HUME ’ S A N E N Q U I R Y C O N C E R N I N G TH E

PRINCIPLES OF MORALS

Hume considered his Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals to

be one of his best works. In it he offers his most elegant and
approachable account of the origins and scope of morality. With
the hope of reaching a broad audience, he argues that morality is
neither rigid nor austere, but is rather a product of sentiments that all
human beings share, and which they are naturally inclined to recog-
nize and act upon. In this Critical Guide, a team of distinguished
scholars discuss each section of the Enquiry, its place in Hume’s
philosophy as a whole, and its historical context; their topics include
the nature of morals, talents and moral virtues, benevolence, sym-
pathy, politics, and the sources of moral disagreement. The volume
will be valuable for scholars and advanced students working on
Hume.

esther engels kroeker is a research fellow in philosophy at the

University of Antwerp. She is coeditor of Love, Reason and Morality
(with Katrien Schaubroeck, 2017) and has published several articles
on the moral philosophy and philosophy of religion of David Hume
and Thomas Reid.
willem lemmens is Professor of Early Modern Philosophy and
Ethics at the University of Antwerp. He is coeditor of a translation
into Dutch of Hume’s Natural History of Religion (with Walter van
Herck, 1999/2011) and has written many articles on the moral phil-
osophy and philosophy of religion of David Hume.
 cambridge critical guides
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Continued after the Index

 HUME’S AN ENQUIRY
CONCERNING THE
PRINCIPLES OF MORALS
A Critical Guide

edited by
ESTHER ENGELS KROEKER
University of Antwerp

WILLEM LEMMENS
University of Antwerp
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 Contents

Contributors page vii

Acknowledgments ix
List of Abbreviations x

Introduction 1
Esther Engels Kroeker and Willem Lemmens
1 The Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 13
Elizabeth S. Radcliffe
2 The Pride of Pericles: Hume on Self-Love, Benevolence,
and the Enjoyment of Our Humanity 33
Willem Lemmens
3 Justice and Politics in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles
of Morals 53
Ryan Patrick Hanley
4 History, Context, and the Conventions of Political Society 72
Marc Hanvelt
5 “Why Utility Pleases”: A Surprising Source of Discord 93
Emily Kelahan
6 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 113
James Fieser
7 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 134
Margaret Watkins
8 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 154
Jacqueline Taylor

v
vi Contents
9 Virtue and Moral Psychology in the Enquiry Concerning
the Principles of Morals 172
Lorraine L. Besser
10 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 192
Aaron Garrett
11 Hume on Religion in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles
of Morals 219
Esther Engels Kroeker
12 Moral Disagreement 238
Lorne Falkenstein

Bibliography 257
Index 269
 Contributors

lorraine l. besser is Professor of Philosophy at Middlebury College,

Vermont. She has written extensively on moral psychology considered
from both contemporary and historical vantage points.
lorne falkenstein is Emeritus Professor of Philosophy at Western
University, Ontario. He has published numerous pieces on topics and
figures in early modern philosophy with a focus on Hume and Humean
themes.
james fieser is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Tennessee at
Martin. He is the founder and general editor of the Internet Encyclopedia
of Philosophy, and editor of the ten-volume Early Responses to Hume
(2004).
aaron garrett is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Boston
University. He is the editor of the Routledge Companion to Eighteenth
Century Philosophy (2014), and coeditor with James Harris of Scottish
Philosophy in the Eighteenth Century (2015).
ryan patrick hanley is Professor of Political Science at Boston
College. He is the author, most recently, of Our Great Purpose: Adam
Smith on Living a Better Life (2019) and The Political Philosophy of
Fénelon (2020).
marc hanvelt is Associate Professor of Political Science at Carleton
University, Ottawa. He is the author of The Politics of Eloquence: David
Hume’s Polite Rhetoric (2012), as well as essays and book chapters on
different aspects of Hume’s historical and political thought.
emily kelahan is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Illinois Wesleyan
University. Her recent publications include a number of journal articles
on Hume.

vii
viii Contributors
esther engels kroeker is a postdoctoral research fellow at the
University of Antwerp. She is the author of articles on Reid and
Hume in journals including the Pacific Philosophical Quarterly, the
Canadian Journal of Philosophy, and the Journal of Scottish Philosophy.
willem lemmens is Professor of Early Modern Philosophy and Ethics at
the University of Antwerp (Belgium). He has published several articles
and book chapters on Hume’s moral philosophy and his philosophy of
religion, and is coeditor of the translation into Dutch of Hume’s
Natural History of Religion (2011).
elizabeth s. radcliffe is Professor of Philosophy at William & Mary
in Williamsburg, Virginia. She is the author of Hume, Passion, and
Action (2018), editor of A Companion to Hume (2008), and author of
many articles and chapters on Hume’s moral psychology.
jacqueline taylor is Professor of Philosophy at the University of San
Francisco. She is the author of Reflecting Subjects: Passion, Sympathy, and
Society in Hume’s Philosophy (2015), coeditor, with David Fate Norton,
of The Cambridge Companion to Hume (2009), and editor of Reading
Hume on the Principles of Morals (2020).
margaret watkins is Dean of the School of Arts, Humanities, and
Social Sciences and Professor of Philosophy at Saint Vincent College in
Latrobe, Pennsylvania. She is the author of The Philosophical Progress of
Hume’s Essays (2019) and articles on Hume’s ethics and aesthetics in
journals including Hume Studies, Inquiry, and History of Philosophy
Quarterly.
 Acknowledgments

It has been a delight to bring together the group of scholars who have
contributed to this volume. Our first expression of gratitude is for the
colleagues who each wrote an excellent chapter for this Critical Guide and
gave us the opportunity to learn about and dive deeper into Hume’s
thoughts as expressed in An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals
(EPM). We are also deeply grateful to the Fund for Scientific Research of
Flanders (FWO-Vlaanderen) for funding the project (G040818 N) that
made work on this book possible, and to the University of Antwerp, which
offered a splendid research environment. Our thanks extend further to
Hannah Lingier, and to our many students whose questions and com-
ments have motivated us to pursue work on this book. We are also grateful
to Rachel Cohon, for her helpful comments and suggestions, as well as to
William & Mary in Virginia and Elizabeth Radcliffe for hosting a work-
shop that brought together several contributors of this volume. We thank
each participant, including Richard McCarty, for the valuable and enjoy-
able discussions and exchange of ideas. We also thank Hal Churchman and
Hilary Gaskin for editorial assistance with this volume. And finally, we
thank our respective families, who are a blessing to each of us, and whose
love and support are invaluable.

ix
 Abbreviations

D “A Dialogue” in An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals

DNR Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion
DP A Dissertation on the Passions
DT “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion”
E Essays, Moral, Political and Literary
EHU An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
EPM An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals
H History of England
L Letters of David Hume
MOL My Own Life
NHR Natural History of Religion
ST “Of the Standard of Taste”
T A Treatise of Human Nature

x
 Introduction
Esther Engels Kroeker and Willem Lemmens

In 1751 David Hume published An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of

Morals (EPM), in his own words “of all my writings, historical, philosoph-
ical or literary, incomparably the best” (E, xxxvi). With this favorite of his
philosophical performances Hume “casted anew” the main ideas of Book 3
of his Treatise of Human Nature, “Of Morals,” which a decade earlier did
not receive the reception he had hoped for.1 In an attempt to reach the
intellectual and cultural elite of his days, in EPM Hume polished his
philosophical style and assimilated his method of investigation, while
remaining faithful to the core ideas of the Treatise.
Hume’s EPM is a pivotal contribution to eighteenth-century British
moral philosophy and one of the hallmarks of the Scottish Enlightenment
overall. And yet, despite the flourishing of Hume scholarship in the
twentieth century, for a long time readers were drawn predominantly
toward Book 3 of the Treatise when trying to reconstruct and understand
the gist of Hume’s moral philosophy. It is only in recent years that
the second Enquiry, as EPM is usually called, has started to receive
among philosophers and historians of ideas the attention it deserves.
This Critical Guide joins this evolution. It offers a series of in-depth
reflections on the several parts of the book, in an attempt to better
understand its guiding ideas and assess its lasting intellectual heritage.
There are three reasons for which Hume was right, we think, to be
proud of his performance which deserves, consequently, the attention of
this Critical Guide.
First of all, EPM is exemplary of Hume’s attempt to develop an open
and eloquent style of philosophical reflection that meets a certain change
in view on the best way of doing moral philosophy. As James Harris

1
In a letter of November 1755 to Abbé Le Blanc, Hume calls his Enquiry Concerning the Principles of
Morals “my favorite Performance” (L I, 227). In “My Own Life,” he remarks, referring to the Treatise,
EPM is “another part of my treatise that I cast anew” (E, xxxvi).

1
2 esther engels kroeker and willem lemmens
recently argued, with the abandonment of the project of the Treatise,
Hume did not give up his ambition as a philosopher but rather became
skeptical about the attempt to construct a grand philosophical system or
a foundational new “science of human nature” (2015, p. 13). Philosophical
analysis, so Hume realized after the rather modest reception of his
Treatise, should be adapted to the subject treated: topical reflections on
politics or economics do not ask for the same approach as anthropologic-
ally minded analyses of aesthetic taste, the passions, morality, or religion
(to name but a few of the philosophical topics of interest to the more
mature Hume). EPM, written in a period of great inspiration and energy,
exemplifies exactly the sort of approach that fitted best, in Hume’s eyes,
a search for the “origins” of human morality.2 While distancing himself
from the psychologizing anatomy of morals in the Treatise, with EPM
Hume offers both a descriptive and explanatory analysis of human
morality as a social reality, embedded in practices, language use, history,
and common experience.
In this spirit, the book addresses the refined reader and intellectual of
eighteenth-century Scotland and Europe, steering a sort of middle course
between philosophical explanation and literary evocation. Here then is
Hume’s answer to Francis Hutcheson, who had criticized his Book 3 of the
Treatise for its lack of “warmth in the cause of virtue” (L I, 32). While
Hume first thought that the philosophical “anatomist” could not easily be
reconciled with the “painter” of morality, his EPM definitely exemplifies
exactly an attempt at this reconciliation. In a sense, Hume tries to remain
faithful to the core ideas and underlying principles of his naturalist phil-
osophy developed in the Treatise. However, as several of the contributions
in this Critical Guide explain, EPM also contains some remarkable and
significant changes in comparison to Book 3 of the Treatise. There is, first
of all, the famous substitution of the principle of sympathy by that of
humanity, but also Hume’s more nuanced account of the respective roles
of sentiment and reason in moral evaluation, next to his somewhat differ-
ent approach to the role of convention in the establishment of justice and
political society. The distinction between artificial and natural virtues,
central in the Treatise, remains absent in EPM. And, last but not least,
EPM also offers, through the well-known denigration of the “monkish
virtues,” a straightforward and head-on attack on a religiously inspired
account of human morality which in the Treatise is to be found only
implicitly.

2
For a recent account of the biographical context of EPM: Harris (2015), pp. 250–65.
 Introduction 3
Here lies a second reason for which EPM deserves special attention and
further study in this twenty-first century. Hume’s moral tract is definitely
an Enlightenment product, with a provocative and unorthodox agenda
that was not misunderstood by his contemporaries. Critical voices like
James Balfour, James Beattie, Alexander Gerard, and Bishop Robert
Clayton were worried about its alleged relativism and hedonism, its disen-
tanglement of religion and morality, its wide conception of the virtues, and
its conventionalist theory of justice and political allegiance. Hume clearly
wanted his EPM to be seen as radically innovative and challenging on all
these points, as several contributions in this Guide highlight: the work
marks a break with an austere ethics of self-denial and religious devotion or
submission and offers a broadly humanistic, secularizing view on human
morality. Without developing a truly normative ethics as such, with EPM
Hume clearly propagates a view on human nature and sociability which
exemplifies a typical Enlightenment confidence in the progress of society
and a largely optimistic view of the moral capacities of human nature. In
this perspective, Hume forms an unorthodox voice within the Scottish
Enlightenment, where figures like Francis Hutcheson, Joseph Butler,
Thomas Reid, and even Adam Smith remained closer to a religiously
inspired account of morality, while nonetheless defending a progressist
and moderately optimistic view on human nature and sociability.3
This brings us to a third motive underlying this Critical Guide. In
contemporary moral philosophy, Hume is without doubt a master voice,
recognized as the most important eighteenth-century philosopher writing
in English. This influence stems, obviously, from his broadly naturalistic
approach to human nature and at the same time from his secularizing and
humanistic views on morals, politics, and the history of humankind. EPM
mirrors this approach and thus reminds contemporary moral philosophy of
its own philosophical and historical roots: the book offers a rich tableau of
topics and philosophical puzzles that nowadays still dominate different
debates in various branches of ethics. However, given its subtle and
nuanced dialogue with the moral discourse of ancients like Cicero,
Tacitus, and Plutarch, and his digressions on Hobbes and contemporaries
like Montesquieu, in EPM Hume clearly develops a discourse that belongs
to a divergent cultural context from the one we are living and thinking in.
In this sense, a careful and critical reading of EPM might help us to
appreciate why Hume, while being in a certain sense “one of us,” is also

3
For a synopsis of the most important first reactions, see the introduction to the Clarendon edition of
EPM by Tom L. Beauchamp (1998), pp. lxiv–lxxx.
4 esther engels kroeker and willem lemmens
a thinker of another era. As this Critical Guide hopes to show, we might
still learn from this unique moral philosophical discourse and perhaps find
inspiration in it to see some unexplored perspectives from which contem-
porary debates in different branches of ethics may profit.
This Critical Guide is composed along the broad argumentative lines
and structure given by Hume to his second Enquiry. Several chapters of this
volume consist of straightforward discussions of one or two sections of the
book, while others cover more general topics discussed in several sections.
Overall, the general topics and specific focus of each chapter reflect Hume’s
own sequence of topics.
In Chapter 1 Elizabeth S. Radcliffe examines how Hume manages, in
Section 1 and Appendix 1 of EPM, to argue that the origin of morality is
found in sentiment and at the same time that moral principles are universal
and objective. She also wonders how Hume can reconcile his view that
moral deliverances are truth-evaluable with his claim that morality is
motivating. According to Radcliffe, universality is found in the source of
moral distinctions, humanity, which yields consistent approvals and dis-
approvals, and not in self-interest. She also appeals to Hume’s discussion of
aesthetic evaluations in his two essays on taste to explain how he upholds
his sentimentalism. She concludes that for Hume there are general prin-
ciples of approbation and blame which are universal and objective in the
sense that humans not perverted by extreme situations all approve of
mental qualities that are useful or agreeable to themselves or to others.
Radcliffe then turns to an examination of how Hume’s theory of
motivation is compatible with his internalism, sentimentalism, and cogni-
tivism. According to Hume, she argues, we form ideas of good, wrongness,
etc., and since ideas are representations or cognitions, Hume’s view is
cognitivist. The source of motivation, Radcliffe writes, is not the represen-
tation, but the sentiment by which we form the representation. She ends by
defending the claim that the sentiment of humanity is a nonmoral motive.
She argues that despite what Hume explicitly writes, it should not be
regarded as a virtue, but rather as a nonmoral good; a general instinct for
human welfare, which motivates us to be sensitive to the interests of others,
and which is the source of normative distinctions.
In Chapter 2, Willem Lemmens examines Hume’s account of the
relation between self-love and benevolence in Section 2 and Appendix 2
of EPM. In these sections Hume delivers an ingenious critique of the so-
called selfish theories, exemplified by authors like Hobbes and Mandeville,
and argues against these that the origin of morals derives from benevolence
or an unselfish concern for others. Hume thus agrees with predecessors like
 Introduction 5
Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and Butler that people’s spontaneous sociability
forms the origin of morals. However, Lemmens shows that Hume also
distances himself from these predecessors, whose views on human nature
and morality, in sharp contrast with Hume’s naturalism, still relied on
a religiously inspired metaphysics. In so doing, Hume develops his own
account of the role of self-love and benevolence in moral life, which brings
him closer to the selfish theories than is sometimes recognized.
In the first part of the chapter, Lemmens elucidates Hume’s definition of
the concepts of benevolence and self-love and explains the difference
between the sentiments of benevolence and humanity. He highlights
how, in Hume’s view, the virtue of benevolence belongs to a class of social
virtues distinct from justice. In the second part, focusing on the example of
Pericles on his deathbed, Lemmens shows how this case is illustrative of
Hume’s positive account of benevolence, but could also be interpreted as
an instance of a reductionist suspicion concerning benevolence and the
social virtues, in line with the selfish theories. In the third part, Lemmens
reconstructs how Hume, by debunking the selfish theories, gives further
evidence that benevolence forms an irreducible feature of human nature.
The chapter concludes with some reflections on the unorthodox character
of Hume’s moral theory and his appraisal of a modified self-love as
constitutive of the flourishing of the sense of humanity.
In Chapter 3 Ryan Patrick Hanley turns to the theory of justice Hume
presents in Section 3 and Appendix 3 of EPM to explain how Hume shifts
away from his earlier characterization of justice as an artificial virtue. His
more mature account is still premised on the idea that human nature lacks
an original motive to justice, but he now moves the focus to the issue of
how justice may be most effectively realized in actual political conditions.
Hanley first examines Hume’s foundational account of the origins of
justice based on public utility. Hume frames his argument in terms of
counterfactual situations in which justice is useless, and Hanley points out
that although this approach entails important challenges, it allows Hume
to present a positive account of the place of justice in actual society and
political life. The approach to justice in EPM is thus much more context-
ual than in the Treatise. Hanley shows in the following sections that this
allows Hume to remind his readers of the role of wise legislators and
positive law in the establishment of a well-ordered political society and
equally to demonstrate the shortcoming of political idealism or fanaticism.
In the last part of his chapter Hanley highlights how the EPM account of
justice reflects, next to a Treatise-inspired account of convention, an
interesting reference to the influence of education and acquired habits in
6 esther engels kroeker and willem lemmens
the establishment of justice as a social virtue. As Hanley argues, with this
reference to the role of education Hume clearly abandons a noncognitive
understanding of justice: a reason-based sense of duty is developed through
education, which even reflects, Hanley contends, a recognition of the need
for an impartial concern for humanity in the establishment of justice.
In Chapter 4 Marc Hanvelt also argues that Hume’s discussion of
political society in Section 4 of EPM changes in important ways from
the Treatise account. The arguments for the foundation of the duty of
allegiance change little from the Treatise to EPM, yet, Hanvelt argues,
Hume’s change in style offers important developments. Drawing on
Hume’s political and historical writings, Hanvelt argues that Hume not-
ably drops the conjectural history employed in the Treatise in order to
bring to light the fact that English political history is shaped by accidents of
history and unintended consequences.
By appealing to context and history, Hanvelt writes, Hume poses
challenges for both social contract theory and republican political thought.
Hanvelt argues that a survey of different forms of rule reveals that political
authority is founded on public opinion concerning interest and rights, on
the prevalent practice of the age, and on wherever people look for authori-
tative decision-making. Political contexts may change significantly in short
periods of time, and according to Hanvelt Hume thinks that different
contexts required different kinds of politics and methods of rule, and hence
that the study of politics required a careful study of history. In the final
sections of his chapter Hanvelt shows how changes in political contexts
give rise to new rules that are useful in their own specific settings, and hence
how the perception of the utility of virtues necessary for life in society is
shaped by context. Hanvelt concludes by arguing that Hume also advo-
cates virtues such as moderation and politeness because he thinks reason-
able people may disagree without being unreasonable.
In Chapter 5, Emily Kelahan examines how Hume, in EPM 5, presents
utility as the pivotal principle underlying moral evaluation. In Part I of this
section, Kelahan points out that Hume skillfully applies his experimental
method to illustrate how a sense of public utility, and not self-interest,
explains why humans approve of the social virtues. Hume stresses the
irreducible role of positive fellow-feelings, even toward strangers, and the
negative feelings of disinterested resentment of the plight of others, and
then further explains how we come to have other-regarding moral senti-
ments. In contrast with the Treatise, where Hume argues that moral
sentiments arise through the sympathy of the moral evaluator within the
agent’s narrow circle, EPM introduces a more general benevolence and
 Introduction 7
humanity to account for the impartial view from which moral sentiments
emerge. Kelahan argues that the EPM account of moral evaluation is an
improvement on Hume’s earlier one, and that it is better understood as
a descriptive rather than normative moral theory.
Kelahan continues by showing that to think of Hume as a utilitarian or
the parent of utilitarianism is a distorting lens for Hume understanding.
Contrary to utilitarian views, Hume does not think we have an obligation
to consider everyone’s interests and he does not hold that anyone is
required to be included in the social sphere. Moreover, Kelahan points
out that for Hume utility is not the single criterion of morality, as
utilitarianism requires. Kelahan ends her chapter by defending Hume
against Adam’s Smith’s criticism of “Why Utility Pleases” – the focus of
his Theory of Moral Sentiments.
James Fieser, in Chapter 6, adopts a more critical stance toward Hume’s
account of natural talents and moral virtues, as he examines Sections 6, 7,
and 8 and Appendix 1 of EPM, arguing that Hume does not make
a convincing case for the conclusion that natural talents are genuine
virtues. After showing how Hume draws from Cicero’s classification of
virtues, Fieser discusses Hume’s method of first observing what we call
“virtues” before identifying the features these qualities have in common.
Hume, Fieser subsequently explains, argues that there is no clear separation
between virtues and talents in modern languages, and that the possible
criteria for distinguishing them are defective.
After presenting what he calls “Hume’s four-pronged test for virtue”
(mental qualities are virtues if they are either useful or agreeable to the
possessor of the qualities or to others), Fieser examines the moral psych-
ology behind Hume’s principle, and shows how each motivated action that
is agreeable or useful involves an actor, a receiver of the actor’s action, and
a spectator that sympathetically experiences the pleasure of the actor or the
receiver. Fieser then considers the views of some of Hume’s earlier critics,
siding with those who held that Hume failed to adequately separate
assessments that are relevant to morality from those that are not. He
ends by showing how the virtues that are immediately agreeable to the
actor or to others could be grouped among those that are useful, and he
suggests that Hume, with little alteration to EPM, could dispense with
immediate agreeableness as a criterion of moral assessment.
In Chapter 7 Margaret Watkins sheds light on the many puzzles found
in EPM 7’s list of virtues immediately agreeable to self. She points out that
Hume’s treatment of some of these virtues, such as poetic talent, does not
clearly explain why they are immediately agreeable to self. Moreover,
8 esther engels kroeker and willem lemmens
Watkins notices that Hume spends less time discussing qualities for which
he expresses unbounded admiration, such as delicacy of taste, philosoph-
ical tranquility, benevolence, poetic genius, and cheerfulness, than for
those she calls “suspect virtues” such as greatness of mind and courage.
According to Watkins, Hume, in discussing these last virtues, takes the
stance of a journalistic photographer who seeks to reveal the often-
concealed side of these qualities, and how they might give rise to both
admiration and disapproval.
Watkins continues by explaining that Hume categorizes courage as
immediately agreeable to self, despite its notable utility, because utility,
for Hume, is not the primary reason that we approve of courage. Rather, it
is a virtue that generates the particular kind of pleasure he characterizes as
“sublime.” These virtues tend to be blinding and include less reasoning
than is involved in considerations of utility. Watkins then explains how
these virtues involve an elevation of sentiment that expands the spirit of
their possessors and produces awe in the observer. Watkins ends her
chapter by showing that although we might correct suspect virtues by the
social virtues, Hume also holds that their correction comes from careful
attention to the cultivation of delicacy of taste – a virtue also agreeable to
self that is important for all moral judgments.
Offering a careful overview of EPM 2, 3, 5, 7, and 9, Jacqueline Taylor,
in Chapter 8, reconstructs Hume’s arguments that seek to establish, she
argues, that humanity has the force and authority to provide the founda-
tion of morals and to counter self-love. She argues that utility and human-
ity as the source of praise of utility is for Hume the most important part of
morality.
Taylor begins by showing that utility is part of the merit of the social
virtues of benevolence, for Hume, because the benevolent person tends to
promote the interests of others. Moreover, she presents the set of circum-
stances about human nature that show that utility is the sole foundation of
justice and that justice is necessary for the support of society. But why does
utility have a great command over our esteem, Taylor then wonders? The
answer, she argues, is found in the force of humanity. Humanity is the
more reflective form of social sympathy – the type of sympathy that is
a general or broad capacity for communicating passions and for concern for
the happiness and misery of others. Taylor brings to light various passages
from EPM that show that, for Hume, this humanity as a reason-informed
source of our praise of utility is in fact the chief part of morals. That the
sentiments of humanity are the moral sentiments, Taylor argues, estab-
lishes that for Hume humanity rather than self-love is the foundation of
 Introduction 9
morality. She continues by showing how the sentiments deriving from
utility and humanity require the use of reason, and hence differ from the
unreflective sentiments that arise in response to immediately agreeable
qualities.
Lorraine L. Besser, in Chapter 9, closely examines Hume’s account of
sympathy in EPM and shows how it diverges from the Treatise account.
She argues that Hume’s analysis of virtue in EPM depends upon features of
his moral psychology, and in particular on the Treatise view of sympathy.
Besser draws on many passages from EPM, but predominantly from EPM
5–9 and Appendixes 1 and 2. In the Treatise, Besser argues, Hume’s view is
that the motivational state of the virtuous person is best understood as
a form of self-love or pride in one’s character. Sympathy, she writes, shapes
our passions and, according to the Treatise account, explains why we
approve of traits that are useful and agreeable to ourselves and others,
and how we develop pride in virtue without appealing to benevolence or
humanity.
Such a robust principle of sympathy, as what connects people and shapes
agency, and communicates feelings of pleasure but also of pain, seems to be
mostly absent from EPM, Besser writes. Rather, the attention is now on
benevolence and humanity, which, together with all social virtues, proceed
from tender sympathy with others. Sympathy now essentially responds to
the happiness of others. She argues that the EPM view of sympathy lacks
the regulating normative effect described in the Treatise. In EPM sympathy
stimulates other-regarding concern for the happiness of others, revealing
Hume’s effort to distance himself from the selfish schools. Nevertheless,
Besser argues that Hume needs the more robust account of the Treatise to
explain our approval of immediately agreeable qualities and how virtuous
persons keep alive sentiments of right and wrong.
In EPM, Hume appeals to Cicero, Aaron Garrett argues in Chapter 10,
to get his contemporaries to reconsider the breadth of what count as
virtues. Garrett examines Appendix 4, and he argues that Hume, in line
with Cicero, wishes greater tolerance from his audience of challenging
philosophical positions. Garrett writes that this open-minded attitude was
threatened by strong religious positions. Contrary to such positions, Hume
embraces moral diversity in EPM while showing that the system of utility
and agreeableness unites diverse moral practices.
According to Garrett, the goal to undermine the distinction between
natural endowments and moral virtues persists from the Treatise, but in
EPM Hume appeals to the ancients to back up his claim. Garrett seeks to
understand this shift, and he argues that Hume appeals to Cicero and the
10 esther engels kroeker and willem lemmens
ancients to draw his readers to his own position while trying to move them
away from religiously informed dogmatic morality, which supports what
Hume considers to be the blameworthy qualities of humility and
abasement.
In the last part of his chapter, Garrett shows how Hume utilizes Cicero’s
open-minded attitude with regards to morality as part of his theory of
rights. Garrett points out that rights, for Hume, are social conventions that
exist to serve stability and utility. A remarkable addition to Hume’s theory
of rights in EPM, Garrett points out, is that Hume now suggests that
regard to justice enlarges when those who see themselves as subject to
justice consider it useful to include others whom they had not previously
included. For Hume, Garrett points out, confederacy with all human
beings is useful. And as European men put aside prejudices concerning
who should be included, reflecting a Ciceronian attitude, they thereby
enlarge their regard to justice.
Hume’s rejection of religiously informed morality is also a theme
Esther Engels Kroeker discusses in Chapter 11. In Section 9 of EPM,
Kroeker points out, Hume argues that false religious systems have
perverted the understanding and have kept his own system from being
recognized. She argues that Hume explicitly mentions superstition and
enthusiasm as those corrupt systems, but his main target is nonetheless
the religious philosophers and Protestants who would reject both super-
stition and enthusiasm. Hume’s criticism of modern philosophers and
men of letters who have mixed philosophy with theology is made
evident in Appendix 4. She argues that this aim is also revealed when
we examine some of the central claims of two dominant Protestant texts
of Hume’s time – The Whole Duty of Man and the Westminster
Confession of Faith.
Kroeker shows that Hume rejects The Whole Duty of Man’s narrow list
of virtues, which restricts them to the voluntary ones and fails to include
natural tempers. And, in response to the Westminster Confession of Faith,
Kroeker observes, Hume replaces thoughts about the whole purpose of
man with reflections about the sole purpose of virtue, which is man’s
cheerfulness and happiness in this life, and he also rejects its depiction of
man as totally depraved. Most importantly, however, Kroeker shows how
Hume mimics the literary style of these religious texts, and even adopts
some of their language and ideas. Hume’s religiously styled EPM, accord-
ing to Kroeker, is evidence of his target, but also of his aim to reach a larger
audience and to replace the Protestant texts and their influence in public
life with his own moral philosophy.
 Introduction 11
In the last chapter of this volume, Chapter 12, Lorne Falkenstein shows
how Hume situates his account between two extremes: moral absolutism
and moral skepticism. The project of EPM, according to Falkenstein, is to
determine why we make the moral judgments we do, not to determine
what those judgments should be. In the first part of his chapter Falkenstein
reviews the results of Hume’s empirical investigation of human moral
attitudes. Hume concludes that humans possess an instinctive concern
for the well-being of other human beings. This concern depends on
sentiments that could have been otherwise and that have no absolute
foundation. Nevertheless, evidence shows we are all similarly disposed.
To this extent, we all agree on moral judgments.
In the next sections of his chapter, Falkenstein turns to “A Dialogue,”
an essay Hume published as an addendum to EPM. In “A Dialogue”
Hume explores how far a commitment to universal human moral senti-
ments can be reconciled with the evidence of disagreement in moral
judgments. Hume attempts to argue that the fundamental principles of
moral judgment are always the same. Variations only arise because
different circumstances call for different measures to be employed to
achieve the same laudable ends. But the details of his investigation forces
Hume to recognize variations in ends that are set by taste, tradition, and
culture rather than by commonly shared sentiments. Falkenstein argues
that the latter cases are not confined to more trivial cases, where parties
to a dispute can agree to tolerate one another’s differing moral convic-
tions. Instead, Hume’s moral psychology entails that we will be incap-
able of tolerating the judgments of others, not because there is some
external standard of right and wrong, but because we cannot escape our
own standpoints. Falkenstein therefore concludes that even given our
shared human nature, irreconcilable moral disagreement is still possible
for Hume.
Each chapter, therefore, brings to light specific aspects of a work that
Hume wished to be concise, nuanced, and elegant. Hume hoped his
conclusions would be based on what he considered to be the most accurate
method of observation and experiment, while at the same time presenting
virtue in all its warmth and charm, and in a manner that would be pleasing
to a wide audience. Hume was highly satisfied with this work, writing in
a letter to Sir David Dalrymple: “I am extremely anxious to obtain some
degree of correctness in all my attempts; I must confess, that I have
a partiality for that work, & esteem it the most tolerable of anything
I have composed” (L I, 174–75). And to Abbé Le Blanc Hume explains
that in comparison with his philosophical essays, “My Enquiry concerning
12 esther engels kroeker and willem lemmens
the Principles of Morals would probably be more popular; and indeed, it is
my favorite performance, tho’ the other has made more noise” (L I, 227).
Hume’s brief biography of his own life, completed a few months before
his death in 1776, reveals what he considered to be his ruling passion: his
“love of literary fame” (MOL, xxxiii). To see his literary reputation
breaking out with luster was one of Hume’s long-lasting aspirations. He
felt that this aspiration was often frustrated during his life, but after the
reception of EPM he was finally ready to write that the rigors and difficul-
ties had been worth the effort. These difficulties, Hume wrote, “we must
bear with patience. The public is the most capricious mistress we can court;
and we authors, who write for fame, must not be repulsed by some rigors,
which are always temporary, when they are unjust” (L I, 222). As editors, it
is our hope that this volume will contribute to Hume’s ambition to see
EPM receive the attention and study he thought it deserved.
 chapter 1

