account of the modern manners, you [had] an eye to Bruyere's introduction to his translation of Theophrastes.[324:1] If you had not, as he has a thought handled pretty much in that manner, perhaps looking into it might furnish some farther hints to embellish that part of your work.[324:2]
Hume to Gilbert Elliot of Minto.
"Ninewells, 19th February, 1751.
"Dear Sir,—Your notion of correcting subtlety of sentiment, is certainly very just with regard to morals, which depend upon sentiment; and in politics and natural philosophy, whatever conclusion is contrary to certain matters of fact, must certainly be wrong, [325]and there must some error lie somewhere in the argument, whether we be able to show it or not. But in metaphysics or theology, I cannot see how either of these plain and obvious standards of truth can have place. Nothing there can correct bad reasoning but good reasoning, and sophistry must be opposed by syllogisms. About seventy or eighty years ago, I observe, a principle like that which you advance prevailed very much in France among some philosophers and beaux esprits. The occasion of it was this: The famous Mons. Nicole of the Port Royal, in his Perptuit de la Foi,[325:1] pushed the Protestants very hard upon the impossibility of the people's reaching a conviction of their religion by the way of private judgment; which required so many disquisitions, reasonings, researches, eruditions, impartiality, and penetration, as not one in a hundred even among men of education, is capable of. Mons. Claude and the Protestants answered him, not by solving his difficulties, (which seems impossible,) but by retorting them, (which is very easy.) They showed that to reach the way of authority which the Catholics insist on, as long a train of acute reasoning, and as great [326]erudition, was requisite, as would be sufficient for a Protestant. We must first prove all the truths of natural religion, the foundation of morals, the divine authority of the Scripture, the deference which it commands to the church, the tradition of the church, &c. The comparison of these controversial writings begot an idea in some, that it was neither by reasoning nor authority we learn our religion, but by sentiment: and certainly this were a very convenient way, and what a philosopher would be very well pleased to comply with, if he could distinguish sentiment from education. But to all appearance the sentiment of Stockholm, Geneva, Rome ancient and modern, Athens and Memphis, have the same characters; and no sensible man can implicitly assent to any of them, but from the general principle, that as the truth in these subjects is beyond human capacity, and that as for one's own ease he must adopt some tenets, there is most satisfaction and convenience in holding to the Catholicism we have been first taught. Now this I have nothing to say against. I have only to observe, that such a conduct is founded on the most universal and determined scepticism, joined to a little indolence; for more curiosity and research gives a direct opposite turn from the same principles.
"I have amused myself lately with an essay or dissertation on the populousness of antiquity, which led me into many disquisitions concerning both the public and domestic life of the ancients. Having read over almost all the classics both Greek and Latin, since I formed that plan, I have extracted what served most to my purpose. But I have not a Strabo, and know not where to get one in this neighbourhood. He is an author I never read. I know your library—I mean the Advocates'—is scrupulous of lending classics; but [327]perhaps that difficulty may be got over. I should be much obliged to you, if you could procure me the loan of a copy, either in the original language or even in a good translation.
"The Greeks had military dances, particularly the Pyrrhicha; but these were not practised in their festivals nor amidst their jollity. Their way of dancing was very good for an indolent fellow; for commonly they rose not from their seats, but moved their arms and head in cadence. 'Tis difficult to imagine there could be much grace in that kind of dancing.
"I send you enclosed a little endeavour at drollery, against some people who care not much to be joked upon.[327:1] I have frequently had it in my intentions to write a supplement to Gulliver, containing the ridicule of priests. 'Twas certainly a pity that Swift was a parson; had he been a lawyer or physician, we had nevertheless been entertained at the expense of these professions: but priests are so jealous, that they cannot bear to be touched on that head, and for a plain reason, because they are conscious they are really ridiculous. That part of the Doctor's subject is so fertile, that a much inferior genius I am confident might succeed in it.
"Tell Jack Stuart, as soon as you see him, that I have sent you the copy, if he can make any thing of it. I intended to have had it printed, but I know not how—I find it will not do. If you like the thing, I wish you would contrive together some way of getting over the difficulties that have arisen, the most strangely in the world. I am, &c."[327:2]