The Nature of Morals Founded

on the Human Fabric
Elizabeth S. Radcliffe

In Section 1 of An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (EPM),

Hume claims that those who deny the reality of morals are disingenuous.
He also notes that philosophy has had a history of disagreements about
whether morals originate in reason or in sentiment. So, Hume describes
a method whereby he intends “to reach the foundation of ethics, and find
those universal principles, from which all censure or approbation is ultim-
ately derived” (EPM 1.10). This method, Hume says, is an experimental
one, starting from instances, rather than reasoning from a generally estab-
lished abstract principle. The former better suits the “imperfection of
human nature.” He applies this method throughout the Enquiry.
Then, in Appendix 1, Hume attempts to answer the original question
concerning moral foundations, arguing for the origin of morality in senti-
ment, a product of the human fabric. He writes:
Thus the distinct boundaries and offices of reason and of taste are easily
ascertained. The former conveys the knowledge of truth and falsehood: The
latter gives the sentiment of beauty and deformity, vice and virtue. The one
discovers objects, as they really stand in nature, without addition or dimin-
ution: The other has a productive faculty, and gilding or staining all natural
objects with the colours, borrowed from internal sentiment, raises, in
a manner, a new creation. (EPM App. 1.21)
How can the quest for universal principles find a satisfactory answer in
taste, a “productive” faculty? How is the notion that morality is a “new
creation” consistent with an insistence on the reality of moral distinctions?
Are the deliverances of taste also judgments that can be evaluated as true or
false? If they are truth-evaluable, then can they serve as conations, motives
to action? This essay presents an interpretation of Hume’s moral epistem-
ology and metaethics in the second Enquiry, addressing these questions.
My discussion here focuses on the first section and the first Appendix
of EPM, where Hume asks about and answers queries regarding the role

13
14 elizabeth s. radcliffe
of sentiment and reason in formulating our distinctions between virtue
and vice. Obviously, it also draws on other texts. This essay has four
sections. In Section 1.1, I investigate the details of Hume’s argument in
Appendix 1 for the existence of a passion that is the source of our moral
determinations, the sentiment of humanity. There I invoke theses found
in earlier sections of EPM to analyze his argument. In Section 1.2,
I address questions about the objectivity and reality of our moral distinc-
tions, given their origin in sentiment. I appeal to Hume’s two essays on
taste to explain how our moral distinctions are created from the human
fabric, not representative of properties in the world, but are nonetheless
real. Section 1.3 turns to concerns related to the intrinsically motivating
effect of morality, given Hume’s other metaethical commitments in
EPM. There I employ some of the contemporary categories philosophers
use in discussions of moral motivation to shed light on Hume’s views,
asking whether his EPM characterization allows that morality is both
“cognitivist” and motivationally “internalist.” I also offer an unconven-
tional suggestion concerning the status of humanity in Hume’s theory.
Section 1.4 concludes.

1.1 The Requirements of Morality and the Sentiment of Humanity

In the opening section of EPM, called “Of the General Principles of
Morals,” Hume is irked by those who deny the reality of moral distinc-
tions; he finds them the most insincere of those who engage in disputes in
moral philosophy. “Let a man’s insensibility be ever so great, he must often
be touched with the images of RIGHT and WRONG” (EPM 1.2). He
recounts the debate between rationalists and empiricists on the source of
morality and concludes that, while both reason and sentiment contribute
to our knowledge of morality, it is probable that sentiment makes the final
determination. His discussion affirms that our feelings are partly constitu-
tive of morality; they also impact our motivation and make virtue crucial to
our happiness and vice to our misery (EPM 1.9).1
Hume’s project in EPM is to discover the foundation of ethics. To
accomplish this goal, he puts forth an experimental method: we are to
examine the mental qualities persons can possess and look within ourselves

1
“The final sentence, it is probable, which pronounces characters and actions amiable or odious,
praise-worthy or blameable; that which stamps on them the mark of honour or infamy, approbation
or censure; that which renders morality an active principle, and constitutes virtue our happiness, and
vice our misery: It is probable, I say, that this final sentence depends on some internal sense or feeling,
which nature has made universal in the whole species.”
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 15
to ask whether or not we desire to have a particular quality ascribed to us,
“and whether such or such an imputation would proceed from a friend or
an enemy” (EPM 1.10). He then continues, “The very nature of language
guides us almost infallibly in forming a judgment of this nature.” After we
have classified such traits, we are then to ask what the qualities in each
group have in common in order to “find those universal principles, from
which all censure or approbation is ultimately derived” (1.10). Any attempt
to discover ethics by inference from abstract principles is wrongheaded. So,
in the main text of EPM, Hume implements this method, examining the
qualities we consider virtues.
Then, in Appendix 1, he returns to his question about the foundations of
morality and the extent to which reason and sentiment participate in its
determination. His investigations have yielded the conclusion that useful-
ness or utility is a feature common to those traits we esteem. This holds for
both benevolence and justice, even though, in the latter case, not every act
of justice appears immediately advantageous, and various interests are at
stake and require negotiation. So, reason is necessary to ascertain the utility
of a quality, which is an especially delicate matter in the case of justice
(EPM App. 1.2).2 Then, the argument for the existence of a distinct moral
sentiment, the sentiment of humanity, goes this way:
Utility is only a tendency to a certain end; and were the end totally
indifferent to us, we should feel the same indifference towards the means.
It is requisite a sentiment should here display itself, in order to give
a preference to the useful above the pernicious tendencies. This sentiment
can be no other than a feeling for the happiness of mankind, and
a resentment of their misery; since these are the different ends which virtue
and vice have a tendency to promote. Here, therefore, reason instructs us in
the several tendencies of actions, and humanity makes a distinction in favour
of those which are useful and beneficial. (EPM App. 1.3)
Hume’s argument, in outline, is:
(1) A tendency to an end is utility relative to that end.
(2) If an end is indifferent to us, then so is the means.
(3) Thus, in order to prefer or approve of utility, the tendency to an end,
one must prefer that end.
(4) To prefer or approve requires a sentiment.
(5) We approve of the qualities we identify as virtues and disapprove of
those we identify as vices.

2
On justice in the second Enquiry, see Taylor (2015a).
16 elizabeth s. radcliffe
(6) The qualities we identify as virtues have a tendency, a utility, to the
happiness of humankind and those we identify as vices have the
opposite tendency, a disutility to such happiness.
(7) Therefore, we must possess a sentiment for the happiness of human-
kind and a resentment of their misery, which is the sentiment of
humanity.3
Premise (6) indicates that serving human happiness is in some way con-
nected with virtue; yet Hume cannot define virtue in terms of the results
that acting on a trait brings about and maintain his sentimentalism.
Rather, his argument must be that because we possess certain sentiments
or passions that give us an interest in certain ends, serving those ends has
a significance (in this case, a moral significance). In other words, sentimen-
talism requires that feelings define the value of ends and of the traits that
promote those ends. So, on Hume’s account, we approve of certain
qualities and call them virtues because we possess humanity – that is,
because we care in a general way about the welfare of others and about
the long-term interest of agents (including ourselves). We therefore
approve the qualities that promote human well-being.4
However, Hume’s argument may not look convincing at first glance.
We care about other things besides the general good, and often more
intensely. We love those close to us and we care about our narrow self-
interest. We might even feel more strongly about our own dogs and cats
than we feel about strangers on the other side of the globe. Hume
acknowledges that we have sentiments for narrowly focused self-
interested goals, and we surely also take pleasure in seeing those goals
served. This prompts the question why such self-interested sentiments are
not indicative of morality, while human-centered sentiments are. Hume
needs to explain what makes the approvals that stem from a broad interest
in human good, rather than from a narrower interest in the welfare of those
close to us or in short-term personal happiness, the source of our normative
distinctions. The answer cannot be that the former has the proper (morally
desirable) end, or else Hume must offer an account of value that is
independent of our feelings.

3
This argument has already been offered in a slightly different form at EPM 5.4 and 5.17.
4
The virtues, for Hume, divide into four classes: qualities useful to others (e.g., generosity and
gratitude), qualities useful to the self (e.g., industry and frugality), qualities immediately agreeable
to others (e.g., wit and decency), and qualities immediately agreeable to the self (e.g., tranquility and
delicacy of taste). Some traits fall under more than one class. For Hume, traits in all four classes have
a tendency to the happiness of humankind. Hence, even those that are useful or agreeable to the self
are not exclusively self-interested and are virtues because of the sentiment of humanity.
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 17
Hume has provided some considerations earlier in the second Enquiry
that offer a rationale for his view. First, he defends the point that our
approvals do extend beyond self-interest. The usefulness of which we
approve in the case of the social virtues “must, therefore, be the interest
of those, who are served by the character or action approved of; and these
we may conclude, however remote, are not totally indifferent to us. By
opening up this principle, we shall discover one great source of moral
distinctions” (EPM 5.15). Second, observation of the circumstances under
which we experience approval reveals that self-interest is not the source,
even though many philosophers have tried to argue otherwise. We admire
brave actions of our adversaries (EPM 5.8, 5.11) and we praise virtuous
actions performed in distant ages and remote countries where no one of the
keenest imagination could think that self-interest is served (5.7).5
Presumably, he would say the same about the interests of persons to
whom we are closely connected: they are not at stake in these cases under
consideration.
But so far, none of these points explain why we should consider the
sentiment of humanity as the source of our moral distinctions. The main
argument for this thesis occurs at EPM 9.5. There Hume claims that
passions, such as avarice and vanity, are excluded from consideration as
the source of morals “not because they are too weak, but because they have
not a proper direction, for that purpose.” He alleges that two features are
necessary to morality’s origin. First, the very concept of “morals” implies
that its source recommends the same objects to each person’s approbation,
so that we agree in our evaluations. Second, the notion of morals implies
a sentiment “so universal and comprehensive as to extend to all mankind,
and render the actions and conduct, even of the persons the most remote,
an object of applause or censure, according as they agree or disagree with
that rule of right which is established” (EPM 9.5). In sum, Hume’s chief
argument that the sentiment of humanity is the source of our moral
determinations proceeds from the way we generally conceive of morality
itself, which contains two features: moral distinctions (1) recommend the
same objects (character traits) to the approbation of all, and (2) are applied
universally. He rules out other passions that produce strong sentiments of
desire and aversion because our approvals and disapprovals based on them
do not always concur, and they therefore cannot be the foundation of

5
To those who suggest that we imagine our interests are served in these cases, Hume replies that an
imaginary interest can hardly produce a genuine sentiment, especially when our real interest is kept
before the mind and is sometimes contrary to the imagined interest (5.13).
18 elizabeth s. radcliffe
a system of moral distinctions. Now, surely narrow, self-interested concern
is also universal and so meets condition (2), but it does not recommend the
same objects, since we do not always find the same things serving our
individual desires. Only a sentiment that points in “the proper direction,”
to human welfare in general, can meet condition (1).
There might be some room for dispute about whether Hume is correct
about our moral scheme. One might argue that as long as social or cultural
groups establish a system of normative concepts that allow communication
and cooperative assessments of actions within those groups, then “moral-
ity” has been established. This seems to be the implication of Hume’s
discussion of morality in his Treatise of Human Nature.6 However, Hume
insists in the second Enquiry that morality is a consistent, universally
accessible system, and the sentiment of humanity is the only universal
sentiment whose approvals and disapprovals yield consistent verdicts. If
Hume is right about this, it is crucial for him to eliminate reason as the
source of our moral system, given that it could also be a source of consistent
judgments. He does so in Appendix 1.

1.2 Objectivity, Real Morality, and Taste

Hume confidently affirms the reality of morality and its universal recogni-
tion, while arguing, contrary to many of his predecessors and contempor-
aries, that it is not discovered by reason. In Appendix 1, he considers five
circumstances in favor of the view that reason cannot on its own discover or
elicit our moral distinctions. Reason can draw conclusions concerning the
useful tendencies of qualities and actions, but it cannot infer moral assess-
ments. I want to focus on the third of these considerations in this section.
For the sake of completeness, I briefly note the others.
The first consideration is that regardless of whether the application of
reason is characterized as a method of discovering facts or as the way to
deduce necessary relations, in neither function will we find the vice of
a crime like ingratitude.7 The second consideration is that when we aim to
determine the morality of an action or the character it demonstrates, reason
must do its work prior to the moral judgment to discover all of the relevant

6
If persons who occupy a shared point of view and sympathize with those affected by an agent reflect
the biases or idiosyncrasies of that circle around the agent, then moral judgments seem to be relative
to groups or cultures. Whether this is so depends on how broad Hume’s general or shared point of
view, from which moral approvals or disapprovals in the Treatise come, can be. See Cohon (2008),
chapter 9, for a discussion of this issue.
7
See also T 3.1.1.
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 19
circumstances. Then reason’s practical work is done. “The approbation or
blame, which then ensues, cannot be the work of the judgment, but of the
heart” (EPM App. 1.11). Hume’s fourth consideration consists in his
argument that if morality consisted in rational relations, we would have
to blame inanimate objects that stand in the same relations to each other as
those of people.8 So, a tree that overtops and kills its parent is as blamable as
Nero, who killed his mother, Agrippina. And this is absurd. Hume’s fifth
point is that ultimate ends can never be accounted for by reason; when we
explain our desires by reference to other desires, we reach an ultimate end,
which must be desirable on its own account and appeals to a sentiment or
affection in our nature.9 He says that virtue is like this: it is an end,
“desirable on its own account, without fee or reward”; hence, it must
touch a sentiment or an internal taste (EPM App. 1.20).10
Now, to the third consideration. Hume contends that the comparison
between moral and natural beauty will confirm the conclusion that moral-
ity is ultimately dependent on sentiment.
It is on the proportion, relation, and position of parts, that all natural beauty
depends; but it would be absurd thence to infer, that the perception of
beauty, like that of truth in geometrical problems, consists wholly in the
perception of relations, and was performed entirely by the understanding or
intellectual faculties . . .. [I]n all decisions of taste or external beauty, all the
relations are before-hand obvious to the eye; and we thence proceed to feel
a sentiment of complacency or disgust, according to the nature of the object,
and disposition of our organs. (EPM App. 1.13)
When Euclid describes the geometrical qualities of a circle, he does not
include its beauty. When Cicero describes the crimes of Cataline, referen-
cing the rage Cataline exhibits, say, in the killing of his brother-in-law and
his subsequent exhibiting of the severed head, we likewise do not find vice
among the descriptors. Hume claims that we cannot determine when the
vice began to exist by examining Cataline’s psychological or physical
features. He argues that this is so because the beauty and the immorality
are not particular facts or relations. They arise from the unavoidable

8
See also T 3.1.1.21.
9
“Ask a man, why he uses exercise; he will answer, because he desires to keep his health. If you then
enquire, why he desires health, he will readily reply, because sickness is painful. If you push your
enquiries farther, and desire a reason, why he hates pain, it is impossible he can ever give any. This is
an ultimate end” (EPM 1.18).
10
Hume means that virtues can be desirable both for their utility and in themselves. (See the example
of courage at EPM 7.11.) Regardless of whether a virtue is useful as a means to an end we care about,
or simply presents a pleasant visage to a spectator, its value depends upon our common human
reactions to it.
20 elizabeth s. radcliffe
feelings people experience at the contemplation of the circle or of
Cataline’s character traits exhibited in such actions (EPM App. 1.14, 1.16).
When Hume indicates that beauty and virtue are not found among the
qualities predicated of objects and people, he means that appeal to the external
senses and the understanding is not sufficient to generate our attributions of
beauty and virtue, in the way it is for other property attributions. However,
dependence on the “creative faculty” of taste does not mean that our moral
and aesthetic judgments are unsystematic, even though internal perceptions,
or feelings, seem to be at variance and less consistent between persons than the
deliverances of reason. Since Hume features taste prominently in his discus-
sion of morality in EPM (much more than in the Treatise), I think it is
justified to draw from his essays on taste to amplify his perspective in EPM. In
his essay, “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion,” Hume discusses how those
who are extremely sensitive in passion have unusually intense and unpleasant
perceptions during various experiences, and then writes,
Whatever connexion there may be originally between these two species of
delicacy [taste and passion], I am persuaded, that nothing is so proper to cure
us of this delicacy of passion, as the cultivating of that higher and more refined
taste, which enables us to judge of the characters of men, of compositions of
genius, and of the productions of the nobler arts. (DT E, 5–6)11
Tastes can be cultivated to improve discernment of the relevant qualitative
differences. Hume emphasizes that both environment and the emotional
state of the perceiver can influence perceptions of taste:
Those finer emotions of the mind are of a very tender and delicate nature,
and require the concurrence of many favourable circumstances to make
them play with facility and exactness, according to their general and estab-
lished principles. The least exterior hindrance to such small springs, or the
least internal disorder, disturbs their motion, and confounds the operation
of the whole machine . . .. A perfect serenity of mind, a recollection of
thought, a due attention to the object; if any of these circumstances be
wanting, our experiment will be fallacious, and we shall be unable to judge
of the catholic and universal beauty. (ST E, 232)12
Consequently, Hume’s insistence on a universal evaluative sentiment
does not imply that every person’s responses are indicative of proper moral

11
References to “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion” are abbreviated “DT,” followed by abbrevi-
ation E (for Essays, Moral, Political and Literary), page number (see Bibliography for full references
to E).
12
References to “Of the Standard of Taste” are abbreviated “ST,” followed by abbreviation E (for
Essays, Moral, Political and Literary), page number (see Bibliography for full references to E).
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 21
and aesthetic judgments. Two issues are crucial to the plausibility of
Hume’s sentimentalism, which seeks to defend universality and objective
standards. For one, it must be reasonable to think that having a moral and
aesthetic sensibility, even though it cannot live up to its full potential in
many circumstances, is integral to human nature. For another, Hume
needs to offer a convincing account of how we discover what the standards
are and from whose sentiments the norms of morality and beauty derive.

1.2.1 Moral Sensibility as Fundamental to Human Nature

One of Hume’s explanations in “Of the Standard of Taste” why not
everyone always discerns the proper forms as beautiful is that some people
may suffer from an “apparent defect or imperfection in the organ” in the
way that a person who is ill is not a good judge of aroma or taste (ST E,
234). Of course, his view is not that an organ of aesthetic and moral
discernment malfunctions, but rather that the psychological and environ-
mental conditions are not conducive to our responding optimally to the
features of people and objects around us. It may appear as though some
persons simply lack humanity – the sensitivity that would make them
aware of the needs of others or that would have them care about addressing
the needs of others if they were aware of them. However, psychological
studies can bolster the case that human nature includes the capacity to
respond to the situation of others by highlighting explanations why that
capacity can be undermined, even for a lifetime, in some individuals.
For instance, investigators have shown that infants’ and children’s
exposure to violence in the home or in the community leads to psycho-
pathologies that dull sensitivities to others. “The dread of violence might
disrupt psychosocial development more than the event itself; the ways
children cope with this persistent fear might lead to locked-in patterns of
coping in their adult lives” (McCloskey, Figueredo, and Koss, 1995, p. 66).
Repeated experience of extreme suffering and death can numb one to the
horrors of the situation. When asked about the torturous conditions in
a political prisoners’ camp in North Korea, one survivor reflected: “Because
we saw so many people die, we became so used to it. I’m sorry to say that we
became so used to it that we didn’t feel anything” (Nelson, 2014). In
relaying a story from Herodotus about the Scythians, Hume writes:
“after scalping their enemies, [they] dressed the skin like leather, and
used it as a towel; and whoever had the most of those towels was most
esteemed among them. So much had martial bravery . . . destroyed the
sentiments of humanity; a virtue surely much more useful and engaging
22 elizabeth s. radcliffe
[than martial bravery]” (EPM 7.14). Hume’s example in fact shows that the
sentiment of humanity can in extreme circumstances be replaced by
a perverted sense of the admirable and the moral. Educator Stephen
Sherblom, citing Rogers (1961) and the advice of the Dalai Lama (2002),
concurs with Hume about psychological factors that affect persons’ moral
sensibility and attributes:
When we, as . . . organism[s], are under stress, we operate less than opti-
mally, sometimes considerably less. When we are distracted, whether
because we are tired, feeling ill, angry, needy, disappointed, emotionally
overwrought, lonely, fearful, anxious, self-absorbed or for some other rea-
son, it affects how we operate in-the-moment. When a person is distracted
they are less sensitive to social cues, to other’s feelings, and to social
dynamics generally. When self-absorbed, people are less empathic, less
compassionate, less caring, less concerned with fairness and justice and, in
those senses, less involved in the moral domain generally. One’s level of
alertness, awake-ness, calmness, centeredness and peace will affect that
person’s experience and performance in-the-moment, including morally
relevant experience and performance. (Sherblom, 2012, p. 137)
Such evidence and analyses make it plausible to think that all humans have
a native capacity for moral and aesthetic discernment whose development
can be affected by many social and psychological conditions. It can be
cultivated and refined in an environment supportive to human flourishing
or deadened, squelched, or even perverted by extreme inhumane
conditions.

1.2.2 Deriving an Objective Standard?

Hume claims that certain forms and configurations of characters, natural
objects, and artifacts are suited to our sentiments of approval. For those whose
psychological states are in disorder, he says, “The relation, which nature has
placed between the form and the sentiment, will at least be more obscure; and
it will require greater accuracy to trace and discern it” (ST E, 233). And later:
“Some particular forms or qualities, from the original structure of the internal
fabric, are calculated to please, and others to displease” (ST E, 233). This is
curious talk for a sentimentalist. Hume cannot mean that we can know by
studying the configurations themselves that they would please us. This would,
of course, allow that we could by reason infer moral and aesthetic qualities of
persons and objects, which would preclude an essential role for sentiment in
creating beauty and morality. Yet, when we make value judgments, we are
reacting to something in the character of persons, the qualities in nature, or
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 23
the configurations of artifacts, which causes us to feel pleasure or pain at the
thought or perception of the objects.13 Still, we cannot infer beauty and
morality from an analysis of the objects together with an analysis of our
psychology, either. This is the sort of inference that is ruled out in the first
Enquiry (4.6–10), when Hume argues that we cannot a priori infer how
objects will affect us or each other – for instance, that fire would consume
matter or that bread would nourish humans but not lions. Rather, we need to
make our inferences from and generalize upon experience and, in the case at
hand, the reactions of perceivers; but the crucial question is: Which perceivers
and under what conditions?
Answering this question is difficult. In “Of the Standard of Taste,” Hume
cautions that we must attend to trends, fashions, and variations, in order to
weed out from among people’s reactions those that are influenced by passing
conditions and fleeting emotions. Of beauty, he writes, “We shall be able to
ascertain its influence not so much from the operation of each particular
beauty, as from the durable admiration, which attends those works, that have
survived all the caprices of mode and fashion, all the mistakes of ignorance and
envy” (ST E, 233). What we find appealing is influenced by what we become
accustomed to, as is evident in persons’ tastes in clothing and hair styles, color
schemes, home design, and other such things. There are, however, designs,
paintings, natural scenes, classic works of literature, architectural masterpieces,
and so on toward which appreciation has endured through time. This
admiration comes from those in a settled state of mind who have wide and
varied experiences with such objects. Tastes can be cultivated and develop
with time under the right conditions. These paradigms of aesthetic appeal can
then give focus to our search for principles of beauty.
If we take seriously the analogy between taste and moral assessment, then
a similar method can be applied to the pursuit of moral principles.
Hume’s second Enquiry offers numerous examples of positive enduring
character assessments, among them: Pericles, the great Athenian statesman
(EPM 2.2); Greek statesman Epaminondas and Roman military leader
Pompey (EPM 6.26); Socrates (EPM 7.17, 8.10); and Iphicrates, the
Athenian general (EPM 8.10). Moreover, the Enquiry is packed with descrip-
tions of generally admirable qualities. In addition to justice and benevolence,
Hume mentions, among others: honesty, fidelity, discretion, industry,

13
This point is illustrated in the story Hume relates from Don Quixote of the two kinsmen who came
from a line of fine tasters and who tasted a wine reputed to be excellent. One of them found it to have
a slight taste of leather and the other a slight taste of iron, to the amusement of all present. After
emptying the hogshead of wine, the party found an iron key with a leather thong tied to it (ST E,
234–35).
24 elizabeth s. radcliffe
frugality, cheerfulness, courage, tranquility, politeness, ingenuity, eloquence,
wit, modesty, decency, and cleanliness. He realizes that the definition of these
qualities is not absolute (e.g., EPM 8.8) and that in some contexts, some of
these traits are more virtuous than in others (e.g., EPM 8.4). But as Hume says
at ST 12: “It appears then, that . . . there are certain general principles of
approbation or blame, whose influence a careful eye may trace in all oper-
ations of the mind.” He claims to find these principles in the case of morality
when he concludes that “PERSONAL MERIT consists altogether in the
possession of mental qualities, useful or agreeable to the person himself or to
others.” He adds that this principle would have occurred without any debate
“even to the first rude, unpractised enquirers concerning morals” (EPM 9.1).
If “objectivity” in morality means that moral features exist apart from
perceivers’ minds, then morality for Hume is not objective. It consists of
judgments that we apply to persons in virtue of the way their traits as exhibited
in action strike our sensibilities. But if “objectivity” indicates that we can
extract standards of morality from our sentiments, ones that are not relative to
individuals, groups, time, or place, then I think it is proper to call Hume’s
morality in EPM objective (at least, this is what Hume thinks we can do).
Morality is also “real” in this sense, but there is more to be said about its reality.
Among the formal features of its reality are consistency and coherence;
among its practical features are its influence on behavior, including on
communication and our use of language. This is exactly what Hume
emphasizes in his argument for humanity as the source of morality. Most
of the world is indifferent to what serves my ambition, but every person is
affected to some extent by what serves humanity. So, our language, Hume
says, “must be moulded upon it” and we invent a category of terms to
express these universal approvals and disapprovals. “VIRTUE and VICE
become then known: Morals are recognized: Certain general ideas are
framed of human conduct and behaviour: Such measures are expected
from men, in such situations” (EPM 9.8). And thus our system of morality
is created by our feelings, but it is as real as any other phenomena we can
consistently track and that affect our conduct. I say more about its influ-
ence on action in the next section.

1.3 Moral Internalism and Moral Cognitivism

in the Second Enquiry
Hume appears to treat the sentiment of humanity as identical to a type
of benevolence. He is not precise about this, however; he sometimes uses
such phrases as “[t]he social virtues of humanity and benevolence”
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 25
(EPM 3.2) (as though they are two). On the other hand, at EPM 5.43, he
writes that the merit we attribute to social virtues “arises chiefly from
that regard, which the natural sentiment of benevolence engages us to
pay to the interests of mankind and society” (as though benevolence and
humanity are one). Hume draws a distinction between general and
particular benevolence in a footnote. The first involves no certain
emotional connection with the person, but “only a general sympathy
with him or a compassion for his pains, and a congratulation with his
pleasures.” The other “is founded on an opinion of virtue, on services
done us, or on some particular connexions” (EPM App. 1.5 n.1). Then he
goes on to say that the former sentiment, “to wit, that of general
benevolence, or humanity, or sympathy,” will be treated in his enquiry.
Thus, he seems to identify humanity with general, but not particular,
benevolence, and with sympathy.14
However, there are reasons, derived from Hume’s own theory but which
he does not recognize fully, to regard benevolence, humanity, and sym-
pathy as distinct principles. I say more about this shortly. Hume portrays
humanity as a motive and as the source of our moral distinctions. Yet,
Hume’s arguments for sentimentalism in EPM do not depend on claims
about the motivating effect of “morals,” or our sense of morals, in the way
that they do in the Treatise. In the Treatise, Hume’s central argument for
moral sentimentalism says that because morals influence actions and
affections, and reason by itself does not, morals cannot be derived from
reason alone (T 3.1.1.6). Much discussion has centered on how to under-
stand Hume’s claim that morals influence actions and affections, especially
over whether this claim commits Hume to internalism.15 Internalism,
although not a view that Hume strictly recognized, is the thesis that
a moral judgment, or the making of one, has as an intrinsic feature that
it is a motive or generates one. In other words, an assessment does not
qualify as a moral judgment if it does not impart to the judge a motive to
act in accord with it.16 I want to bear in mind here three points. First, to

14
One issue commentators raise is whether Hume has, in EPM, dispensed with sympathy as the source
of our moral distinctions, in contrast to the Treatise. Among those who argue that Hume has in some
way dropped out his sympathy-based account are Selby-Bigge (1894/1975), Laird (1932), Capaldi
(1975), and Penelhum (1992). Among those who argue that sympathy is somehow present in Hume’s
account of humanity are Abramson (2001), Vitz (2004), Debes (2007a, 2007b), and Taylor (2015b).
Thus, there appears to be a generational split.
15
The terms “internalism” and “externalism” were first introduced by W. D. Falk (1947–8), pp.
492–510.
16
Stephen Darwall draws a distinction between judgment (or appraiser) internalism and existence (or
agent) internalism. The former is the view that if a person is convinced that she should A, then she
26 elizabeth s. radcliffe
have a motive is not necessarily to be caused to act by it, since we have
competing motives, and some are obviously stronger than others. Second,
we surely sometimes do make moral assessments of others’ characters that
do not involve motivation, but this fact is not necessarily inconsistent with
internalism. The key idea in internalism is that when I judge that certain
features are virtues and others vices (or certain actions right and others
wrong), I feel some incentive to do actions that stem from virtue (or are
right) and to avoid those that come from vice (or are wrong). Of course,
there are times when my approvals and censures of others do make
a difference to my behavior toward them: Hume notes that “a delicacy of
taste is favourable to love and friendship, by confining our choice to few
people, and making us indifferent to the company and conversation of the
greater part of men” (DT E, 7). Third, philosophers sometimes suggest
that one difference between aesthetic and moral judgment is that the
former does not influence action, while the latter does. I doubt that
Hume wants to distinguish them on these grounds. Rather, motivation
in aesthetics is exemplified by persons with delicate taste who want to
surround themselves with people of upstanding character and objects of
beauty. Motivation in such cases, however, is not relevant to internalism,
which has us motivated by our judging that we need to cultivate virtue or
undertake right action.
The question whether a theory is committed to internalism has a bearing
on other metaethical issues. Philosophers, notably Michael Smith (1994),
have recognized the difficulty in making internalism compatible with
moral cognitivism, given a sentimentalist model of motivation.17
Cognitivists say that moral judgments are truth-bearing, but if motivation
is initiated by sentiment (passion), then it is hard to see how moral
judgments, as claims to fact, could be motivating. Another way to put
the issue is that evaluation of the truth or falsity of knowledge claims is
done by reason, and on the sentimentalist account of motivation, motives
do not originate from reasoning. So, it looks as though morality for
sentimentalists is either not intrinsically motivating or not cognitive.
While Hume’s explicit arguments for humanity as the source of
morality do not appeal to the intrinsically motivating character of
humanity or morality, his characterization of humanity implies an
internalist view, I think. Annette Baier claims that humanity in EPM

would under the appropriate conditions have some motivation to A. Existence internalism is the
view that it is necessary for some person’s having an obligation to A that that person would, under
appropriate conditions, have a motive to A (Darwall, 1995a, p. 10).
17
Smith famously calls this “The Moral Problem.”
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 27
is a sympathetic concern for all humans and need not lead to intentions
or actions (except for expressions of its findings) (2008, p. 309).
However, Hume does treat humanity as a motive in EPM: “And if the
principles of humanity are capable, in many instances, of influencing our
actions, they must, at all times, have some authority over our sentiments”
(EPM 5.39). At the same time, he also characterizes moral principles as
objective in the sense I have already discussed, which allows that they are
truth-evaluable rather than expressions of feelings. So, the question of
compatibility between his moral internalism, his moral cognitivism, and
his theory of motivation needs to be addressed. These views are compat-
ible, I believe, on a proper understanding of the point of Hume’s
argument against moral rationalism.
In Section 1 of EPM, in the context of offering an overview of the debate
about the origin of morality, Hume relays an argument on the sentimen-
talist side analogous to one he offers in the Treatise. He does not identify
himself with this argument in EPM, but I see no reason to think he changes
his mind about it. He writes,
The end of all moral speculations is to teach us our duty; and, by proper
representations of the deformity of vice and beauty of virtue, beget corres-
pondent habits, and engage us to avoid the one, and embrace the other. But
is this ever to be expected from inferences and conclusions of the under-
standing, which of themselves have no hold of the affections, or set in
motion the active powers of men? They discover truths: But where the
truths which they discover are indifferent, and beget no desire or aversion,
they can have no influence on conduct and behavior. (EPM 1.7)
The argument in outline is:
(1) Representations of morality (what is fair, noble, generous, etc.)
animate (motivate, influence) us to embrace and maintain what
they represent.
(2) Conclusions of the understanding, about what is probable, true, etc.,
do not animate us.
(Implicit conclusion) Representations of morality are not conclusions of
the understanding. They derive from sentiment.
I think that Hume’s concern in this argument (and similar renditions of it
that occur in the Treatise) is with the origin of our ideas of morality.18 Our
ideas of virtue, vice, rightness, wrongness, moral good, moral evil, and so
on are abstract because they concern general categories. While we do not
18
See Radcliffe (2018), pp. 137–42.
28 elizabeth s. radcliffe
possess abstract representations, on Hume’s view, instances that fall under
these general categories are recalled when we use abstract or general terms.
So “virtue” brings to mind ideas of particular occurrences of virtue; “right”
provokes thoughts of occurrences of right actions; and so on.19 The
conclusion of Hume’s argument is that our representations of instances
of morality and immorality originate with impressions (of reflection)
instead of with reason or by reasoning. This interpretation of Hume as
concerned with the production of our abstract ideas of morality is con-
firmed by EPM 9.8, already noted above, where Hume refers to the
development of moral language modeled on our universal sentiments:
“language must soon be moulded upon it, and must invent a peculiar set
of terms, in order to express those universal sentiments of censure or
approbation, which arise from humanity.” Thus, we recognize the differ-
ence between virtue and vice and develop general ideas that represent
evaluations of human behavior.
Since beliefs are simply lively ideas, and ideas are representations or
cognitions, it is plausible to think that Hume surely means to hold
a cognitivist view of morality. Also, because we can understand Hume’s
moral sentimentalism as concerned with the origination of our normative
concepts, his sentimentalism is compatible with the notion that, after we
have acquired those concepts or categories, we can infer moral conclusions
by reason. Yet, Hume’s internalism stays intact. When he says that repre-
sentations of morality animate us, he can be read as saying that the
discerning of virtue, vice, right, wrong, and so forth, which is perceptual,
imparts a psychological push or an attraction under the right circum-
stances. The representation is not the source of the motivation, but the
sentiment by which we form the representation is.20 Thus, Hume’s intern-
alism and cognitivism together reinforce the notions that morality is real,
in the same way anything we can systematize is real to us, and that it affects
our motivations.
With affirmation that our moral sensibility can also be the source of
a motive to action, I return to the question whether it also makes sense to
call moral sensibility a virtue. In Hume’s Treatise, we can be animated by
the sense of morality to do the actions a virtuous person would do, when
we lack a virtuous motive like generosity, kindness, or benevolence. So, to
act out of moral sensibility there is to act properly, but not from virtue.
Virtuous persons have no need to act from “a sense of morality or duty” (T

19
See Garrett (1997), pp. 96–104.
20
I cannot argue in depth for this view here, but see also Radcliffe (2018), pp. 138–42.
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 29
3.2.1.8). However, in EPM, the sentiment of humanity, a natural motive, is
the source of our normative distinctions (because it determines what we
take pleasure in), and it is also a virtue.21 This implies that when we act
from moral sensibility, we act from virtue. Jacqueline Taylor suggests that
cultivated humanity – not mere humanity – is a virtue (2015b, p. 160). But
what makes it a virtue? The social traits, such as gratitude, generosity, and
friendliness, are virtues because they are everywhere approved by us
because of our humanity. Each is a different trait from humanity itself.
To the question what makes refined humanity a virtue, Hume’s answer
cannot be that it prompts us to serve the general good. As we have seen,
serving the general good is a morally worthy goal only because we have
humanity, which makes us care about long-term well-being and others’
welfare. What makes cultivated humanity morally good would have to be
approval by cultivated humanity, but this leaves us with a circular account
of the source of its normativity. It is not incoherent to have as an object of
a sentiment that kind of sentiment; I can, for instance, disdain my disdain
and approve my approval. However, when the second-order sentiment also
serves as a norm for evaluating first-order sentiments, we have a problem.
Just as it makes no sense to measure the standard meter bar in Paris by itself
to determine whether it is a meter long, so too it makes no sense to evaluate
the source of moral norms, humanity, by humanity. What can its approvals
of itself mean? Philosophers generally agree that if God’s commands
directly determine moral norms, it makes no sense to ask whether God is
morally good. Likewise, if the sentiment of humanity is the source of moral
value, it makes no sense to ask whether the sentiment of humanity is
morally good.
My unorthodox suggestion in reading Hume here is to say that human-
ity can be treated as a motive, but it should be treated as a nonmoral one,
separate from the virtues, and as the source of our moral distinctions at the
same time. I think humanity is best characterized as a general instinct for
human good, as a general principle of human nature (analogous to Hume’s
characterization of sympathy in the Treatise). It is that inborn feature that
gives us an interest in the welfare of our fellow human beings and generates

21
Utility is “the source of a considerable part of the merit ascribed to humanity, benevolence,
friendship, public spirit, and other social virtues of that stamp” (EPM 3.48). And: “[Utility] is
inseparable from all the other social virtues, humanity, generosity, charity, affability, lenity, mercy,
and moderation” (EPM 5.44). “Why is it more doubtful, that the enlarged virtues of humanity,
generosity, beneficence, are desirable with a view to happiness and self-interest, than the limited
endowments of ingenuity and politeness?” (EPM 9.19). “The social virtues of humanity and
benevolence exert their influence immediately, by a direct tendency or instinct” (EPM App. 3.2).
30 elizabeth s. radcliffe
an array of other-interested virtues and agent-interested virtues. In the first
class, for instance, are leniency, tenderness, friendship (EPM 2.1), benefi-
cence, gratitude, and public spirit (EPM 2.5). In the second class, for
instance, are discretion, industry, and a reasoned frugality (EPM 6.8–12).
Objectors to my revision of Hume’s view will point out that the possession
of a developed humanity and being motivated by it are good things, and
that Hume himself calls the exercise of humanity virtuous. My reply is that
these are good things, but they should be regarded as natural goods, rather
than moral ones. That Hume treats humanity itself as a virtue I cannot
dispute, but my point is that his views on the origin of virtue leave no way
to understand it that way.
If humanity is a nonmoral motive, Hume’s internalism is preserved. In
that case, being motivated by “morality” or humanity is to be nudged by
our sensibility toward others’ pleasures and sufferings to respond to their
situation, even when we lack sufficient other-interested motives. When
humanity is characterized as a natural instinct that leads us to approve of
particular traits and to develop a moral conceptual scheme, then specific
virtues can be distinguished, defined, and spotlighted as distinct features of
our characters. Of course, given Hume’s purported identity between
humanity and general benevolence, my revision implies either that general
benevolence is different from humanity or that general benevolence is not
a virtue. Taylor has argued that humanity and benevolence are separate
principles (2015b, p. 126). Perhaps they are, but I tend to the second
alternative. As I have noted, Hume describes general benevolence as “a
general sympathy with another or a compassion for his pains, and
a congratulation with his pleasures,” a description suggesting a trait that
is not implausibly treated as a neutral disposition. However, what can
I make of the following passage, where Hume seems to suggest that our
ability to recognize morality, even if not to be moved toward its ends, is due
to weak virtue?
It is sufficient for our present purpose, if it be allowed . . . that there is some
benevolence, however small, infused into our bosom; some spark of friend-
ship for human kind; some particle of the dove, kneaded into our frame,
along with the elements of the wolf and serpent. Let these generous senti-
ments be supposed ever so weak; let them be insufficient to move even
a hand or finger of our body; they must still direct the determinations of our
mind, and where every thing else is equal, produce a cool preference of what
is useful and serviceable to mankind, above what is pernicious and danger-
ous. A moral distinction, therefore, immediately arises; a general sentiment
 Nature of Morals Founded on the Human Fabric 31
of blame and approbation; a tendency, however faint, to the objects of the
one, and a proportionable aversion to those of the other. (EPM 9.4)
Hume alleges that (general) benevolence is massaged to some degree
into all of us, allowing at minimum the experience of a “cool prefer-
ence” for what is conducive to human welfare. As it stands, this
excerpt treats the mere ability to discern morality and the possession
of virtue that moves an agent to act in another’s interest as on
a continuum, with the latter being a stronger version of the former.
My proposal to treat humanity or general benevolence as different
from virtue can accommodate this passage with a slight modification.
Hume can allow, on my proposal, that each person has the ability to
experience a calm approval of the useful, even if not enough to move
them to do anything about it. At the same time, the mere experience
of this “cool” feeling is enough to say that the agent has a motive (even
if too weak to move a finger) to behave in accord with the morality
that they recognize.22 Those who feel moved to action by their
humanity are determined, I would argue, by a motive to do what
a person with a particular virtue like generosity or magnanimity would
do. If one instead possesses the virtue of, say, generosity or magna-
nimity, then one need not be moved by humanity.

1.4 Conclusion
Hume’s metaethics, then, in the second Enquiry crosses traditional
boundaries. His metaethics is subjectivist in a sense and objectivist in
another sense; realist in a sense, but sentimentalist as well; and both
cognitivist and internalist. Morality is dependent on the human fabric
in that our capacity to make moral distinctions, which depends on an
instinctual affinity for the good of others, enters into the construction
of our moral system. Thus, virtues are useful traits, but many are also

22
In the Treatise, Hume clearly distinguishes “moral sense” approval from the passion of benevolence,
and moral sense disapproval from the passion of malice. Hume’s distinction allows him to argue that
benevolence and other motives are virtues because we approve of them (through sympathy regulated
by a general viewpoint). I believe that he also holds that morality provides motives on its own: that
one can be moved to do what a virtuous person would do, in the absence of the relevant virtue
(honesty, benevolence, gratitude, etc.), by perceiving that one is lacking a trait one ought to have.
Some authors have argued that humanity in the Enquiry is not actually different from regulated
sympathy, with the reflective, general point of view built into it. I think this characterization is
misleading, both because Hume does not treat sympathy, regulated or unregulated, as a virtue in the
Treatise, and because humanity does not necessarily have us experience feelings analogous to those
who are affected by the traits under consideration. See Hanley (2011), pp. 222–23 on this latter point.
32 elizabeth s. radcliffe
simply congenial, to selves or to others. Hume’s arguments for the
sentimentalist origin of real and universal moral principles are persua-
sive ones, given the implications of investigations into human psycho-
logical development. Hume’s account embodies an influential
metaethics that accounts for the reality of morals and its influence
on our behavior, while allowing that both human reason and feeling
are crucial to the foundations of morality.23

23
For discussion, I am grateful to the participants in the October 2018 workshop held at William &
Mary that featured some papers from this volume. Thanks to Willem Lemmens and Esther Kroeker
for the support of that workshop. I especially thank Lorraine Besser and Esther Kroeker for very
helpful written comments.
 chapter 2

The Pride of Pericles

Hume on Self-Love, Benevolence, and the Enjoyment
of Our Humanity
Willem Lemmens

2.1 Introduction
In this chapter, I examine Hume’s account of the relation between self-love
and benevolence in Section 2 and Appendix 2 of An Enquiry Concerning the
Principles of Morals (EPM). In these sections Hume delivers an ingenious
critique of the so-called selfish theories, exemplified by authors like Hobbes
and Mandeville, and contends that the origin of morals derives from
benevolence or an unselfish concern for others. Hume thus agrees with
many other philosophers of the Scottish Enlightenment that man’s innate
sociability forms the origin of morals.1 However, for Hume self-love is
equally a crucial feature of human nature and becomes, if modified,
a constitutive force in moral life. This was also recognized by predecessors
like Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and Butler (Maurer, 2019). However, through
his critique of the selfish theories, Hume distances himself considerably from
these benevolence-minded predecessors, whose views on human nature and
the origin of morals, in sharp contrast with Hume’s naturalism, still relied on
a religiously inspired metaphysics. In so doing, Hume develops his own
account of the role of self-love and benevolence in moral life, which brings
him closer to the selfish theories than is sometimes recognized.2
This chapter consists of four sections after this introduction. In
Section 2.2, I elucidate Hume’s definition of the concepts of benevolence

1
Cf. Gill (2000), p. 90; Maurer (2019), pp. 171–80.
2
For the influence of Mandeville and Hobbes on Hume’s moral theory cf. Moore (1994); Gill (2006),
ch. 18; Harris (2015), pp. 126–27; Robertson (2005), ch. 6. Some contend that in his Treatise Hume
defends a psychological egoism and only moved to an unequivocal defense of an altruist tendency in
human nature with EPM; others think there is more continuity between the two works. For the first
position cf. Merivale (2019), pp. 52–58. For a more nuanced view cf. Darwall (1993), p. 423; Cohon
(2008), pp. 31–35. Some deny any shift between the two works: Garrett (2015), p. 114; Gill
(2000), p. 90.

33
34 willem lemmens
and self-love and explain the difference between the sentiments of benevo-
lence and humanity. I also highlight how, in Hume’s view, the virtue of
benevolence belongs to a class of social virtues distinct from justice. In
Section 2.3, focusing on the example of Pericles on his deathbed in Section
2, I point out how this example is illustrative of Hume’s positive account of
benevolence, but could also be interpreted as an instance of a reductionist
suspicion concerning benevolence and the social virtues, in line with the
selfish theories. In Section 2.4, I reconstruct how Hume, by his debunking
of the selfish theories, gives further evidence that benevolence forms an
irreducible feature of human nature, thus disproving this interpretation. In
Section 2.5, I give some concluding reflections emphasizing Hume’s
avowal of the unorthodox character of his own benevolence-based moral
theory.

2.2 Benevolence, Humanity, and Self-Love

Hume’s apparent predilection for benevolence shines through from the
opening sentence of Section 2 of EPM. Relying on the sensibility of his
readers, he assumes it a “superfluous task” to prove that the “benevolent or
softer affections” engage universally the “approbation, and good-will of
mankind” (EPM 2.1). At the end of the section he concludes that “nothing
can bestow more merit on any human creature than the sentiment of
benevolence . . . and that a part, at least, of its merit arises from its tendency
to promote the interest of our species, and bestow happiness on human
society” (EPM 2.22).
The meaning of the concept of “benevolence” shifts here in a few pages:
a soft affection at the beginning of the section, closely related to other
affections, it becomes toward the end a sentiment, as well as a general
category, referring to a wide realm of social virtues. Moreover, throughout
EPM, benevolence is sometimes identified with the sentiment of human-
ity, while in the concluding Section 9, the sentiment of humanity receives
a separate status. This asks for some clarification.

2.2.1 Benevolence and the Soft Affections

The reference to the “benevolent and softer affections” reflects Hume’s
contention that there exist specific natural passions and inclinations that
exhibit a not further reducible other-directed propensity in human nature.
Hume’s use of the concept “affection” is not systematically explained in
EPM, but usually he appears to consider affections a species of what in the
 The Pride of Pericles 35
Treatise are called the “calm passions.”3 In Book 2 of the Treatise, Hume
defines benevolence as a direct passion or “a desire of the happiness of the
person belov’d, and aversion to his misery” (T 2.2.9.3). He specifies that
benevolence is a species of a calm, instinctive passion that is more known by
its effect than by its immediate feeling or sensation. The effect of benevo-
lence is obvious: it increases the happiness of other human beings.
In the Treatise Hume defines benevolence as a desire for the happiness of
a beloved person (T 2.2.6.3). Benevolence and love are thus both passions
that have as their natural object another person or thinking being (T
2.2.6.4).4 They differ insofar as benevolence in principle leads to action,
while love does not. The presence of a relation of love to the object of
benevolence is important: it determines the degree of action readiness of
benevolence, which varies according to the significance or closeness of the
relation between the benefactor and whoever is the object of concern.
From the Treatise we further learn that benevolence is related to passions or
affections like “resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children” and
the “desire of punishment to our enemies and of happiness to our friends”
(T 2.3.3.8). These passions exemplify an immediate unselfish concern for
the pleasures and pains of others.
This conception of benevolence is preserved in EPM, though Hume
nowhere gives a detailed account of it in terms of a “calm passion.”
However, as is testified not only by the reference to the “softer affections,”
but also by Hume’s digressions on specific other-interested reactive emo-
tions and attitudes such as pity and good-will, compassion, resentment, or
parental affection and friendship, the existence of a fundamental other-
regarding propensity in human nature is equally highlighted in EPM.5 In
an important footnote in Appendix 2, Hume distinguishes particular from
general benevolence.6 Particular benevolence is the generous sentiment we
feel toward a person close to us or someone we have a specific relation with,
which inclines us to do good toward them on the basis of “an opinion of
virtue, on services done us, or on some particular connexions.” General

3
There are nineteen references to “the affections” in EPM, all pointing at either the sphere of moral
evaluation or the spontaneous sociability of people.
4
EPM does not systematically treat the relation between benevolence and love.
5
For the reference to pity and good-will cf. EPM 6.33 n.34; for resentment cf. 3.18, 3.40, 5.16, 5.27, 5.39,
5.40, App. 1.3; for compassion cf. 3.14, 3.18, 5.18, 5.33, App. 1.16, App. 2.6, App. 2.5 n.60, App. 4.9,
App. 4.14; for friendship, there are thirty-one references throughout EPM, with eight in the second
Appendix. Cf. also 2.1, 2.5, 2.6, 3.6, 3.7, 3.48, 5.43, 6.30, 7.2, 7.19, 7.20, 7.22, 7.26, 9.4, 9.21, 9.8 n.57,
D 28, 34. For parental affection, family-life, sexual love, and marriage cf. 3.16, 3.21, 5.20, 6.35, 8.11, 9.2,
App. 2.19, and D.
6
The distinction between general and particular benevolence is absent in the Treatise. Cf. Vitz (2002).
36 willem lemmens
benevolence, in contrast, casts its net much wider. As a sympathizing
sentiment, it makes one feel compassion or joy for the pains and pleasures
of another human being with whom one has no direct relation (EPM App.
2.5 n.60).
The distinction between benevolence as a “passion” or “soft affection”
and “sentiment” is nowhere explained in EPM. However, Hume defines in
Appendix 2 the “sentiment of benevolence” as a “disposition” and specifies
its close relation with affections such as love, friendship, compassion, and
gratitude (EPM App. 2.6). The notion “sentiment of benevolence” thus
receives a twofold meaning: first of all, in calling benevolence a sentiment,
Hume refers to the durable character trait or disposition to act benevo-
lently, while, secondly, he also hints at the capacity, contained in this
disposition, to discern the pains and pleasures of other human beings, thus
identifying benevolence as a spontaneous, quasi-instinctive fellow-feeling.
The sentiment of benevolence can be particular as well as more general,
depending on the specific relation to its object.
The definition of particular benevolence echoes the remark in the
Treatise that a close or significant relation between benefactor and subject
is required to invigorate the desire to do good. This need not be a love
relation but might be any relation experienced as significant. However,
Hume also remarks in the Treatise “that the generosity of men is very
limited, and . . . seldom extends beyond their friends and family, or at
most, beyond their native country” (T 3.3.3.2). In EPM, Hume confirms
that nature has “wisely ordained” that more private connections should
prevail over universal concerns: without this confined focus, benevolent
“affections and actions would be dissipated and lost, for want of a proper
limited object” (EPM 5.42 n.25). Hume again notices that a specific rela-
tion or a meaningful context is required for particular benevolence to yield
its generous effects.
Significantly, as a sentiment benevolence, so Hume suggests, is closely
related to or even identical with the sentiment of humanity and sympathy.
General benevolence might take the form, as Juvenal observes, of “a
generous concern for our kind and species” (EPM 2.5). This general
sympathy or benevolence does not issue directly in action, because it
might lack any specific relation with the other for whom one feels concern.
In the Treatise we find the example of the view of a city in ashes: observers
might feel “benevolent sentiments” at the contemplation of the adversity of
its inhabitants, not being inclined to help them or at a loss to do anything
(T 2.2.9.17).
 The Pride of Pericles 37
2.2.2 Fellow-Feeling and the Sentiment of Humanity
As just mentioned, Hume identifies general benevolence with a sentiment
akin to the sentiment of humanity and some form of sympathy. The
passion of benevolence not only makes us feel others’ pains and pleasures,
but also makes us aware of their humanity, even if we have no specific
connection or relation to them.7 In EPM, Hume sees this benevolent
sensitivity as a basic fact of human nature. He does not conduct any further
anatomizing analysis of it, as in the Treatise, where he relies on the
mechanism of sympathy to explain how exactly we become concerned
about the pains and pleasures of others.8 Hume notes: “It is needless to
push our research so far as to ask, why we have humanity or a fellow-feeling
with others. It is sufficient that this is experienced to be a principle in
human nature” (EPM 5.1 n.19). The recognition of “fellow-feeling” as an
irreducible feature of human nature is a core insight of EPM: it leads to
Hume’s inauguration of the sentiment of humanity as the grounding
principle of morals.
Throughout EPM humanity is sometimes identified as a social virtue,
but especially in the crucial Sections 5 and 9 Hume welcomes it as, to quote
Annette Baier, a “virtue-recognizing moral sentiment,” to be distinguished
from merely general benevolence (2008, p. 307).9 The sentiment of
humanity has four crucial features: it makes one abstract from one’s own
self-interest and particular concerns and seek some common point of view
from which to judge the moral merit of characters and actions; it invigor-
ates, given specific circumstances, other sentiments and passions; it estab-
lishes, through social conversation and other forms of discourse, a standard
of virtue and vice for the evaluation of moral merit; and, crucially, it draws
on reflection and reason to develop and exert its influence in action (EPM
5.43, 9.4–9).
Hume observes that this shared humanity arises because “the ben-
evolent concern for others is diffused, in a greater or less degree, over
all men, and is the same for all” (EPM 9.9): this mutual quasi-
instinctive sensitivity to each other’s benevolence, so Hume suggests,
is through reflection and experience enlarged to a more conscious
recognition of all other humans as particular beings capable of pains
and pleasures, happiness and misery. In David Wiggins’ reading of

7
For more on the concept of “humanity” in EPM cf. Debes (2007a).
8
I abstract from the question concerning the compatibility of the Treatise account of sympathy with
EPM. For more on this cf. Chapters 1, 8, and 9 of this volume.
9
I here follow Elizabeth Radcliffe; cf. Chapter 1 of this volume.
38 willem lemmens
EPM this enlargement of the sentiment of humanity implies an ascent
“from the level of primitive sentiment to the level of plenary moral
thought” (Wiggins, 2006, p. 50). The common point we seek through
reflection and social conversation creates thus, within specific circum-
stances, what Hume calls a “standard of morals” – and this standard
functions as a sort of interpretive grid to evaluate in common life each
other’s characters and actions. This standard in turn influences the
formation of moral beliefs and sentiments of praise and blame and
the recognition of the principles of agreeableness and utility on which
the evaluation of characters and actions relies.
Hume stresses that the sentiment of humanity, though as such weak,
can become contagious through the reflection and palavers on which it
thrives (EPM 9.8). Moreover, the sentiment has a universal character:
“the humanity of one man is the humanity of every one; and the same
object touches this passion in all human creatures” (EPM 9.8); under
ideal conditions it should therefore yield a surprising uniformity of
views and opinions on the catalog of the virtues. However, Hume also
acknowledges that in reality the sentiment of humanity is not only
weak but, as we learn from A Dialogue, also varies from culture to
culture and through history. The reflective capacity on which the
sentiment of humanity depends may also be distorted by ignorance,
prejudices, or credulity: religious enthusiasm and superstition in par-
ticular have a mighty negative influence here. Equally, in common life
more selfish concerns and passions regularly overrule our shared
humanity.

2.2.3 Benevolence and the Soft Social Virtues

Benevolence, together with qualities like humanity, generosity, charity,
mercy, and moderation, is conceived of throughout EPM as a soft and
amiable social virtue, to be distinguished from social virtues like justice and
fidelity, political allegiance and chastity (EPM 1.11, 3.48, 5.44, 6.22, 9.12).
The soft and amiable social virtues are in common life immediately
experienced as pleasurable, because their beneficial effect exerts itself in
every kind and generous act. As such, the soft social virtues might be
elicited by different modifications of the nonselfish passions and affections,
from parental care to friendship or a generous concern for someone in
distress (EPM App. 3.2–3). In contrast, the social virtues related to justice,
so we learn from Sections 3 and 4 of EPM, all depend on conventions to
arise and rely on a political order to thrive and fulfill their specific role. As
 The Pride of Pericles 39
such, they do not directly derive from benevolence and the soft
affections.10
Moreover, justice and its kindred virtues are praised for contributing to
moral merit exclusively because of their utility. Benevolence and the soft or
amiable social virtues, on the other hand, while deriving the largest part of
their moral merit from their utility, depend in a substantial way on other
conditions and principles to arise and exert their specific beneficial effect
(EPM 2.8, 2.22, 5.44, 9.12). Significantly, Hume stresses in Section 7 of
EPM that benevolence, when praised as a source of moral merit, is not only
recognized as useful for others, but also experienced by its possessor as
agreeable. The very softness and tenderness of the sentiment is delightful in
itself and recognized by every spectator (EPM 7.19). The approbation that
benevolence and its kindred virtues usually receive in common life is warm
and gentle and their possessor is recognized as deserving special moral
merit, as is testified in all languages, by the amiable and tender epithets
used to praise their mental qualities (EPM 2.1). However, Hume notes that
the benevolent virtues, welcomed as beneficial and useful, at the same time
derive their moral merit “from more than one cause or principle” (EPM
7.26). A crucial condition for their flourishing as virtues is self-love, as we
will see with reference to the example of Pericles (cf. Section 2.3 of this
chapter).

2.2.4 Self-Love, Pride, and Vanity

Benevolence is obviously opposed to self-love. In the Treatise we find only
five references to self-love, while the concept is mentioned twenty-three
times in EPM. Hume’s use of the concept of self-love is pluriform. In
general, it refers to concerns of self-preservation, personal advantage, and
a narrow focus on the satisfaction of self-regarding appetites. In Book 2 of
his Treatise Hume remarks that the concept of self-love is somehow
improper, for love connotes a directedness to an object external to the
self (T 2.2.5.9).
In Book 3 of the Treatise, considering the circumstances of justice, Hume
firmly states that “self-love, when it acts at its liberty, instead of engaging us
to honest actions, is the source of all injustice and violence.” He adds that
humans can correct these vices by “restraining the natural movements of that
appetite” (T 3.2.1.10). Hume thus distinguishes two modifications of self-
love: mere selfishness and a corrected self-love or self-interest. For Hume, the

10
Cf. Chapters 3 and 4 of this volume.
40 willem lemmens
rules of justice exemplify this self-corrective capacity of self-love: by contem-
plating their “true” interests, human beings adapt their self-love to the public
interest. As the Treatise highlights, corrected self-love derives from the
reflective capacity of the human mind, causing a more refined, enlightened
self-love to arise as a corrective for an untamed selfishness.
In the Treatise Hume conceives of pride as the core self-regarding
passion. Here Hume also distinguishes pride from self-love, while in
EPM he rather follows the eighteenth-century idiom and conceives of
pride as closely related to self-love.11 Remarkably, in EPM Hume hardly
mentions pride and prefers to speak of vanity.12 The deceiving nature of
vanity is noticed, but overall in EPM Hume does not give such a detailed
account of the difference between vanity and pride as in the Treatise. In
EPM, pride or vanity thus becomes a third modification of self-love,
insofar as it also points to a specific interest of persons in their own
pleasures and pains. Pride or vanity is a form of self-affection with an
intrinsic social dimension because it essentially depends on a desire for
praise and approval by others (EPM 8.11, App. 2.2).
Hume’s other references to self-love in EPM are in line with the account
he gives in the Treatise. Self-love is defined as “a regard to private interest”
(EPM 5.6) or a “concern for our own individual happiness” (EPM 5.10).
Referring to its “extensive energy” (EPM 5.16), Hume notices the consid-
erable influence of self-love on human action, but also stresses its narrow
concern for immediate pleasures and its close connection with rudeness,
malice, and violence (EPM 9.8 n.57). In fact, the self-regarding vices of
“avarice, ambition, vanity” are improperly identified as species of self-love:
Hume again points to the existence of an enlightened self-love, to be
distinguished from a vicious self-love (EPM 9.5). As in the Treatise,
Hume further contends that the rules of morals need to control and
limit self-love (EPM 9.8). He repeats that in social life uncontrolled self-
love leads to “mutual shocks,” which can be overcome only through the
institution of justice and the rule of law (EPM 8.1). In short, self-love can
be both detrimental and beneficial.

2.3 The Pride of Pericles

We can now have a closer look at Hume’s praise of benevolence and the
social virtues in Section 2 of EPM. In fact, the mental geography sketched

11
For the moral significance of pride cf. Taylor (2015b), Chapter 5.
12
For references to vanity cf. EPM 3.25, 6.28, 8.8, 9.5–7, 9.18, App. 2.7, App. 4.4.
 The Pride of Pericles 41
in the previous paragraph reveals that in Hume’s view the development of
a due sense of self-love and pride forms a crucial additional condition for
these virtues to flourish. Hume illustrates this with the example of Pericles
on his deathbed.
Immediately after a brief praise of benevolence and the “soft affections,”
Hume observes:
When Pericles, the great Athenian statesman and general, was on his death-
bed, his surrounding friends, deeming him now insensible, began to indulge
their sorrow for their expiring patron, by enumerating his great qualities and
successes, his conquests and victories, the unusual length of his administra-
tion, and his nine trophies erected over the enemies of the republic. You
forget, cries the dying hero, who had heard all, you forget the most eminent of
my praises, while you dwell so much on those vulgar advantages, in which
fortune had a principal share. You have not observed, that no citizen has ever yet
worne mourning on my account. (EPM 2.2, italics mine)
This passage, borrowed from Plutarch’s Lives, draws attention to Hume’s
quite revisionary vision of benevolence. Calling Pericles a moral “hero”
excelling in humanity and benevolence must have at least surprised his
orthodox Christian contemporaries, who might have expected rather a self-
sacrificing saint or philanthropist to fulfill that role.13 The benevolence of
Pericles is certainly no instance of Christian charity. Pericles hopes he excelled
in actions and measures to avoid the suffering and “mourning” of the
Athenians: he cared about the prosperity of his people, while also being
a warlord. Exerting his benevolence in accordance with the offices imposed
on him as a governor and through his dutiful care for the establishment of
good laws, he promoted the public good of his state, not that of other nations.
Of course, Hume builds his case not only on Pericles, but on a much
wider panoply of examples, taken from literary sources as well as common
experience, such as: the beneficent man who exemplifies an unselfish
concern for his parents, children, and friends (EPM 2.6); the mother
who we spontaneously praise when she sacrifices health and life for her
child (EPM App. 2.9); the practice of giving alms to beggars (EPM 2.18);
and the man who grieves for the loss of a valuable friend that needed his
care and protection (EPM App. 2.7). Hume further reminds his readers,
citing Juvenal, that someone who “affords shelter to inferiors” is praised as

13
As the famous letter to Hutcheson testifies, early on Hume drew from his conception of human
morality from Cicero’s De Officiis, not The Whole Duty of Man, the Protestant moral guide of
Hume’s youth (L I, 13). For more on this cf. Chapters 10 and 11 of this volume.
42 willem lemmens
an eminent moral character and refers to the fact that humans do regularly
care for the public good (EPM 5.45, 9.8).
As these examples testify, benevolence takes on different forms, depend-
ing on the practices and offices through which it manifests itself as a virtue.
Moreover, as Hume suggests with his numerous examples from ancient
literature, the appreciation of benevolence and the social virtues might vary
because of custom and manners (EPM 6.20). Christian charity, based on
a belief that God created us to live up to an ideal of extensive benevolence
for all other humans, as Butler and Hutcheson maintained, has no place in
Hume’s catalog of the virtues.14 Part of the underlying intention of
Hume’s second Enquiry is precisely to distance himself from the
Christian ethics of these forebears, but also from the neo-stoic model of
love for the public good defended by Shaftesbury. Hume proposes a more
urbane and realistic view on human sociability and morals (Baier, 2008;
Harris, 2015).
Furthermore, the example of Pericles, as well as the other illustrations in
Section 2, reveal that benevolence and its kindred virtues might achieve
their beneficial workings through a wide variety of unselfish affections and
passions. Motherly love is, after all, a different incentive for care than
compassion for a poor beggar or vulnerable stranger, while friendship
differs from the love of one’s country or resentment for injuries done to
strangers. The instinctive “fellow-feeling” with which we are all born
forms, indeed, a complex pattern of affections and emotions, once it
unfolds itself in common life and adapts itself to various circumstances
and social roles.
Hume’s examples further illustrate that our benevolent affections need
some “particular object” to which the benefactor has a close or significant
relation to exert their beneficial effect and lead to concrete actions. Pericles
cares for the Athenians, with whom he is connected as a governor; the caring
friend feels connected with his lifelong companion more than with
a befriended colleague; the social activist feels connected with her vulnerable
and socially disadvantaged clients. Notice, however, that “closeness” of
a social relation need not be physical to be significant, and the significance
of a relation or social role might bridge physical distance. To give a not very
Humean example: the Flemish priest Father Damian sacrificed his health,
and in the end his life, for the lepers of Molokai at the other end of the globe.
14
I abstract from the differences between Hutcheson’s and Butler’s views on benevolence. For divine
providence and benevolence cf. Hutcheson (2002), pp. 195–98; for the idea of providence in general
cf. Butler (2006), p. xxxi. Hume praises charity as a social virtue with some reservations (EPM
2.18, 5.44).
 The Pride of Pericles 43
His extreme benevolence might be incomprehensible for an outsider but
receives its significance from his Christian ideal of charity.15
This example, as well as Hume’s reference to Pericles, reminds us of the
fact that in common life the sentiment of humanity is less universalistic
and uniform than Hume at first sight suggests. Pericles’ benevolence and
generosity are praiseworthy for the Athenians, but reflect a moral standard
that differs considerably from that of the Protestant culture of Hume’s age.
Education and cultural habit play a decisive role in the impact and scope of
the sentiment of humanity (EPM 1.2, 3.47, 5.3; D 24). Obviously, prede-
cessors like Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and Butler, in comparison with
orthodox Christians more sympathetic to ancient culture, could appreciate
the reference to Pericles as a person of exemplary personal merit: and
Hume himself undoubtedly hoped with his EPM to enlarge the sentiment
of humanity of his contemporaries and make the moral standard of his
culture more pluralist.
The Pericles example calls attention to two further observations. First of
all, benevolence is only one of many virtues in Hume’s broader catalog.
When his friends praise the merit of Pericles’ illustrious achievements, they
focus on the austere qualities of character and mind that enabled the great
statesman to realize his goals, such as the “selfish” or “private virtues” of
discretion, prudence, assiduity, enterprise, and industry (EPM 6.21), but also
strength of mind, self-command, and courage. These self-regarding virtues,
so Hume contends, are in the first place useful for their possessor, but in
proper balance with the social virtues they contribute substantially to the
public interest (EPM 6.14–15, App. 4.2 and 5, 7.13). The virtue of courage
deserves special mention here. Courage, according to Hume, incarnates the
sublimity and equanimity, but also extraordinary self-command and
strength of mind, typical for the martial form of personal merit held in
high esteem in ancient times. It thus adds a “peculiar lustre” to the character
(EPM 7.11–13, App. 4.2).16 Without courage and other self-regarding virtues,
Pericles’ humanity and benevolence would never have become so significant
and effective: his personal merit in the eyes of his friends and the citizens of
Athens derives clearly from the fact that he integrates in his character both
selfish and other-regarding virtues and excellencies.
This brings us to a further observation concerning Pericles’ deathbed
wish. The dying statesman, in calling attention to his humanity, appears
15
Hume reserves the ideal of self-sacrificing love for motherly care; cf. EPM 2.9.
16
“The martial temper of the Romans, inflamed by continual wars, had raised their esteem of courage
so high, that, in their language, it was called virtue, by way of excellence and of distinction from all
other moral qualities” (EPM 7.13).
44 willem lemmens
motivated by a desire for praise. This is not surprising since Hume remarks
in A Dialogue that the ancients highly esteemed pride and considered it
a sign of the magnanimity in a man of rank and high achievements. Pericles
is such a man who out of a “noble pride and spirit” and sense of self-value
desires to be praised for his generosity and concern for the public good
(EPM 7.14, 10). Hume himself does not mention the pride of Pericles but
would without doubt acknowledge its role.
However, with this reference to pride, we also touch upon a possible
skepticism concerning Hume’s example. Is not Pericles’ desire for praise an
instance of vanity and self-love? And would this not throw a profound
suspicion on the unselfish and genuine character of his benevolence and
humanity, which Hume so eagerly highlights?
In this regard, it is significant that Section 6 of EPM refers to some
discussions of late years “in this kingdom” (EPM 6.21). Hume calls atten-
tion to how an overdone bragging about the social virtues and public spirit
in public conversation might have made eighteenth-century “men of the
world,” but supposedly also philosophers and writers, suspicious of the
sincerity of man’s alleged benevolent nature. From that perspective, so
Hume suggests, philosophers might have been inclined to develop purely
reductionist accounts of moral motivation and behavior.
Hume mentions no names of contemporary writers or philosophers exhib-
iting such a too enthusiast view on benevolence and public spirit. He refers
with a certain sympathy to Lucian, who talked about “virtue” regularly with
“spleen and irony,” apparently mocking the Stoics and Cynics who saw a self-
denying public-spiritedness as the gist of moral merit. Probably Hume had
similar feelings about Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and Butler, despite his agree-
ment with their critique on the reductionist intentions of the selfish theories.17
He also does not mention contemporary philosophers who were rather along
the line of Lucian’s practical skepticism. But this allusion to a cynical attitude
concerning benevolence and human sociability must have been understood by
Hume’s readers as a hint at the “selfish theories” of Hobbes and Mandeville. It
is no coincidence that this allusion resonates in Appendix 2, where Hume
shows why the reductionism of the selfish theories is untenable.

2.4 Debunking the “Selfish Theories”

Appendix 2 opens with a sneer at the “corrupted heart” of those who pretend
that “benevolence is mere hypocrisy, friendship a cheat, public spirit a farce”

17
I thank Aaron Garrett for pressing me on this.
 The Pride of Pericles 45
(EPM App. 2.1). Hume points at inconsistencies in two versions of the selfish
theories before he turns to two arguments in favor of his own position. A first
version of the selfish theories is presented as follows:
There is a principle, supposed to prevail among many, which is utterly
incompatible with all virtue or moral sentiment, and as it can proceed from
nothing but the most depraved disposition, so in its turn it tends still further
to encourage that depravity. This principle is that benevolence is mere hypoc-
risy, friendship a cheat, public spirit a farce, fidelity a snare to procure trust
and confidence; and that, while all of us, at bottom, pursue only our private
interest, we wear these fair disguises, in order to put others off their guard, and
expose them the more to our wiles and machinations. (EPM App. 2.1)
This passage, echoing Hutcheson, clearly forms an implicit reference to
Bernard Mandeville, the bête noire of many in eighteenth-century moral
philosophy.18
In his satire Fable of the Bees (1714/1723), Mandeville denies that humans
have a natural disposition to unselfish behavior. Benevolence can never be
what it seems to be and variants of it are nothing but “disguises” to cover up
self-interest. Humans desire to do good for another because they seek
personal advantage or hope to strengthen their position.
On this hypothesis Mandeville builds his constructivist conception of
morality and manners. In his eyes, the sense of virtue is nothing but a cover-
up for an insatiable self-love: a real altruist motive does not exist. Indoctrinated
by “skilful politicians,” humans are educated to dissimulate their selfish
passions and learn to cooperate to benefit themselves and their beloved ones
(Mandeville, 1988b, p. 47). Codes of honor and good manners are equally
conventions invented by citizens in a shared posture of pretended conviviality:
they allow civil society to flourish but are marked by hypocrisy and self-deceit.
In a first part of his Fable, Mandeville thinks a calculating egoism forms
the core of the selfish tendency: in Part II of his Fable he gives a highly
original account of self-liking or amour-propre, a subtle variant of the
instinct of self-preservation, to explain away the illusions of genuine
benevolence (Maurer, 2019, pp. 58–85). Self-liking, in Mandeville’s view,
makes humans consider themselves better than their neighbors. At the
same time, fearful of being overruled or humiliated by them, they develop
a desire for praise. Overt generous behavior hides in fact the selfish concern
for applause and social approbation.19

18
Hutcheson (2002), pp. 3–4.
19
Maurer (2019), p. 62. See also Mandeville (1988a), pp. 54–55; (1988b), p. 130; (2012), p. 4. For an
extensive study of Hume and Mandeville cf. Tolonen (2013).
46 willem lemmens
Under such a reading, it is impossible to distinguish whether Pericles is
motivated by vanity, when he desires to be praised for his social virtues, or
a genuine form of self-value or due pride.20 His humanity, if Mandeville is
right, covers up other motives: ambition, cunning, desire to excel. Even on
his deathbed Pericles is driven by a desire for praise which exhibits his
insatiable self-liking and a manipulative attitude (“wiles and machin-
ations”) toward his friends. For Hume, this is superficial thinking. From
a hasty generalization, philosophers such as Mandeville end up with an
overly reductive and depraved vision of human nature and morality (EPM
App. 2.1), which effaces all differences between a noble man and mere
pretenders. In fact, Hume suggests that Pericles’ benevolence as well as his
hope to be praised for his social virtues might well be sincere.
After this first argument, Hume moves to a second, less provocative
version of the selfish theories. According to Epicurus or moderns such as
Hobbes and Locke, so Hume explains, every form of concern for another
human being is nothing but a “modification of self-love.” An Epicurean or
Hobbesian will recognize that social life exemplifies nice instances of
friendship and benevolence but at the same time he contends that “at
bottom, the most generous patriot and most niggardly miser, the bravest
hero and most abject coward, have, in every action, an equal regard to their
own happiness and welfare” (EPM App. 2.2). This version of psychological
egoism recognizes that one’s altruism might be sincere and the praise one
receives for it well deserved. But by “a philosophical chymistry” Hobbes
and Locke equally reduce benevolent and unselfish motives to the more
fundamental motive of self-love.21
Their account goes as follows: we sincerely believe that our friendship,
the love for our children, our patriotism, and even the concern for the
“liberty and happiness of mankind” is genuine and makes a difference
(EPM App. 2.2). And in a way, such passions or attitudes and the desires
they yield do sometimes lead to behavior that differs from mere selfish
behavior. But in the end, according to Hobbes and Locke, even the
satisfaction of the desires yielded by these passions and attitudes is guided
by the all-determining concern for my pains and pleasures and my desire to
seek their satisfaction.22 Thus, in the end, all human action derives from
a concern for one’s own pleasures and pains, which is clearly an instance of
self-love.
20
Hume mentions the importance of a due pride or self-value at EPM 7.10.
21
I abstract from the question whether or not Hume’s interpretation of Locke and Hobbes is accurate.
Cf. for Hobbes: Mackie (1980), chapter 2; for Locke: Merivale (2019), pp. 30–33.
22
Locke (1979), II.20 § 2–3. Locke seems influenced by Hobbes; see his Leviathan (1994), p. 35.
 The Pride of Pericles 47
Hume agrees that we are sometimes not the best judges of our own
motives: selfish motives might back up what is at first sight purely unselfish
behavior (EPM App. 2.7). Paying tribute to Locke and Hobbes, he
observes that this need not be so problematic. In fact, self-love might
support the apparently benevolent affections: “I esteem the man, whose
self-love, by whatever means, is so directed as to give him a concern for
others, and render him serviceable to society: as I hate or despise him, who
has no regard to anything beyond his own gratifications and enjoyments”
(EPM App. 2.4). But notice, so Hume points out, that there exists also for
Locke and Hobbes a difference between mere narrow selfishness or
a concern for the direct gratification of all sorts of inclinations and passions
and a more enlightened self-love. This echoes an earlier reference in EPM
to Polybius, who apparently in a similar way considered rational self-
interest as the origin of morals (EPM 5.6). Hume agrees with the judicious
ancient philosopher that often “generous, humane action contributes to
our particular interests” (EPM 5.9). We might consciously cultivate
a concern for society and learn to feel resentment toward injuries done to
others: public and private interest here coincide (EPM 5.16). The selfish
theories are right on that. But from this perspective, the reduction of every
unselfish or altruist tendency in human nature to a modification of self-
love becomes almost trivial. And thus, Hume turns in Appendix 2 to two
arguments in favor of his nonreductionist account of the benevolent
affections.
To begin with, the selfish theories are empirically weak. Reducing all
unselfish behavior to a more fundamental egoist and self-centered concern
goes “against the appearance of things” (EPM App. 2.6). Alluding to his
Newtonian experimentalism, Hume points out that for the explanation of
human behavior another explanatory device is required than in physics,
where a variety of phenomena should be explained by as few principles as
possible. But the selfish theories, out of an understandable but misleading
“love of simplicity,” are too reductive: they violate the rule that in the
explanation of our passions, the “simplest and most obvious cause” is
“probably the true one” (EPM App. 2.7). Hume illustrates this again
with some telling observations.
We know from experience that animals bear a self-forgetting kindness to
their own species and even ours: shall we admit then that “the inferior
species” knows a disinterested benevolence, and humans not? Love
between the sexes, Hume continues, bears on complacency and good-
will beyond calculating egoism, as does motherly love (EPM App.
2.8–9). We desire the welfare of our friend, even beyond our own death,
48 willem lemmens
as well as a man may mourn for a friend who needed his care and
protection, irrespective of any reciprocal advantage (EPM App. 2.10,
App. 2.7). Earlier in EPM, Hume mentions that we praise qualities and
virtues that are in the first place agreeable and useful for their possessor, and
may even praise, like Demosthenes, the generosity of an enemy (EPM 5.11):
where is the self-interest here (EPM 6.3, 7.29)? Until we find a better
hypothesis, Hume concludes, we should acknowledge that “these and
a thousand other instances are marks of a general benevolence in human
nature, where no real interest binds us to the object” (EPM App. 2.11).
For a second argument against the selfish theories, Hume finds inspir-
ation in Joseph Butler’s Sermons, published a decade or two before EPM,
but also in the writings of Shaftesbury and Hutcheson (Maurer, 2019,
p. 177).23 Distinguishing between, on the one hand, primary or original
appetites, mental passions and propensities and, on the other, secondary
passions and principles, Hume recalibrates the idea, defended by Hobbes
and Locke, that human behavior is solely determined by the concern for
one’s own pleasures and pains.
How secondary propensities and passions receive this separate status is not
explained, but Hume apparently alludes here to the reflective capacity of the
human mind. Secondary are those propensities and passions that are evalu-
ative and rely on understanding and judgment to arise. As such they are
instances, as Hume famously observes in his Treatise, of calm passions,
which are often confused with reason (T 2.3.3.8).24 EPM refers also to this
reflective and passion-correcting capacity of the human mind when Hume
analyzes the “strength of mind” and mentions the “decisions” that might
result from “our calm passions and propensities” when we act following
“certain rules of conduct” (EPM 6.15). Reflecting on its direct propensities
and passions, the mind causes calm passions to arise or initially violent
passions to become more moderate, thus influencing the primary passions
and invigorating other passions and sentiments.25 With this clarification, we
may interpret Hume’s critique of Hobbes and Locke as follows.

23
I abstract from the question whether Hume’s reading of his predecessors is accurate or on which
sources he might rely. For Butler, see also Garrett (2018).
24
Mentioning the calm passions like benevolence and resentment, the love of life, and “kindness to
children,” Hume remarks in the Treatise: “When any of these passions are calm, and cause no
disorder in the soul, they are very readily taken for the determinations of reason” (T 2.3.3.8). This
does not imply that reason is a modification of these calm passions (or that it alters them), but that it
is easy for us to mistake our calm passions for the determinations of our reasoning. I owe this nuance
to an anonymous referee of my chapter.
25
Wiggins discerns in Hume’s account of moral reflection a notion of “ratiocinative desire” in the line
of Aristotle (2006, p. 50).
 The Pride of Pericles 49
Of course, when we act out of friendship or humanity, we pursue
some good the satisfaction of which causes pleasure and makes us
happy. But this requires that, in order to feel pleasure (or pain) as
a consequence of this generous act, we need to be motivated by “a
passion which points immediately to the object and constitutes it our
good or happiness” (EPM App. 2.12). This object is the good of
another person, whose pain we want to relieve and pleasure we desire
to enhance. If we are so motivated, we feel pleasure when our concern,
helping the other, is fulfilled, and pain when we are powerless to relieve
their suffering: but we do not seek the fulfillment of this benevolent
concern to feel pleasure, or to get rid of our pain. So, our pains and
pleasures, caused by the satisfaction or frustration of our benevolent
desire to do good to another, are triggered by an altruistic concern. The
intentional object of our benevolence is the relief of the pain of
another, or the satisfaction of their pleasure, and not our own conse-
quential pain or pleasure.
From this perspective, we understand how in Hume’s view
a modified self-love might foster benevolence and the other-regarding
affections. Discerning a reflective self-love as a secondary propensity, to
be distinguished from a stubborn egoism, Hume observes: “were there
no appetite of any kind antecedent to self-love, the propensity could
scarcely ever exert itself; because we should, in that case, have felt few
and slender pains or pleasures, and have little misery or happiness to
avoid or pursue” (EPM App. 2.12). But reflective self-love, as
a secondary principle, might be mobilized by the impulses of pains
and pleasures of more primary passions and propensities and the
aversions or desires these imply. Someone might decide out of self-
love to take care of another. But this care, invigorated by the primary
desire to do good for another, need first have affected them as worth-
while to pursue.
Interestingly, Hume stresses that not only “the desire of another’s
happiness or good” falls under the category of primary propensity, but
also more basic self-related instincts like thirst and hunger, or sensual
drives, next to the desire for fame, power, or vengeance (EPM App. 2.13).
Just like whatever primary instinct or lower self-regarding passion might
shape our pains and pleasures by offering us a direct motive to act, so
might friendship and benevolence. The satisfaction of other-directed
desires thus becomes in a way our own good, which is “afterwards
pursued from the combined motives of benevolence and self-
enjoyment” (EPM App. 2.13).
50 willem lemmens
2.5 Behind the “Dismal Dress”: The Enjoyment
of Our Humanity
At first sight, the critique of the selfish theories is merely a side theme in the
whole of EPM and is therefore placed among its appendixes, the “work-
rooms” of Hume’s enquiry (Baier, 2008, p. 293). However, in all but the
last editions of EPM, the second Appendix formed the first part of Section
2 and thus preceded Hume’s praise of benevolence and the social virtues.26
The critique of self-love and the positive account of benevolence can thus
be read as the two sides of Hume’s integrated view on the role of our self-
and other-regarding passions and affections in moral life. Therefore, as
I have tried to elucidate, this account forms a crucial subtext throughout
EPM, the importance of which should not be underestimated.
Throughout EPM, Hume argues that the interest humans have in the
achievement and ascription of moral merit derives from a nonselfish,
other-regarding propensity of human nature, exhibited by the benevolent
and soft affections. This propensity not only grounds the prominent role of
the social virtues in common life but also lies at the roots of the capacity to
develop the sentiment of humanity, on which the whole system of moral
evaluation is based. Hume sounds enthusiastic about his positive moral
theory when he exclaims in the concluding Section 9: “But what philo-
sophical truths can be more advantageous to society, than those here
delivered, which represent virtue in all her genuine and most engaging
charms, and make us approach her with ease, familiarity, and affection?
The dismal dress falls off, with which many divines, and some philosophers
have covered her; and nothing appears but gentleness, humanity, benefi-
cence, affability” (EPM 9.15).
Opposing the austere and rigorous ethics of orthodox Calvinism, Hume
takes the side of his more optimistic, benevolence-minded predecessors
Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and Butler: with them, he presents an image of
human nature that makes the enjoyment of virtue and a common human-
ity the core of moral life. However, distancing himself from these prede-
cessors, Hume at the same time firmly opposes the religiously inspired
metaphysics underlying their moral systems. After all, Shaftesbury,
Hutcheson, and Butler not only understand benevolence as a feature of
human nature that promotes human happiness and sociability, but they
also integrate their praise of the social virtues in an ethics centering on
individual perfection and divine redemption. For Shaftesbury, who

26
Cf. Hume’s letter to his editor William Strahan: L II, 329–30.
 The Pride of Pericles 51
defended a stoic, enlightened, and pagan conception of divine provi-
dence, the perfection of benevolence and the public affections formed
a sort of natural telos of moral life, a good in itself. Butler and Hutcheson,
on the other hand, propagating a liberal but unwavering Christian
apologetics, think that humans, by living up to the moral duties related
to benevolence, strive at becoming worthy of God’s love and ultimate
salvation.
Hume’s EPM guide to morals breaks radically with this religiously
inspired teleological metaphysics and logic of redemption. His account
of sociability and praise of benevolence and the social virtues is entirely
secular. For Hume, man’s moral interests derive from merely this-worldly
concerns and passions, and the reward of virtue is nothing but the pleasur-
able enjoyment of our common humanity. His is a wholly a-religious,
Epicurean moral ideal. In this sense, Hume’s conception of human nature
and his appreciation of the function of morality in common life closely
resemble the moral anthropologies of Hobbes and Mandeville, but without
their cynicism and reductionism.27
In this sense, it is certainly no coincidence that the ratification of the
sentiment of humanity in the concluding Section 9 of EPM forms part of
a larger reflection on the dispute concerning the degrees of self-love and
benevolence to be found in human nature (EPM 9.4). Hume calls this
dispute “vulgar” and indecisive, because of the intrinsic opacity of human
motivation and action, but also because of the inclination, also to be found
among philosophers, to be prejudiced in favor of either a “selfish” or
a “benevolent” reading of the anthropological evidence. For my theory,
Hume remarks, it suffices to accept that “there is some benevolence,
however small, infused into our bosom; some spark of friendship for
human kind; some particle of the dove, kneaded into our frame, along
with the elements of the wolf and the serpent” (EPM 9.4).
This sounds meager as the concluding remark of an enquiry that so
explicitly praises benevolence and the warm and tender social virtues. A few
paragraphs later Hume returns to another register, noticing enthusiastic-
ally that the moral sentiments, firmly based on the sentiment of humanity,
symbolize nothing less than “the party of human kind against vice and
disorder, its common enemy” (EPM 9.9, italics original). But immediately,
Hume reminds us of the fragile nature of this shared sentiment. Somewhat
ambiguously, he notices: “Other passions, though perhaps originally

27
In private correspondence Ryan Hanley accurately remarked that Hume’s ethics exemplifies “a
secularism without cynicism.”
52 willem lemmens
stronger, yet being selfish and private, are often overpowered by its force,
and yield the dominion of our breast to those social and public principles”
(EPM 9.9).
For Hume, to become a force that exerts its beneficial role and make
a case in favor of the party of humankind, our benevolence and humanity
depend crucially on additional conditions and circumstances. One of these
is self-love. In the last paragraphs of EPM Hume observes that from this
perspective there need not be any opposition between the selfish and social
sentiments or dispositions (EPM 9.20): fostering the social virtues not only
leads to the happiness of others, but also forms the source of a deep
personal enjoyment, which will “keep us in humour with ourselves as
well as with others; while we retain the agreeable reflection of having
done our part towards mankind and society” (EPM 9.21). This is
a conclusion with which Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and Butler would
agree, but they would stress that, to become morally significant, this self-
enjoyment requires a self-transcending wisdom and love of God or the
Deity. For Hume, the pleasure of virtue is just a function of our this-
worldly sociability and personal striving for happiness. The promotion of
this insight forms a key purpose of the whole EPM. From this perspective,
so Hume is convinced, the cultivation of the social virtues and the senti-
ment of humanity is indeed in our self-interest.
In the concluding Section 9, Hume significantly refers to the love of
fame as “another spring of our constitution that brings a great addition of
force to the moral sentiment.” The love of fame invigorates a “habit of
surveying ourselves” and fosters a self-evaluative pride, which “keeps alive
all the sentiments of right and wrong and begets, in noble natures, a certain
reverence for themselves as well as others” (EPM 9.10). This self-valuing
might even lead to the recognition that we have an “interested obligation”
to cultivate the social virtues and the sentiment of humanity (EPM 9.14).
The pride of Pericles reflects this conscious recognition of an obligation to
cultivate his humanity and benevolence: aware, in the hour of death, of
having fulfilled his duty toward his people, his moral merit is also the
source of personal happiness.28

28
I would like to thank all the participants in the October 2018 workshop at William & Mary that
featured some papers from this volume. Thanks also to Elizabeth Radcliffe for organizing this event.
I am especially grateful to Esther Kroeker, Hannah Lingier, Aaron Garrett, Ryan Hanley, and an
anonymous referee for their inspiring comments and suggestions for improvement of an earlier
version of this essay.
 chapter 3

Justice and Politics in the Enquiry Concerning

the Principles of Morals
Ryan Patrick Hanley

Hume’s signature contribution to our understanding of justice has long

been taken to consist in his redefinition of justice as an artificial virtue. This
is of course the main aim of his account of justice in Book 3 of the Treatise:
namely, to demonstrate “that the sense of justice and injustice is not deriv’d
from nature, but arises artificially, tho’ necessarily from education, and
human conventions” (T 3.2.1.17). This is a striking claim, as Hume of
course intended it to be. As such it has not failed to attract the attention of
both theorists of justice and Hume specialists.1
There is a problem with focusing on this claim, however. Hume’s re-
presentation of his theory of justice in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles
of Morals (EPM) – the book that he, in his autobiography, notoriously
proclaimed “incomparably” his best – makes no mention of or reference
whatsoever to justice as an artificial virtue.2 And this can hardly be written
off as a shift of attention away from justice. For Hume in fact gives justice
careful attention in the second Enquiry, devoting the longest of the work’s
nine sections to it and also returning to consider justice again in its third
Appendix.

1
In the Hume literature see Woozley (1978); Cottle (1979); King (1981); Haakonssen (1981), pp. 4–44;
Harrison (1981); and Baier (2010). In the justice literature see MacIntyre (1988), pp. 300–25; and Barry
(1989), pp. 145–78.
2
See esp. James Harris, who rightly notes that in the second Enquiry “the argument given for the
artificiality of justice in Treatise 3.2.1 disappears without a trace” (2018, p. 3); see also Harris (2015),
pp. 255–56. Baier similarly notes that in the second Enquiry Hume “dropped the sharp distinction
between nature and artifice” (2010, p. 33, though see also p. 230). See also in this context Harrison
(1981), p. 289; Hardin (2008), p. 48; and Frazer (2010), p. 67.

53
54 ryan patrick hanley
Given this obvious and fundamental difference between the account of
justice in the Treatise and the account of justice in the second Enquiry, readers
of Hume are compelled to confront the challenge of explaining what exactly
changed in Hume’s shift from one sort of account to another, as well as the
challenge of explaining what, if anything, is significant in Hume’s mature
theory of justice once the idea of justice’s artificiality has been taken off the
table. Questions of this sort have long been familiar to Hume scholars, who
have often compared the treatments of discrete concepts in the Treatise and
the second Enquiry to ask what exactly has changed.3 What follows extends
this line of inquiry to the specific concept of justice in an effort to track the
differences between the two accounts in a way that might be useful to
specialists. But in so doing I also hope to call attention to certain ways in
which Hume’s mature theory of justice not only differs from but goes beyond
the Treatise account, and establishes the second Enquiry account as an
important contribution to debates in political philosophy concerning the
nature of justice and its place in political life. At the very least, I hope to
establish that dismissing the second Enquiry account of justice as uninteresting
or merely repetitive, as has sometimes been done, is to miss its point.4
What follows focuses on two specific sections of the second Enquiry: Section
3 (“Of Justice”) and Appendix 3 (“Some Farther Considerations with Regard
to Justice”). In so doing it argues for two claims. First, in shifting away from the
debate over whether justice is natural or artificial, the second Enquiry focuses
instead on how political actors and political orders enable natural justice to be
operationalized in practical life. In so doing, Hume redefines the task of politics
in such a way as to argue that the fundamental task of the statesman is to
discover how the ideals of justice can be most effectively realized or approxi-
mated in actual political conditions. In this sense, the second Enquiry account
of justice has certain normative implications. In addition, this shift aligns with
Hume’s well-appreciated commitments to both political realism and political
moderation, but also made it possible for Hume, in a manner befitting
a political moderate, to sidestep the extremism on both sides of the debate
over whether justice is best understood as natural or artificial.5

3
On the differences between the Treatise and the second Enquiry see esp. Taylor (2009) and Debes
(2007b). Students of Hume’s later moral philosophy have paid particular attention to the evolution
of his concept of sympathy; see for example Abramson (2001); Debes (2007a); and Hanley (2011).
4
For an especially forthright statement of this position, see Woozley (1978), p. 81; see also Harrison
(1981), esp. pp. 281, 289. My own view, as will be clear, is closer to Baier’s, which regards the second
Enquiry account of justice as “more theoretically complete” (Baier, 2010, p. 228).
5
For a recent reading of Hume’s political theory that emphasizes its realist orientation, see Sagar
(2018), esp. pp. 217–18; see also in this vein Hardin (2008), pp. 139–41. Neil McArthur helpfully calls
attention to Hume’s “life-long project of seeking moderation in politics” (2016, p. 493).
 Justice and Politics 55
Second, Hume’s account of justice in the second Enquiry reveals
a crucial albeit underemphasized aspect of his moral epistemology, namely
the role reason plays in moral motivation and evaluation. Hume has long
been famous (at least to nonspecialists) for urging that reason is and ought
to be the slave of the passions. But the second Enquiry offers a very different
account of the role reason plays in both motivating and evaluating just
behavior – one that specifically calls into question a reductive sentimental-
ist reading of his moral psychology.
What follows develops these claims in three sections. First I provide an
overview of the main outlines of Hume’s theory of justice as developed in
Part I of Section 3 of the second Enquiry. The next section of the chapter
turns to Part II of Section 3, in which Hume presents his political concep-
tion of justice, and specifically develops his claims regarding the role of
political actors in helping to realize justice in practice. The final section
gathers together Hume’s insights into the moral psychology of justice in
Section 3 and Appendix 3 to call attention to the roles played by reason and
reflection in motivating and evaluating just behavior.

3.1 Justice: The Foundational Argument

In the first paragraph of Section 3 of EPM, Hume lays out his fundamental
claim on justice:
That justice is useful to society, and consequently that part of its merit, at
least, must arise from that consideration, it would be a superfluous under-
taking to prove. That public utility is the sole origin of justice, and that
reflections on the beneficial consequences of this virtue are the sole founda-
tions of its merit; this proposition, being more curious and important, will
better deserve our examination and enquiry. (EPM 3.1, italics original; see
also EPM 3.48)
The primary question on the table with regard to justice is not its definition
or its function, but its origin and the origin of our conception of its merit.
This is important for several reasons. First, Hume’s account, for all the
detail into which it goes regarding the question of origins, turns out to be
relatively thin when it comes to defining justice; as commentators have
often noted, Hume never provides an explicit definition of justice, and
simply seems to associate justice with the protection of property rights.6
This focus on origins is also important for a second reason, perhaps even

6
See for example Cottle (1979), pp. 458–59; King (1981), p. 35; Barry (1989), p. 152; MacIntyre (1988),
p. 307; and Baier (2010), p. vii; cf. Moore (1976), esp. pp. 112–17. Harris and Baier have both noted
56 ryan patrick hanley
more central to the main themes of our present inquiry. Hume’s specific
claim is that, properly understood, the origin of justice lies wholly in public
utility. By this he means two things: first, that justice came to be only as
a result of certain circumstances that rendered it “useful to society”;
and second, that justice is admired only for its capacity to advance public
utility through its “beneficial consequences.”
In framing his inquiry into justice in this manner, Hume subtly shifts
the grounds of the discussion from the way in which he had presented
them in the Treatise. There too the main question was that of justice’s
origins. But by framing the debate over the origins of justice in terms of
“natural” and “artificial,” Hume invited a controversy over his fidelity to
Epicureanism and Hobbesianism.7 It is precisely this controversy that he
seems to have aimed to sidestep by the way in which he presents the
fundamental question in the second Enquiry. The second Enquiry’s fram-
ing of the essential issue preserves the point in which Hume was most
invested in the Treatise: that human beings have no natural instinct or
motive to justice, and that justice must thus come to us from external,
“artificial” sources.8 But by framing the issue now as a matter of public
utility rather than one of “naturalness” and “artificiality,” the second
Enquiry allows Hume’s key point about the origins of justice in artifice
to stand without courting the controversy invited by the focus on artifici-
ality in the Treatise.9 Further, this shift from the natural/artificial dichot-
omy to a focus on matters of public utility also shifts the question in
a decidedly political direction. That is, whereas in the Treatise the question
at issue is primarily one about human nature and the place (or absence) of
motives to justice in it, in the second Enquiry the question at issue is
primarily one about politics and the realization of justice – a shift that both
enabled Hume to distance himself from certain associations and positioned
the second Enquiry to intervene in a debate more congenial to his key
concerns as a political philosopher.

that Hume expands this definition of justice in the second Enquiry to include concerns relating to
contracts and promises and their performance; see Harris (2018), p. 1; and Baier (2010), pp. 31, 251.
7
Contemporary readers of Hume’s insistence on the artificiality of justice regularly took it as evidence
of his Epicureanism and/or Hobbesianism; see for example William Wishart and Thomas Reid, as
reprinted in Fieser (2004), vol. 1, pp. 176–78, 187–88, 194, 196; and vol. 3, pp. 101–03.
8
On the conditions that make an artificial virtue artificial, see esp. Sayre-McCord (2016), pp. 442–43.
9
This is nicely captured by Harris, who writes that “the goal was certainly not to water down his moral
philosophy to the point where it would become anodyne enough to be generally acceptable because
wholly uncontroversial. It was, rather, to pare down his moral philosophy to its most essential
elements, and to find a way of presenting it that would ensure that its radicalism did not prevent it
from being rejected out of hand” (Harris, 2015, p. 254).
 Justice and Politics 57
That said, Hume’s interventions in this political debate come largely in
the second half of Section 3. For the remainder of the first half, Hume
dedicates himself instead to justifying the fundamental claim quoted at the
start of this section above. And his route to doing so is itself striking. In Part
I of Section 3, rather than offering positive evidence in support of his claim
that utility is the sole origin of justice and the sole foundation of its merit,
Hume asks his readers instead to imagine four hypothetical counterfactual
conditions that would each obviate the need for justice by either removing
or otherwise ameliorating the conditions that render justice necessary and
useful to human beings in our actual state.
Hume’s first counterfactual concerns a hypothetical superabundance of
goods. Here he imagines a world in which nature has obviated scarcity,
having “bestowed on the human race such profuse abundance of all
external conveniences” that now “every individual finds himself fully
provided with whatever his most voracious appetites can want, or luxurious
imagination wish or desire” (EPM 3.2). Under such conditions, Hume
insists, “the cautious, jealous virtue of justice would never once have been
dreamed of,” as superabundance would render “totally useless” the protec-
tion of property rights (EPM 3.3). Hume then turns to a second counter-
factual condition of superabundance that would similarly obviate the need
for justice. But here the superabundance concerns the virtue of benevo-
lence rather than material goods. In this imagined world – where “the
mind is so enlarged, and so replete with friendship and generosity, that
every man has the utmost tenderness for every man, and feels no more
concern for his own interest than for that of his fellows” – “extensive
benevolence” replaces “the use of justice.” Here everyone would be
“a second self to another” and the “whole human race would form only
one family,” with the result that all goods “would lie in common,” and
charity would render unnecessary all divisions of private property and need
for its protection (EPM 3.6).
Next Hume asks his reader to imagine two further counterfactual
conditions that would similarly obviate the need for justice. But
this second set of counterfactuals involves conditions of absolute scarcity
rather than conditions of superabundance. In this vein, Hume argues that
just as superabundance of material goods renders justice superfluous, so too
would an absolute scarcity of material goods. Thus in times of famine or
disaster “where the society is ready to perish from extreme necessity,”
conventions of justice regarding property are suspended “and every man
may now provide for himself by all the means, which prudence can dictate,
or humanity permit” (EPM 3.8). And just as an absolute scarcity of material
58 ryan patrick hanley
goods obviates justice, so too does an absolute scarcity of moral virtue. In
this vein Hume’s fourth counterfactual asks us to imagine a virtuous man
having fallen into a “society of ruffians” governed by “desperate rapacious-
ness” and “disregard to equity” and “contempt of order.” Here too con-
ventions of property are suspended, and the virtuous man has the right to
anything that benefits his “defense and security” and may “consult the
dictates of self-preservation alone, without concern for those who no
longer merit his care and attention” (EPM 3.9).
Hume then draws his lesson from these four imagined counterfactuals:
Thus, the rules of equity or justice depend entirely on the particular state
and condition, in which men are placed, and owe their origin and existence
to that utility, which results to the public from their strict and regular
observance. Reverse, in any considerable circumstance, the condition of
men: Produce extreme abundance or extreme necessity: Implant in the
human breast perfect moderation and humanity, or perfect rapaciousness
and malice: By rendering justice totally useless, you thereby totally destroy its
essence, and suspend its obligation upon mankind. (EPM 3.12, italics
original)
Hume’s claim is simple enough: both scarcity and superabundance of
either material goods or moral virtue render justice useless; we, however,
who live in a middle state between the extremes of both scarcity and
superabundance in material goods and moral virtue will find justice useful
and even indispensable. All of this of course stands in close and clear accord
with Hume’s foundational claim that public utility is the sole origin of
justice, and with the core claims of the Treatise (see esp. T 3.2.2.18), and its
own discussion of some of these counterfactuals (see T 3.2.2.14–17). At the
same time, his method of establishing this claim through his four counter-
factuals is striking. First, some may wonder how effective Hume’s argu-
ment from counterfactuals is, given that it is never supplemented by any
positive evidence of the origin of justice in utility. Hume’s claim, at least in
the form in which it is presented here, is a negation of a hypothetical rather
than an effort to provide positive evidence.
Second, and more importantly, Hume’s counterfactual approach seems
to stand in tension with certain of his basic substantive and methodological
principles. On the substantive front, one of the most striking elements of
Hume’s argument for the utility of justice given people’s actual condition
is its presumption of the primacy of motives of self-preservation and even
what Hume himself calls selfishness. His main claim with regard to society
as it actually exists is that we do not live in conditions of either superabun-
dance or scarcity in either goods or virtue: “the common situation of
 Justice and Politics 59
society is a medium amidst all these extremes” (EPM 3.13). This view of
actual society as existing in a middle condition is important and will do
significant work later in his account of justice. At the same time, we need to
take care to ensure that Hume’s description of actual society as a “medium
amidst extremes” does not lead us to overlook the less moderate elements of
his views on self-preservation and selfishness and their relationship to
justice.
This relationship is especially evident in the Treatise. There Hume
makes much of the fact that human beings are not simply creatures
desirous of self-preservation, but beings that are, he says, “naturally selfish,
or endow’d with only a confin’d generosity” (T 3.2.5.8; cf. T 3.2.1.10,
T 3.2.2.5–6, T 3.2.2.8). This understanding of human nature is itself
what grounds his strikingly forthright conclusion with regard to the origins
of justice in the Treatise: “’tis only from the selfishness and confined generosity
of men, along with the scanty provision that nature has made for his wants, that
justice derives its origin” (T 3.2.2.18, italics original; cf. T 3.2.2.16).
The second Enquiry is not nearly so explicit on the role of selfishness;
a key goal of this text is of course to distance its theory from “the selfish
system of morals” (EPM App. 2.2–3). Yet for all this, at the core of
the second Enquiry’s account of the utility of justice seems to be a similar
presumption of the motivational primacy of what Hume even here calls
“selfishness.” Thus the second Enquiry not only calls attention to “return-
ing or disguised selfishness of men” (EPM 3.7), but also grounds one of its
hypotheticals on the counterfactual condition in which it is supposed “that
every man has the utmost tenderness for every man, and feels no more
concern for his own interest than for that of his fellows” (EPM 3.6).
Further, in what follows Hume says that without restraint, human beings
will naturally and necessarily give way to “the stronger motives of necessity
and self-preservation” (EPM 3.8) and “consult the dictates of self-
preservation alone” (EPM 3.9). Thus even as the second Enquiry aims to
distance itself from the explicit and fraught language of “selfishness,” the
motivational primacy of a form of self-preference that goes beyond mere
self-preservation remains prominent.
On the latter, more methodological front, it is striking to see Hume
arguing for so fundamental a point as the exclusive origin of justice in
utility on the basis of hypothetical counterfactuals. Even in these pas-
sages, Hume hints at his skepticism toward the “poetical fiction of the
golden age” and the “philosophical fiction of the state of nature” (EPM
3.15). Hume’s own rejection of the contract tradition is itself famously
premised on his rejection of its dependence on a hypothetical
60 ryan patrick hanley
counterfactual that is not true to life. Given this, it is hardly obvious why
Hume thought his counterfactual argument about the origins of justice
immune to his own critique of contractarianism as “not justified by
history or experience, in any age or country of the world” (E 471).
Hume’s shift toward an argument about justice framed in terms of
counterfactuals seems to draw, even amidst his characteristic commit-
ments to political realism, on methods of analysis that bring him within
the ambit of modern “ideal theory.”
Hume’s use of counterfactuals also raises a final question. For in add-
ition to the four hypothetical conditions to which he has already drawn our
attention, Hume offers two concluding counterfactual conditions to sup-
port his argument about justice and public utility. But these counterfac-
tuals are even more extreme than the earlier ones. In one of these he asks us
to imagine an androgynous self-perpetuating solitary being – one who is
“supposed to love himself alone,” and who “would, on every occasion, to
the utmost of his power, challenge the preference above every other being,
to none of which he is bound by any ties, either of nature or of interest”
(EPM 3.20). This is striking enough. But more worrisome is the last
hypothetical, in which Hume invites us to consider how human beings
would be likely to treat a “species of creatures,” who, while “rational,” were
yet “possessed of such inferior strength, both of body and mind, that they
were incapable of all resistance.” His claim is that justice would have no
utility here. But the route that he takes to establish this claim is dark.
Under such conditions, Hume tells us, “the necessary consequence,
I think, is that we should be bound, by the laws of humanity, to give
gentle usage to these creatures, but should not, properly speaking, lie under
any restraint of justice with regard to them.” Further, this condition of
“absolute command on the one side, and servile obedience on the other,”
he suggests, is justified on the grounds that such relations could not be
properly construed as social relations, as society implies “a degree of
equality.” All of this leads him to conclude that “as no inconvenience
ever results from the exercise of a power, so firmly established in nature, the
restraints of justice and property, being totally useless, would never have
place in so unequal a confederacy” (EPM 3.18). It is not entirely clear what
Hume means when he says “no inconvenience ever results from the
exercise of a power, so firmly established in nature.” But however this is
parsed, the implication seems dark.10

10
See Levy and Peart (2004), esp. pp. 341–42; and cf. Woozley (1978), pp. 90–91. Compare Hume’s
argument here to Nietzsche (1989), p. 203.
 Justice and Politics 61
3.2 Justice and Political Society
In Section 3.1 we saw that Hume’s foundational account of justice’s origins
in public utility is premised on conclusions drawn from imagined counter-
factual conditions distinct from the conditions of actual human society.
This has certain challenges, as we have seen. At the same time, framing the
issue in this way positions Hume to develop a set of fruitful insights when
he turns to consider the place of justice in actual social and political life.
With this in mind, this section looks at Part II of Section 3. For here Hume
turns to the place of justice in actual political society, and in so doing
reveals the advantages of his approach.
Part II of Section 3 begins in a way that signals a new stage in the
argument:
If we examine the particular laws, by which justice is directed, and property
determined; we shall still be presented with the same conclusion. The good
of mankind is the only object of all of these laws and regulations. Not only it
is requisite, for the peace and interest of society, that men’s possessions
should be separated, but the rules, which we follow, in making the separ-
ation, are such as can best be contrived to serve farther the interests of
society. (EPM 3.22, italics original)
Hume’s framing of his introduction to Part II indicates that he is self-
consciously making a new beginning of the argument, though one that
will yet serve to further the basic argument about the origins of justice he has
been developing up to this point. What Hume means to carry over from the
earlier discussion in Part I is his foundational claim that justice has its origin
in public utility (this is the “same conclusion” to which he here refers, and
which the argument is meant to support). Yet Hume opens a new stage of
this argument when he suggests his focus from here on out will be “the
particular laws, by which justice is directed.” That is, where in Part I of the
section, the focus was on general principles of justice, in Part II the focus will
be on particular laws.11 This shift, clearly signaled here, prepares the reader
for a similarly momentous and complementary shift that will also play out
over the course of the section: namely, a shift from hypothetical counterfac-
tual conditions to the actual conditions of real polities.
In what immediately follows, Hume introduces us to various ways in
which different political actors have navigated this transition from abstract

11
Harris helpfully calls attention to the degree to which the second Enquiry account “shows a new
interest on Hume’s part in particular moral principles, laws and customs”; see Harris (2018), p. 12.
Cf., in this regard, King (1981), p. 49 and n.18.
62 ryan patrick hanley
or general principles of justice to the instantiation of norms of justice in
real politics. He begins by describing “a creature, possessed of reason, but
unacquainted with human nature,” who “deliberates with himself what
rules of justice or property would best promote public interest.” His
intention here is to clarify how a certain type of political idealist might
try to instantiate principles of justice in an effort to optimize public utility.
And his suggestion is that the “most obvious thought” of a political idealist
of this sort would be to distribute goods in proportion with merit and
desert. Hume, it should be said, offers no evidence as to why we should
think that this would be such a reformer’s “most obvious thought.” But his
concern here is less to defend this claim than to show the perils involved in
such an approach to promoting public utility in real polities. Thus Hume’s
key claim here: the “uncertainty of merit” in real life is such that this sort of
scheme could only work in “a perfect theocracy” in which an omnipotent
being could be trusted to judge with accuracy who really deserves what.
Short of that, “no determinate rule of conduct” could ever be drawn from
such an approach in the real world; indeed “the total dissolution of society
must be the immediate consequence” of attempting to implement such
a rule in real polities. Speculation and legislation are thus two distinct acts
that, in the case of justice, are often at cross-purposes; in his words, “a rule,
which, in speculation, may seem the most advantageous to society, may yet
be found, in practice, totally pernicious and destructive” (EPM 3.23).
Hume’s aim here is to demonstrate the shortcomings of a certain type of
idealism in matters of justice. Hume himself calls this idealism “fanatical.”
Fanatics, he explains, come in different kinds. Some are “dangerous
enthusiasts” or “religious fanatics” (EPM 3.24), and later in the section
Hume will ridicule various “vulgar superstitions” in matters of religious
practice (EPM 3.36–38). But the key target here is not religious superstition
but fanaticism in all its stripes – hence his explicit references to “political
fanatics” alongside “religious fanatics.” Hume of course had long been
associated with the critique of religious fanaticism. But “Of Justice”
suggests that it is in fact political fanatics who are especially dangerous,
as they often don “a more plausible appearance, of being practicable in
themselves, as well as useful to human society” (EPM 3.24), even as their
efforts tend to compromise public order and political stability.
The main problem with the idealism that animates the political fanatics
is that, like the idealism of the religious fanatics, it seeks ideal results in
a world limited by circumstances. This is especially evident, Hume argues,
in the attempt to guarantee “an equal distribution of property” proposed
by the Levellers, who here serve as Hume’s main example of political
 Justice and Politics 63
fanaticism. The Levellers were a group of English Puritans committed to
“radical political objectives” that included, among others, demands for
equal political representation and equal property distribution.12 Theirs, he
explains, was a project doomed to failure:
Historians, and even common sense, may inform us, that, however specious
these ideas of perfect equality may seem, they are really, at bottom, imprac-
ticable; and were they not so, would be extremely pernicious to human
society. Render possessions ever so equal, men’s different degrees of art,
care, and industry will immediately break that equality. Or if you check
these virtues, you reduce society to the most extreme indigence; and instead
of preventing want and beggary in a few, render it unavoidable to the whole
community. (EPM 3.26, italics original)
At first glance, Hume’s argument seems like an early salvo in what has since
come to be understood as the critique of socialism; like many other
political economists before and since, Hume argues that schemes of perfect
equality are thwarted both by human nature’s self-interested tendencies
and by the fact that attempts to create equality via distribution of posses-
sions often have the unintended consequence of creating equality by
reifying the conditions of poverty. Yet there is also something more at
work here. Hume is not simply a political economist arguing against some
proto-socialist doctrine, but a political theorist concerned to argue against
political idealism in matters of justice. The claim at issue then is less an
economic claim about efficiency than a political claim about perfectionism
and its limits in actual practice.
Hume’s critique of the aspiration to political perfection continues in
what follows, in which it becomes clear that the Levellers are not his only
target. The Levellers’ chief shortcoming, in Hume’s eyes, was their failure
to recognize that the limits of practical political life resist any imposition of
a priori ideals. But this same sort of a priori reasoning Hume finds in some
of the “writers on the laws of nature” (EPM 3.29). Hume does not here
explicitly name which theorists of natural jurisprudence he has in mind.
And it is clear he does not think they suffer from the same misguided
normative ambitions as the Levellers. But Hume yet notes that “the
reasonings of lawyers” sometimes “depend on very slight connexions of
the imagination” (EPM 3.31). In the next section we will see that there is
a specific way in which these legal reasonings represent a sort of sophisti-
cated cognition that Hume to some degree finds impressive. But his

12
The quoted phrase and the description of the Levellers are drawn from the editorial note to EPM at
p. 137.
64 ryan patrick hanley
formulation here suggests that we may wish to be wary of legal reasoning
when appreciation of fact and sensitivity to conditions gives way to
reasoned or imagined constructions of perfection.
The important point is that Hume is committed to the idea that justice
promotes public utility and skeptical of the idea that the actual conditions
of practical life allow for perfect or ideal political schemes. But what
alternative approach does he propose? In what follows he begins to lay
this alternative out:
We may conclude, therefore, that, in order to establish laws for the regula-
tion of property, we must be acquainted with the nature and situation of
man; must reject appearances, which may be false, though specious; and
must search for those rules, which are, on the whole, most useful and
beneficial. Vulgar sense and slight experience are sufficient for this purpose;
where men give not way to too selfish avidity, or too extensive enthusiasm.
(EPM 3.27, italics original)
Hume’s intention here is quite obviously to temper the propensities of
idealists, caught up in “specious” appearances and “extensive enthusiasm”
for their ideas of perfection, to run roughshod over the limits to action
dictated by the “nature and situation of man.” It is of course the classic
appeal of the political realist and the political moderate in the face of calls
for extreme measures. But with this in view, we can begin to see part of the
significance of Hume’s decision to recast his presentation of his theory of
justice in the second Enquiry. As we have seen, Hume’s aim as a theorist of
justice in this particular text, alongside demonstrating justice’s origin in
public utility, was to call attention to the dangers of idealistic immoder-
ation and the benefits of political moderation. But this represents an
evolution of the account of justice from the Treatise. In insisting on the
artificiality rather than the naturalness of justice, the Treatise set forth an
account that could easily be – indeed was – read as immoderate and
philosophically radical.13 But the second Enquiry, in dropping the insist-
ence on the artificiality of justice and emphasizing both the dangers of
political fanaticism and the benefits of political moderation, brings
Hume’s mature theory of justice into much closer accord with the moder-
ation characteristic of his political philosophy more generally.
The second Enquiry’s account of justice, far from being merely a popular
reworking or attenuated version of the Treatise’s account, thus can be read
as an effort on Hume’s part to align his theory of justice with his broader

13
On the reception of Hume’s justice theory, see Harris (2012), pp. 210–30; see also Hardin (2008), pp.
46–47.
 Justice and Politics 65
commitments as a political philosopher. But this raises a question: just
what led Hume to rethink matters in this way? What happened between
the Treatise and the second Enquiry that led him to rethink his presentation
on this front? Hume himself gives us the answer in the passage in which he
most explicitly states his central conclusion on this matter:
In general, we may observe, that all questions of property are subordinate to
the authority of civil laws, which extend, restrain, modify, and alter the rules
of natural justice, according to the particular convenience of each commu-
nity. The laws have, or ought to have, a constant reference to the constitu-
tion of government, the manners, the climate, the religion, the commerce,
the situation of each society. A late author of genius, as well as learning, has
prosecuted this subject at large, and has established, from these principles,
a system of political knowledge, which abounds in ingenious and brilliant
thoughts, and is not wanting in solidity. (EPM 3.34, italics original)
Here Hume lays out his main claim in a way that not only summarizes his
most important conclusion, but also signals how and why his account in
the second Enquiry differs from the Treatise account. The main claim
concerns the fundamental task of the legislator: the lawgiver’s entire art,
we are here told, consists in developing and enacting “civil laws” that
“extend, restrain, modify, and alter the rules of natural justice” in a way
that fits the laws of natural justice to the convenience of the community
and the basic conditions of its constitution. Thus where the political
fanatic seeks to impose an ideal scheme of justice on actual communities
to maximize public utility, Hume’s legislator is engaged in a more moder-
ate project: translating “natural justice” in its pure form to fit the condi-
tions of the actual polity.14 Hume’s explicit invocation here of “natural
justice” makes clear how far his account has come from the Treatise; far
from denying the existence of natural justice – as the Treatise account was
taken, fairly or unfairly, by many to have done in its emphasis on the
artificiality of justice – the second Enquiry account makes it clear that the
justice that politics aims to realize is neither a simple imposition of natural
justice on political life nor an entirely artificial and positivistic construc-
tion. Resisting both the penchant for perfectionism characteristic of the
political fanatic and the penchant for reductionism characteristic of posi-
tivists such as Hobbes, Hume instead suggests that the legislative art lies in
navigating the transition from natural justice to artificial justice, and
specifically in using civil law to bring to real politics the ideals of natural

14
Frazer (2010), pp. 72–73 also calls helpful attention to this passage; though cf. Harrison (1981), pp.
282–84.
66 ryan patrick hanley
justice. And finally, Hume here clearly signals how and why he came to see
matters this way: thus his note to Montesquieu’s famous Spirit of the Laws,
the book of that “late author of genius” published in 1749 and cited by
Hume in the note to the paragraph just quoted – the book that more than
any other Enlightenment text impressed upon Hume (and many others)
the need for laws to have “constant reference” to the customs and habits of
a given people.15

3.3 Justice and Motivation: Reason and the Progress

of Sentiments
Our inquiry to this point has focused on Hume’s answer to a question
regarding the origins of justice. His answer, we have seen, is premised on
the idea that human nature lacks an original motive to justice, and thus we
need to turn to artificial or “political” mechanisms to supplement this lack.
But this is only one of two questions that Hume’s account of justice is
intended to address. For alongside this question about justice’s origins,
Hume also seeks to explain our approbation of justice. In the course of so
doing he gives particular attention to the role of education and the role of
reason in the approbation of justice, and indeed it is here that the second
Enquiry makes some of its most interesting contributions on justice.
The relevant sections of the text for this part of the argument are
the second half of Part II of Section 3 of the second Enquiry, and the third
Appendix. Here Hume returns to a particular side of his fundamental claim
about justice. As we saw in Section 3.2, the key claim of the Treatise with
regard to the origin of justice is that “the sense of justice and injustice is not
deriv’d from nature, but arises artificially, tho’ necessarily from education,
and human conventions” (T 3.2.1.17). Commentators have tended to focus
on the second of these two sources. Rightly so: conventions play the more
prominent role in Hume’s argument, especially in the Treatise account, and
the sorts of conventions that he describes – most famously, the tacit
agreement of the two oarsmen pulling together to row, but also the emer-
gence of conventions regarding both money and language (EPM App. 3.8;
cf. T 3.2.2.10) – have been the focus of many studies that have called
attention to Hume’s contributions as a theorist of spontaneous social
cooperation and mutual coordination.16 But what has been less well

15
On the significance of Hume’s encounter with Montesquieu see esp. Harris (2018), pp. 14–15, 20, 23,
and (2015), pp. 250–52, 257–58.
16
See for example Moore (1976), pp. 108–09; and esp. Spector (2014).
 Justice and Politics 67
examined is the role of the other source: “education.” This no doubt in part
owes to the fact that moral education is not a major focus of Hume’s theory,
as has been noted.17 But the few comments that he does make on education,
especially in the second Enquiry, are revealing and play an important
preparatory role for Hume’s more developed claims about the role of reason.
What then is the “education” Hume has in mind with regard to justice,
and how does it contribute to the task of those “conventions” alongside
which it operates? The account in the Treatise tends to emphasize that the
“progress of sentiments” owes as much or more to “the artifice of politi-
cians” than to education, explaining that certain politicians, “in order to
govern men more easily, and preserve peace in human society, have
endeavour’d to produce an esteem for justice, and an abhorrence of
injustice” (T 3.2.2.25; cf. T 3.2.2.26, T 3.2.5.12, T 3.2.6.11). Hume’s formu-
lation is of course reminiscent of Mandeville’s cynical account of political
artifice. The second Enquiry, however, takes a different approach – one
that distances itself from Mandeville by dropping all references to “artifice
of politicians” (though cf. EPM 4.3–4), and places greater emphasis on
education of a different sort.18 This comes out in a variety of ways. It first
emerges in Hume’s suggestion that the human being is naturally educable:
that “we are naturally partial to ourselves, and to our friends; but are
capable of learning the advantage of a more equitable conduct” (EPM
3.13). The second Enquiry, unlike the Treatise, also shows us a moral
educator (other than parents) at work. Thus the story from Xenophon
that Hume presents in the third Appendix:
Cyrus, young and inexperienced, considered only the individual case before
him, and reflected on a limited fitness and convenience, when he assigned the
long coat to the tall boy, and the short coat to the other of smaller size. His
governor instructed him better; while he pointed out more enlarged views and
consequences, and informed his pupil of the general, inflexible rules, neces-
sary to support general peace and order in society. (EPM App. 3.4)
Here we see education – and indeed an educator – transforming its subjects
by teaching them how to transcend those original sentiments endemic to
an exclusively first-person perspective and adopt instead “more enlarged
views and consequences” that serve better to promote peace and social
order.

17
Baier, in noting Hume’s “silence on moral education” in the second Enquiry, suggests, however, that
“a little is said in the History”; see Baier (2010), p. 3.
18
On Hume’s proximity to Mandeville in the Treatise and his attempts to distance himself from
Mandeville in the second Enquiry, see Harris (2015), pp. 126, 132, 254.
68 ryan patrick hanley
Hume does not elaborate further on education’s role, and indeed his
other explicit references to education in the second Enquiry tend to
emphasize its corrupting rather than its edifying effects (e.g., EPM 3.36,
9.18).19 Yet the idea at the heart of his conception of the role of education in
justice – the idea that the human being, through the maturation of its
natural capacities, can come to transcend innate but limited forms of self-
preference – is taken up at length in the more developed account of moral
psychology in Section 3 and Appendix 3. And it is here that the most
significant differences in the accounts of the Treatise and the second
Enquiry lie. This difference begins to manifest itself in the way Hume
sets up the story of Cyrus and his governor. Hume introduces this story in
the course of his effort to distinguish “the social virtues of humanity and
benevolence” from “the social virtues of justice and fidelity” (EPM App.
3.2–3). His language here is significant; whereas in the Treatise, benevo-
lence was a “natural virtue” and justice an “artificial virtue,” in the second
Enquiry both virtues are simply “social virtues.” But more significant for
our purposes is that in the second Enquiry, these two types of “social
virtues” are distinguished by both their motives and the ways in which
they come to be approved. The social virtues of benevolence and human-
ity, we are told, “exert their influence immediately”: that is, they both
motivate their possessors and are admired by their spectators via “a direct
tendency or instinct” that is capable of “moving the affections,” indeed one
that moves the affections “without any reflection on farther consequences,
and without any more enlarged views of the concurrence or imitation of
the other members of society” or the “scheme or system” of society itself
(EPM App. 3.2). But the social virtue of justice is different:
The case is not the same with the social virtues of justice and fidelity. They
are highly useful, or indeed absolutely necessary to the well-being of man-
kind: But the benefit, resulting from them, is not the consequence of every
individual single act; but arises from the whole scheme or system, concurred
in by the whole, or the greater part of society. (EPM App. 3.3)
Thus the difference between benevolence and justice. Benevolence is one
of those “social passions” that are meant to be felt. Specifically, it is
a sentiment that particular benevolent individuals feel for others, and
that particular spectators feel when they see its operation in particular
cases. But justice, even if it is a “social virtue,” is not a “social passion.”

19
Several of Hume’s contemporaries did, however, attend closely to the role of education in justice; see
Hanley (2018).
 Justice and Politics 69
Justice, that is, is not a sentiment that is felt but a social virtue that can
only be appreciated through a particular type of cognition. Specifically,
insofar as its benefits are to be found not in each discrete act but rather
throughout “the whole scheme or system,” a commitment to justice
requires the cognitive capacity to apprehend this enlarged scheme or
system and not be led astray by the sentiments prompted by observing
individual cases. This is of course precisely what the education provided
by Cyrus’ governor sought to cure him of, for when he “considered only
the individual case before him,” he allowed “a particular regard to the
particular right of one individual” to obscure and trump a commitment
to more general principles of justice (EPM App. 3.3–4).20
The second Enquiry’s claim that justice requires certain cognitive cap-
acities marks an important break with the assumptions of the Treatise’s
account. The account of justice in the Treatise is strikingly noncognitive.21
There Hume forthrightly insists “that the sense of justice is not founded on
reason, or on the discovery of certain connexions and relations of ideas,
which are eternal, immutable, and universally obligatory.” Rephrasing this
in the language of Hume’s epistemology, the Treatise goes on to insist that
“the sense of justice, therefore, is not founded on our ideas, but on our
impressions and sentiments” (T 3.2.2.20; though cf. T 3.2.2.9). In particu-
lar, our motivations to act justly simply cannot be grounded in ideas of
remote social consequences or even the “public interest” more generally:
“that is a motive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of
mankind” (T 3.2.1.11).
Yet matters are very different in the second Enquiry.22 So far from
insisting that reason cannot be the foundation of justice, the second
Enquiry tells us that in fact it would be very strange if nature were to
“create a rational creature, without trusting anything to the operation of
his reason” (EPM 3.42). The second Enquiry then goes on explicitly to say
that it is precisely “the influence of reason and custom” (EPM 3.44) that

20
I am grateful to a reviewer for calling my attention to the way in which Hume’s invocation of this
story replicates Hutcheson’s concerns with regard to enforcement of “external rights” in
a “particular instance”; see Hutcheson (2008), pp. 183–86.
21
MacIntyre’s account is especially sensitive to this; see MacIntyre (1988), pp. 301, 307, though cf. 314.
See also Haakonssen (1981), p. 19. It would be wrong, however, to suggest that the Treatise account is
entirely noncognitive, as passages such as T 3.2.2.22 make clear. For a useful account of the role of
reflection in the Treatise, see Taylor (1998), esp. pp. 9–10, 16–17. Sharon Krause has similarly called
attention to the ways in which “cognitive and affective elements are thoroughly interwoven” in
Hume’s account; see Krause (2004), p. 632; see also p. 648.
22
See esp. Baier’s account of the way in which Hume rethinks the ostensible “impotence” of reason to
the point that reason has “acquired considerable potency” in the second Enquiry (Baier, 2010, pp.
218–19).
70 ryan patrick hanley
allows us to pass beyond our natural sentiments and enforce the rules of
justice. But it is important to be clear about what exactly is new here.
The second Enquiry carries over from the Treatise the denial that justice
could be derived “from a simple original instinct in the human breast,
which nature has implanted.” But what is new here is the idea that what
fills the hole left by nature and provides us with the motivation to act justly
is precisely “our reflecting” on public utility (EPM 3.40) – a formulation
that suggests the role of “reason and reflection” in this process (EPM 3.45).
The upshot is that the second Enquiry differs from the Treatise in insisting
that justice and property “suppose reason, forethought, design” among
men, and indeed that “society among human creatures, had been impos-
sible, without reason, and forethought” (EPM App. 3 n.64).23
The second Enquiry’s insistence on the indispensability of reason and
reflection to justice reaches its climax in a key passage in the third Appendix:
If by convention be meant a sense of common interest; which sense each man
feels in his own breast, which he remarks in his fellows, and which carries
him, in concurrence with others, into a general plan or system of actions,
which tends to public utility; it must be owned, that, in this sense, justice
arises from human conventions. For if it be allowed (what is, indeed,
evident) that the particular consequences of a particular act of justice may
be hurtful to the public as well as to individuals; it follows, that every man,
in embracing that virtue, must have an eye to the whole plan or system, and
must expect the concurrence of his fellows in the same conduct and behav-
iour. Did all his views terminate in the consequences of each act of his own,
his benevolence and humanity, as well as his self-love, might often prescribe
to him measures of conduct very different from those, which are agreeable to
the strict rules of right and justice. (EPM App. 3.7, italics original)
Hume’s key claim is that an appreciation of the way justice promotes the
utility of “the whole plan or system” is necessary to ensure that we are not
misled by those sentiments that we feel in particular instances. And
interestingly, these misleading sentiments include not only the self-
directed sentiments of “self-love” but also the other-directed sentiments
of “benevolence and humanity,” both of which can lead us to act in ways
contrary to the “strict rules of right and justice” – the former via a self-
preference that leads us to try to exempt ourselves from the equal rule of

23
See also Haakonssen, who in citing the passage quoted above describes it as “perhaps the most
rationalistic-sounding passage” in the whole of Hume’s account of justice, but then, noting that it
seems “rather difficult to square” this emphasis on reason with the account of justice elsewhere,
dismisses these passages as simply “the result of carelessness” on Hume’s part (Haakonssen, 1981, pp.
26–27).
 Justice and Politics 71
law, and the latter by sympathetic feelings that lead us to commiserate with
the pains that the guilty suffer under just punishment.
And with this we come to what is perhaps the most striking element of the
account of justice in the second Enquiry. Hume so far has argued that justice
requires a capacity for “enlarged views” of the “whole scheme or system” –
views fostered by reason and reflection and in certain instances compromised
by sentiment. But his mature theory goes even further, asking, “what stronger
foundation can be desired or conceived for any duty, than to observe, that
human society, or even human nature could not subsist without the establish-
ment of it; and will still arrive at greater degrees of happiness and perfection,
the more inviolable the regard is, which is paid to that duty?” (EPM 3.39).
Hume’s insistence on the “inviolability” of a “duty” to perform those acts
without which society could not subsist cannot help but bring Kant to mind.
It is an association that only grows stronger with Hume’s conclusion:
What alone will beget a doubt concerning the theory, on which I insist, is
the influence of education and acquired habits, by which we are so accus-
tomed to blame injustice, that we are not, in every instance, conscious of any
immediate reflection on the pernicious consequences of it. The views the
most familiar to us are apt, for that very reason, to escape us, and what we
have very frequently performed from certain motives, we are apt likewise to
continue mechanically, without recalling, on every occasion, the reflections,
which first determined us. The convenience, or rather necessity, which leads
to justice, is so universal, and every where points so much to the same rules,
that the habit takes place in all societies; and it is not without some scrutiny,
that we are able to ascertain its true origin. The matter, however, is not so
obscure, but that, even in common life, we have, every moment, recourse to
the principle of public utility, and ask, What must become of the world, if such
practices prevail? How could society subsist under such disorders? (EPM 3.47,
italics original)
At first glance, Hume here simply reaffirms his well-known commitments
to the primacy of the habits of common life. But he also wants to go
further. For beneath those habits that common life has rendered so familiar
to us, and behind those acts that we have been led by habit to perform
“mechanically,” are a certain set of “reflections, which first determined us.”
And chief among these reflections is the one that stands as the “true origin”
of justice and our foundational commitment to it: namely, our reasoned
reflection on “what must become of the world, if such practices prevail?” It
is a striking formulation, one that suggests the degree to which Hume’s
mature theory of justice relies on certain cognitive capacities in ways that
the earlier noncognitive theory of the Treatise did not.
 chapter 4

History, Context, and the Conventions

of Political Society
Marc Hanvelt

4.1 Introduction
Hume’s discussion in the fourth section of An Enquiry Concerning the
Principles of Morals (EPM) is as remarkable for its wide scope as for its
brevity. In a short but dense section of only a few pages, Hume completed
a trilogy of chapters devoted to the virtues necessary for social life.
Following sections on benevolence and justice, Section 4 of EPM is titled
simply “Political Society,” and treats an eclectic collection of subjects
ranging from political allegiance to the laws of nations to chastity, fidelity,
and good manners. How can we explain the subjects that Hume chose to
include? How does this section relate to Hume’s political thought more
generally? An important key to answering these questions lies in Hume’s
understanding of the relationship between history, context, and politics.
One of the most significant changes that Hume made when he recast his
presentation of the political virtues for EPM was to drop the conjectural
history that had figured prominently in the Treatise. This change coincided
with other instances of Hume employing different genres of historical
writing to particular effect. It reflected his sense of the importance of
history and context in the development of conventions of political society
and sharpened his critique of social contract theory and of republican
political thought. On Hume’s account, all the virtues necessary for life in
society are valued for their utility. However, though humans share a need
for rules to govern their interactions, Hume recognized that the specific
rules that emerge in particular contexts are rarely objectively necessary. The
conventions of political society are not the products of rational calculation.
They often arise from historical accidents and develop through a process of
habituation. For this reason, the conventions of any society, even those
conventions that promote universal interests, can only be fully understood
contextually. Hume’s account of allegiance is aptly illustrative.

72
 History, Context, and Political Society 73
4.2 Hume on Allegiance: The Essentials
Hume opens Section 4 of EPM with a brief discussion of political alle-
giance. A glance over this single paragraph suggests that the essential
features of his account of allegiance did not change significantly between
1740 and 1751. From his early discussion in the Treatise, through to EPM,
Hume argued that we approve of allegiance to established political author-
ities because we recognize its social utility. In Book 3 of the Treatise, he
wrote, “we blame all disloyalty to magistrates; because we perceive, that the
execution of justice, in the stability of possession, its translation by consent,
and the performance of promises, is impossible, without submission to
government” (T 3.2.8.7). We value justice, Hume argued, because “the
convention for the distinction of property, and for the stability of posses-
sion, is of all circumstances the most necessary to the establishment of
human society” (T 3.2.2.12). In his essay “Of the Origin of Government,”
first published in 1741, Hume repeated that individuals are “engaged to
establish political society, in order to administer justice; without which
there can be no peace among them, nor safety, nor mutual intercourse. We
are, therefore, to look upon all the vast apparatus of our government, as
having ultimately no other object or purpose but the distribution of
justice” (“Of the Origin of Government,” E, 37). He repeated the essentials
for a third time in EPM. There, Hume argued, “human nature cannot, by
any means, subsist, without the association of individuals; and that associ-
ation never could have place, were no regard paid to the laws of equity and
justice” (EPM 4.3). Therefore, “the SOLE foundation of the duty of
ALLEGIANCE is the advantage, which it procures to society, by preserv-
ing peace and order among mankind” (EPM 4.1). Allegiance is necessary to
sustain political authority. Authority is necessary to enforce the rules of
justice. Enforced rules of justice are necessary for the endurance of human
societies. Human beings cannot subsist without society.
That the theory of allegiance in EPM appears unchanged from the
account that Hume developed in the Treatise is little surprise given his
claim that his “want of success in publishing the Treatise of Human Nature
had proceeded more from the manner than the matter” (“My Own Life,”
xxxv), and that in composing EPM, he had corrected “some negligences in
his former reasoning and more in the expression” (EHU Ad 1777, 1).1

1
This advertisement appeared in the 1777 two-volume edition of Essays and Treatises on Several
Subjects, which included Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, An Enquiry Concerning the Principles
of Morals, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, “A Dissertation on the Passions,” and “The
Natural History of Religion.”
74 marc hanvelt
However, the matter of an argument is not always so easily divorced from
the manner of its presentation. Hume certainly knew this to be true.2 What
is more, correcting negligences of expression can include adding new
arguments or replacing one argument with another, provided the conclu-
sion remains the same. In a notable change to the manner of his presenta-
tion in EPM, Hume dropped the conjectural history that he had employed
in the Treatise to develop his accounts of property, justice, and allegiance.
This change in the manner of his discussion affected its matter also.
A conjectural history is a “rational or naturalistic account of the origins
and development of institutions, beliefs or practices not based on docu-
ments or copies of documents or other artifacts contemporary (or thought
to be contemporary) with the subjects studied” (Emerson, 1984, p. 65).
Conjectural history was widely employed by Scottish philosophers in the
eighteenth century. A Scot, Dugald Stewart, first coined the term.
Conjectural history figured prominently in the accounts of justice and
property that Hume developed in the Treatise and set up the account of
allegiance to government that followed:3
when men have observ’d, that tho’ the rules of justice be sufficient to
maintain any society, yet ’tis impossible for them, of themselves, to observe
those rules, in large and polish’d societies; they establish government, as
a new invention to attain their ends, and preserve the old, or procure new
advantages, by a more strict execution of justice. (T 3.2.8.5)
To make sense of Hume’s choice to drop conjectural history from his
discussion of political subjects in EPM, we must consider a wider view of
his historical and political writings.

4.3 Accidental Causes in History

James Harris has described the period from April 1749 to July or
August 1751 – the period during which Hume composed EPM while living
with his brother and sister at their family home of Ninewells – as one “of
extraordinary literary productivity” (Harris, 2015, p. 249). At roughly the
same time that he was composing EPM, Hume likely also composed “The
Natural History of Religion,” which he would publish in 1757 in Four
Dissertations. He also read in preparation for writing the History of England,
published between 1754 and 1762.4 In these latter two works, Hume
accentuated the distinction between politics and religion by writing

2 3 4
See Hanvelt (2012). See T 3.2.2. See Harris (2015), pp. 249, 289, and 325.
 History, Context, and Political Society 75
a narrative history of England and a conjectural history of religion. From
the late 1740s onward, a pattern emerged in his selective adoption of
different genres of historical writing: Hume’s literary choice in EPM
reflected his wider decision to shift away from treating political subjects,
such as allegiance and authority, through conjectural history. The question
is: Why?
In 1753, Hume wrote to his friend John Clephane, “there is no post of
honour in the English Parnassus more vacant than that of History. Style,
judgement, impartiality, care – everything is wanting to our historians” (L
I, 170). As an historian, Hume aimed at what he termed “impartiality” in
his writings. Scholars of his work have interpreted this aim as limited to
Hume’s stated intent to write a history of England that was free of party
prejudice.5 However, Hume’s understanding of impartiality was broader.
Certainly, he sought to undermine party appeals to history. However, as
a philosophical historian, he aimed to undermine all attempts to make the
data of history fit into predetermined political or philosophical narratives.
For example, by detaching religious from political history, Hume under-
mined the view that the Glorious Revolution of 1688 was divinely
ordained, as was suggested by the “biblically based discourse . . . which
presented William as a providential ruler who had a divine commission to
protect the protestant church in England, and to return the nation to its
pristine faith, piety, and virtue” (Claydon, 1996, p. 4). Hume rejected any
notion that the history of Britain was providential.6 This rejection set him
against theologians, Court propagandists, and even against his friend
William Robertson who, though usually considered a similarly enlightened
historian, nevertheless maintained an “abiding belief in providence and the
progress of Christianity” (Phillipson, 1997, p. 68).
Hume thought religious explanations were not properly historical
because, he argued, religion “contains in it something supernatural and
unaccountable; and that, in its operations upon society, effects correspond
less to their known causes than is found in any other circumstance of
government” (H 5.67). Where religion does figure prominently in Hume’s
account of English history – for example, in his presentation of the English
civil wars as the outcome of “an unhappy concurrence of circumstances,”
and “the turbulent spirit of the age” (“Parties of Great Britain,” E, 69) – it

5
See, for example, Stewart (1963); Forbes (1975); Harris (2015).
6
For an argument that challenges the effectiveness of this move in Hume’s historical writings, see
Herdt (2013), pp. 37–59.
76 marc hanvelt
does so as part of his broader narrative, in which accidents of history figure
as the most significant causal factors.
According to Hume, understanding how accidental causes shape the
course of history is essential for understanding political authority and
allegiance. If his British readers took only one lesson from his History,
Hume hoped it would be that
an acquaintance with the ancient periods of their government is chiefly
useful by instructing them to cherish their present constitution, from
a comparison or contrast with the condition of those distant times. And it
is also curious, by shewing them the remote, and commonly faint and
disfigured originals of the most finished and most noble institutions, and
by instructing them in the great mixture of accident, which commonly
concurs with a small ingredient of wisdom and foresight, in erecting the
complicated fabric of the most perfect government. (H 2.525)
The prominence of historical accident and unintended consequences in
English history does not accord with the rational progression of
a conjectural history. In fact, it calls the utility of conjectural history into
question. As Mark G. Spencer has written, Hume thought that under-
standing an event or person in history “meant looking forward and
backward, in an effort to situate the event and its agents in a layered
historical context. It meant looking at things and people from highly
contextualized and even shifting points of view” (Spencer, 2019, p. 294).
These requirements greatly complicated several questions about political
authority and allegiance: (1) How should Britons understand the limits of
their duty of allegiance and to whom they owe that duty at any moment of
history? and (2) If accidents of history figured so prominently in British
politics, how is constitutional design related to lawful government? Hume
offered answers to these questions that foreground the importance of
context and history and, in so doing, pose fundamental challenges to
both social contract theory and republican political thought.

4.4 The Duty of Allegiance and Its Limits

The social contract tradition, of which John Locke had been the most
notable defender, was a prominent element of eighteenth-century British
political discourse. Eighteenth-century Whigs, for example, defended sub-
mission to the Crown by appealing to contract theory to defend the
legitimacy of the Glorious Revolution and to cast William and Mary’s
regal authority and, by extension, the authority of the monarchs that
 History, Context, and Political Society 77
followed them as founded upon the consent of the British people. Hume
was not convinced. He rejected the argument that political order could
only be lawful if based on the rational consent of the people. It did not hold
up historically. On the contrary, he wrote, “almost all the governments,
which exist at present, or of which there remains any record in story, have
been founded originally, either on usurpation or conquest, or both, with-
out any pretence of a fair consent, or voluntary subjection of the people”
(“Original Contract,” E, 471). Contract theory fails as an explanation of
political history. However, more generally, it poses what Hume took to be
the wrong questions about political authority and allegiance.
Early in the Second Treatise of Government, Locke defined political
power as “a right to make laws” (Second Treatise, §3). By defining political
power as a right, he steered the discussion of authority and allegiance
toward a particular set of questions: What gives someone the right to be
obeyed? Or, when do individuals have a duty of allegiance? Locke’s defin-
ition of political power made the legitimacy of political authority the
primary subject of analysis. On his account, governments that seek to
extend their authority beyond the bounds of the contract (“exercise force
without right,” Second Treatise, §19) dissolve their own authority and
absolve their population of any further duty of allegiance.
Hume began his analysis of authority and allegiance upon a different
footing. He observed that “FORCE is always on the side of the governed”
(“First Principles of Government,” E, 32). No matter the regime type, no
matter the character of individual political leaders, no matter even how
repressive political authorities might be, the people always have the demo-
graphic weight to overthrow their governors. Given this reality, he
thought, the question of why or under what conditions individuals
ought to obey their governors offered less insight into political life than
the question of why, despite the variety of regimes that exist in the world,
individuals acknowledge a duty of allegiance. Understanding this phenom-
enon requires not a conjectural history, but a properly historical analysis
that takes account of individual political and historical contexts.
In EPM, in lieu of positing a hypothetical state of nature as his reference
point, as Locke and Hobbes had done, Hume began with an historical
counterfactual:
Had every man sufficient sagacity to perceive, at all times, the strong interest,
which binds him to the observance of justice and equity, and strength of
mind sufficient to persevere in a steady adherence to a general and a distant
interest, in opposition to the allurements of present pleasure and advantage;
there had never, in that case, been any such thing as government or political
78 marc hanvelt
society, but each man, following his natural liberty, had lived in entire peace
and harmony with all others. (EPM 4.1)
Had human beings not always been as they are now, the foundations of
political authority and allegiance would be different. Human beings
require government, not because of what they were in some original or
natural condition, but because their limited moral and intellectual capaci-
ties require it. This opening salvo echoed the approach to critiquing social
contract theory that Hume had developed in his essay “Of the Original
Contract.” There, he wrote, “were all men possessed of so perfect an
understanding, as always to know their own interests, no form of govern-
ment had ever been submitted to, but what was established on consent, and
was fully canvassed by every member of the society: But this state of
perfection is likewise much superior to human nature” (“Original
Contract,” E, 474).
An important thread that runs throughout Hume’s political writings is
his view that normative arguments must reflect a properly scientific under-
standing of politics and human behavior. As with the science of man, the
science of politics requires that we glean “up our experiments . . . from
a cautious observation of human life, and take them as they appear in the
common course of the world, by men’s behaviour in company, in affairs,
and in their pleasures” (T Intro. 10). “Establish’d truths,” he wrote, are
“founded on history and experience” (T App. 2). State-of-nature theories
are founded upon neither. Hume used English political history to unmask
the problems with contract theory. Britons who challenged the authority of
the king on the ground that they had been rendered less free than in some
fictional original state of nature were invoking a meaningless comparison.
The relevant comparison was not with an invented ideal, but rather with
the earlier history of England. In his 1758 essay “Of the Coalition of
Parties,” he wrote:
The former controul over the kings was not placed in the commons, but in
the barons . . .. If we must return to the ancient barbarous and feudal
constitution; let those gentlemen, who now behave themselves with so
much insolence to their sovereign, set the first example. Let them make
court to be admitted as retainers to a neighbouring baron; and by submit-
ting to slavery under him, acquire some protection to themselves; together
with the power of exercising rapine and oppression over their inferior slaves
and villains. This was the condition of the commons among their remote
ancestors. (“Coalition of Parties,” E, 497)
 History, Context, and Political Society 79
By undermining the appeal to an original constitution as the foundation of
lawful political authority, Hume raised a serious objection to champions of
parliamentary forces during the English civil wars. They had claimed that
James I and Charles I had instituted uniquely arbitrary violations of
ancient English liberties. On Hume’s account, the reigns of James I and
Charles I continued established patterns of rule. “The House of TUDOR,”
he wrote, “and after them that of STUART, exercised no prerogatives, but
what had been claimed and exercised by the PLANTAGENETS”
(“Coalition of Parties,” E, 497). Many English monarchs had exercised
absolute rule. Even the much-lionized Elizabeth was comparable to
a Turkish despot (H 4.360).
Despite the prevalence of absolute monarchy in English history, the
population had nevertheless recognized the authority of even their most
severe rulers. How was it possible that styles of rule could vary so greatly
while perceptions of the duty of allegiance remained, essentially
unchanged? And, if it is the case that the duty of allegiance is not tied to
specific styles of political rule, are there no limits to it at all? Do people owe
a duty of allegiance, even to the vilest of tyrants?
For Hume, the answer was clearly, “No.” But, he saw no need to ground
lawful authority upon consent to justify resistance to tyranny. In the
Treatise, Hume wrote, “’tis certain, therefore, that in all our notions of
morals we never entertain such an absurdity as that of passive obedience,
but make allowances for resistance in the more flagrant instances of
tyranny and oppression” (T 3.2.9.4). What determines when a case of
tyranny or oppression is sufficiently flagrant to absolve individuals of
their duty of allegiance? With all questions of morals, Hume wrote that
his reader “needs only enter into his own breast for a moment, and consider
whether or not he should desire to have this or that quality ascribed to him,
and whether such or such an imputation would proceed from a friend or an
enemy. The very nature of language guides us almost infallibly in forming
a judgment of this nature” (EPM 1.10).
The view into our own heart is a view into a particular context. Though
Hume thought the terms virtue and vice mark distinctions that are
universal, based on what is useful or agreeable to our self or to others,
our judgment of the utility of continued allegiance to a particular political
authority is always shaped by contextual factors. Richard Dees has argued,
“Hume [thought] contexts are important to any account of justified
rebellion, because he [thought] any attempt to systematize such an account
will be wrecked on our efforts to account for all the relevant factors” (1992,
p. 221). Therefore, Hume thought, principled defenses of rebellion offer no
80 marc hanvelt
insights into the question of how far the duty of allegiance extends. History
does, only it offers answers that anyone who insists upon universal stand-
ards will find unsatisfactory.

4.5 Understanding the Significance of Regime Types

Though he thought no universal defense of rebellion was possible, a survey
of different forms of rule led Hume to observe that “tyrannical government
enervates the courage of men, and renders them indifferent towards the
fortunes of their sovereign.” Therefore, he wrote, “in every respect, a gentle
government is preferable, and gives the greatest security to the sovereign as
well as to the subject” (“Politics May Be Reduced to a Science,” E, 24).
When he claimed that “gentle government” is in the best interests of both
ruler and ruled, Hume was responding to the writings of Niccolo
Machiavelli. In particular, he was correcting Machiavelli’s argument
against a view that Cicero had defended in De Officiis, the book that
Hume claimed had influenced all his reasonings (L I, 34). Cicero’s advice
to statesmen was the following: “there is nothing at all more suited to
protecting and retaining influence than to be loved, and nothing less suited
than to be feared” (2013, pp. 70–71). Machiavelli argued the opposite: “one
would want to be one and the other; but because it is difficult to put them
together, it is much safer to be feared than loved” (1998, p. 66). This view
followed directly from his understanding of government:
A government is nothing other than holding subjects in such a mode that
they cannot or ought not offend you. This is done either by securing oneself
against them altogether, taking from them every way of hurting you, or by
benefiting them in such a mode that it would not be reasonable for them to
desire to change Fortune. (Machiavelli, 1996, II.23.2)
However, Machiavelli argued, “since men love at their convenience and
fear at the convenience of the prince, a wise prince should found himself on
what is his, not on what is someone else’s; he should only contrive to avoid
hatred” (1998, p. 68).
From Hume’s perspective, Machiavelli’s account of government failed
because it misidentified the foundations of political authority. In one of his
early political essays, Hume described the three foundations that
Machiavelli identified – fear, love, and self-interest – as principles “to be
esteemed the secondary, not the original principles of government.” While
those three principles can, Hume argued, “add force to . . . determine,
limit, or alter” political authority, they “can have no influence alone, but
 History, Context, and Political Society 81
suppose the antecedent influence of those opinions” that form the true
foundations of political authority. Hume corrected Machiavelli by identi-
fying opinion – specifically, opinion “of public interest, of right to power,
and of right to property” – as the true foundation of government (“First
Principles of Government,” E, 34). By public interest, Hume meant the
population’s long-term interest in having stable government to enforce the
rules of justice. In virtually every circumstance, he thought, any govern-
ment will be better for the populace than no government. The form
a government takes is far less important than the purpose it serves.
Allegiance, he argued, is tied to that purpose, not to any specific form of
government.
This conclusion held true, Hume noted, even within a single country.
Reflecting on the different periods of English history, he wrote, “in each of
these successive alterations, the only rule of government, which is intelli-
gible or carries any authority with it, is the established practice of the age,
and the maxims of administration, which are at that time prevalent, and
universally assented to” (H 2.525). This observation led Hume to conclude
that we recognize a duty of allegiance to whomever it is that is effectively
exercising political authority and enforcing the rules of justice. “In the
particular exertions of power,” he wrote, “the question ought never to be
forgotten, What is best? But in the general distribution of power among the
several members of a constitution, there can seldom be admitted any other
question, than What is established?” (H 4.354). Authority resides, in times of
stability, wherever the people habitually look for authoritative political
decision-making and, in times of crisis, wherever they happen to look for
it. Though seemingly simple, Hume recognized that his account had wide-
ranging implications for how we think about different political regimes.
The “consent of the people,” he argued, is “one just foundation of
government where it has place. It is surely the best and most sacred of
any. I only pretend, that it has very seldom had place in any degree, and
never almost in its full extent. And that therefore some other foundation of
government must also be admitted” (“Original Contract,” E, 474). In
different political contexts, Hume argued, public opinion can support
very different regimes. Willem Lemmens summarizes Hume’s position
artfully:
What the best political order is, under which shelter we should prefer to live,
is an empirical matter, contingent in this sense. But it is also a normative
matter, insofar as every constitution hinges on the active identification of
the citizens with their political regime, a loyalty that can take many forms
but is, in the end, never merely based on reason. (2015, pp. 67–68)
82 marc hanvelt
In fact, Hume argued, different types of regime can serve equally well at
supplying public goods and enforcing rules of justice. Writing on the
effects of commerce in the eighteenth century, for example, he argued,
“it may now be affirmed of civilized monarchies, what was formerly said of
republics alone, that they are a government of Laws, not of Men” (“Civil
Liberty,” E, 94). He even speculated that the effects of commerce would
“bring these species of civil polity still nearer in equality” (“Civil Liberty,”
E, 95).
The notion that no regime type is inherently superior was anathema to
many eighteenth-century political thinkers. Republican thinkers were
adamant that a mixed constitution was the only form of government
worth defending. This position was influenced by Machiavelli who had
argued that in every city “two diverse humors are found, which arise from
this: that the people desire neither to be commanded nor oppressed by the
great, and the great desire to command and oppress the people” (1998,
p. 39). This observation led Machiavelli to conclude, “all the laws that are
made in favor of freedom arise from their disunion” (1996, I.4.1). To ensure
that competing interests are balanced, Machiavelli recommended attention
to the design of republican constitutions. Correspondingly, he warned
against the dangers of corruption, and argued that “healthy” republics
require regular renewal by a prince who brings them “back toward their
beginnings” (1996, III.1.1).
During the factious 1720s and 1730s in Britain, under the ministry of
Robert Walpole, the opposition, led by Henry St. John, First Viscount
Bolingbroke, drew on this Machiavellian republican understanding of
regimes to accuse Walpole of undermining the ancient constitution of
Britain by using the financial resources of the Crown to corrupt parlia-
ment. Bolingbroke argued that, under Britain’s mixed constitution, an
independent parliament was the necessary counterweight to the power of
the Crown. To undermine the independence of parliament would be to tilt
the balance of power toward the Crown and, ultimately, to precipitate the
collapse of the British constitution into absolute monarchy.
Against Bolingbroke, Hume invoked English history. In “Of the Origin
of Government,” Hume argued that “in all governments, there is a perpetual
intestine struggle, open or secret, between AUTHORITY and LIBERTY;
and neither of them can ever absolutely prevail in the contest” (“Origin of
Government,” E, 40). However, there is no ideal balance. In fact, Hume
wrote, “the just balance between the republican and monarchical part of our
constitution is really, in itself, so extremely delicate and uncertain, that,
when joined to men’s passions and prejudices, it is impossible but different
 History, Context, and Political Society 83
opinions must arise concerning it, even among persons of the best under-
standing” (“Parties of Great Britain,” E, 64–65). From Hume’s perspective,
to champion a specific constitutional design, irrespective of context, reflected
a misunderstanding of how political conventions develop. Walpole’s use of
royal patronage, what Bolingbroke viewed as corruption and a threat to the
constitutional balance, was, according to Hume, simply a mechanism for
correcting an emergent power imbalance.
We may, therefore, give to this influence what name we please; we may
call it by the invidious appellations of corruption and dependence; but
some degree and some kind of it are inseparable from the very nature of
the constitution and necessary to the preservation of our mixed govern-
ment. (“Independency of Parliament,” E, 45)
Against the essentialist view that the constitution had an original design
that was susceptible to corruption, Hume argued that a late-developed
convention, even a “corrupt” practice, could become a constitutional
essential.
By 1759, Hume could write, “the plan of liberty is settled; its happy
effects are proved by experience; a long tract of time has given it stability”
(“Coalition of Parties,” E, 501). The British, he thought, lived under
a constitution that enshrined “the most perfect and most accurate system
of liberty that was ever found compatible with government” (H 2.525). But
Hume recognized that this fortuitous circumstance was not the result of
rational calculation. While the post-1688 British constitution was unparal-
leled – the only “instance in the whole history of mankind, that so many
millions of people have, during such a space of time, been held together, in
a manner so free, so rational, and so suitable to the dignity of human
nature” (“Protestant Succession,” E, 508) – it rested on a particular balance
of authority and liberty that had developed through “successive alter-
ations,” was entirely modern, and was derived largely by chance (H
2.525). What is more, its continued stability was not at all guaranteed.7
Hume’s writings may read as a defense of the post-1688 constitutional
order and the Hanoverian succession.8 He did not defend the established
order because it conformed to any ideal or because he measured it against
any original standard of legitimacy. The settlement was worth defending
simply because it was working: authority was secure, the rules of justice
were enforced, and Britons lived within a relatively free and peaceful

7
See Hume’s letter to Montesquieu, dated April 10, 1749 (L I, 138).
8
See, for example, Forbes (1975) or Harris (2015).
84 marc hanvelt
society. On Hume’s account, history “teaches us to regard the controver-
sies in politics as incapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely
subordinate to the interests of peace and liberty” (T 3.2.10.15).

4.6 Conventions: In and of Their Particular Contexts

Differences among political regimes are significant, Hume thought, in that
they establish different contexts that can explain differences of individual
conduct. For example, he wrote of “differences of moral sentiment, which
naturally arise from a republican or a monarchical government” (EPM D 51).
But whether a monarchy, or a republic, or some mixed regime emerged in
any particular country was usually due to a series of historical accidents. On
Hume’s account, conventions emerge when they serve a shared interest. In
the cases of political allegiance and authority, the shared interest is the peace
and liberty that Hume thought could only be secured through enforced rules
of justice. A convention, he wrote, is that sense of common interest, “which
sense each man feels in his own breast, which he remarks in his fellows, and
which carries him, in concurrence with others, into a general plan or system
of actions, which tends to public utility” (EPM App. 3.7).
We can observe conventions of behavior in many facets of human life.
For example, Hume wrote, users of roadways have a shared interest in
establishing rules for passing oncoming traffic. Whether the convention is
to pass on the right or to pass on the left is immaterial. In fact, the
convention can differ from country to country. What matters is that all
users of the roadway in any particular country observe the same convention
and at the same time (EPM 4.19).
In EPM, Hume did not elaborate the precise mechanisms through which
conventions emerge. He only sought to establish that such conventions
emerge through habituation, not through consent and rational design. Put
two people in a boat together and hand them each an oar, Hume argued, and
they will “pull the oars of a boat by common convention, for common
interest, without any promise or contract” (EPM App. 3.8). But, though it
might seem hardly to merit a mention, pulling on the oars in unison only
serves the mutual interest of these individuals because they happen to find
themselves in a boat. Were they to find themselves in a different context, say
in a carriage or on horseback, a different convention would assuredly develop
to serve the same shared interest. “The Rhine flows north, the Rhone south,”
Hume wrote, “yet both spring from the same mountain, and are also
actuated, in their opposite directions, by the same principle of gravity. The
 History, Context, and Political Society 85
different inclinations of the ground, on which they run, cause all the
difference in their courses” (EPM D 26).
Casting differences of political regime in these terms undermines both
social contract and republican conceptions of the relationship between
political allegiance and specific regime types. Hume’s sensitivity to the
effects of context in shaping different political and moral conventions is
apparent in EPM. His decision to drop the conjectural history from his
discussions of political topics in that text accentuated it. The brevity and
density of the fourth section of EPM make it useful to turn to examples
from the Essays and the History to illustrate how history and context affect
allegiance and authority and to flesh out further consequences of Hume’s
argument in EPM. The significance of context figures prominently in
Hume’s discussions of Henry IV, Henry VII, and the Stuart kings. I will
take his discussions of these monarchs in turn.
In “Of the Original Contract,” Hume noted that, though confirmed by
parliamentary election, both Henry IV and Henry VII feared that trum-
peting this basis for their titles would weaken their authority (“Original
Contract,” E, 473). The History explains this observation. It presents Henry
IV as a king who had no good claim to the throne of England. Hume
wrote, “the unanimous voice of lords and commons placed Henry on the
throne: He became king, nobody could tell how or wherefore” (H 2.322).
Why did Henry believe that celebrating his parliamentary election might
weaken his authority? Hume wrote:
the English had so long been familiarized to the hereditary succession of
their monarchs, the instances of departure from it had always born such
strong symptoms of injustice and violence, and so little of a national choice
or election, and the returns to the true line had ever been deemed such
fortunate incidents in their history, that Henry was afraid, lest, in resting his
title on the consent of the people, he should build on a foundation, to which
the people themselves were not accustomed, and whose solidity they would
with difficulty be brought to recognize. (H 2.333)
Though Hume acknowledged that, in the abstract, consent is the best
foundation for political authority, history teaches that conventions of
political authority are merely conventional. They are engrained in habit,
and rarely if ever grounded in a principled legitimacy.
In his account of the reign of Henry VII, Hume told a similar story
about royal title in the absence of clear bases of legitimacy. After defeating
Richard III in the Battle of Bosworth Field, the earl of Richmond (soon to
be Henry VII) found himself without a claim to the Crown that was “free
86 marc hanvelt
from great objections, if considered, with respect either to justice or policy”
(H 3.4). He chose to establish his claim upon present possession, which,
Hume wrote, “guarded by vigour and abilities, would be sufficient to secure
perpetual possession of the throne . . .. Henry was determined to put himself
in possession of regal authority; and to show all opponents, that nothing but
force of arms and a successful war should be able to expel him” (H 3.6). When
it came time to have parliament entail the Crown, Hume wrote, Henry
did not insist, that it should contain a declaration or recognition of his
preceding right; as on the other hand, he avoided the appearance of a new
law or ordinance. He chose a middle course, which, as is generally unavoid-
able in such cases, was not entirely free from uncertainty and obscurity. It
was voted, “That the inheritance of the crown should rest, remain, and
abide in the king”; but whether as rightful heir, or only as present possessor,
was not determined. (H 3.11)
For Hume, the reign of Henry VII teaches that a dubious claim to royal
title does not necessarily render subsequent titles of monarchs in that line
illegitimate. Henry’s significance as a monarch rests on his having consoli-
dated his claim so successfully that, upon his death, Henry VIII asserted
a claim that was essentially uncontested.9 An inescapable consequence of
Hume’s understanding of political conventions is that political founda-
tions and origins rarely carry normative weight or determine political
allegiance in the present. History, he believed, shows us that “all political
questions are infinitely complicated, and that there scarcely ever occurs, in
any deliberation, a choice, which is either purely good, or purely ill.
Consequences, mixed and varied, may be foreseen to flow from every
measure: And many consequences, unforeseen, do always, in fact, result
from every one” (“Protestant Succession,” E, 507). It is for this reason, he
thought, that “the science of politics affords few rules, which will not admit
of some exception, and which may not sometimes be controuled by
fortune and accident” (“Original Contract,” E, 477). For example, the
surprising yet salutary effect of the Hanoverian succession was to produce
constitutional stability in eighteenth-century Britain by reversing the
traditional relationship of the monarch and the people to the defenses of
authority and liberty respectively. Under the Hanoverians, Hume wrote,
“the people cherish monarchy, because protected by it: the monarch
favours liberty, because created by it” (“Protestant Succession,” E, 506).
But this circumstance was purely accidental.

9
For a good account of Henry’s significance as a monarch, see Sabl (2012), pp. 161–64.
 History, Context, and Political Society 87
Understanding the significance of changing political and historical
contexts is, according to Hume, a relatively rare mark of great political
leadership. In his account of the Stuart kings, he illustrated the effects of its
absence. In the seventeenth century, Hume argued, the Stuarts governed
according to patterns of authority they had inherited from the Tudors.
However, social and political conditions in seventeenth-century England
differed markedly from those in the sixteenth century. The Stuarts ultim-
ately failed as a regal dynasty because they misunderstood their times
(“Passive Obedience,” E, 492). They failed to recognize how the increasing
economic and political power of parliament and the evolving political
expectations of the commons had transformed the political context in
England. Consequently, the population became “indifferent towards the
fortunes” of these monarchs. England was plunged into civil war in the
1640s and, in 1688, the Stuarts were forced from the throne for good
(“Politics May Be Reduced to a Science,” E, 24).
Political contexts can undergo significant changes in short periods of
time. As Dees has observed, Hume thought the English political context in
James II’s time “required a very different kind of politics and a different
method of rule than it did in James I’s.” Dees writes, “because James was so
out of touch with the practice of politics in Britain, Hume concludes that
the revolution against him was justified” (1992, p. 236). Even Alfred the
Great – the king Hume most celebrated in the entire History – was no
model for monarchs in different historical contexts. Hume praised Alfred
as the “Founder of the English monarchy” (H 1.74) and “as the greatest
prince after Charlemagne that had appeared in Europe during several ages,
and as one of the wisest and best that had ever adorned the annals of any
nation” (H 1.81). However, though he did claim that Alfred was a king
whose merit, “both in private and public life, may with advantage be set in
opposition to that of any monarch or citizen, which the annals of any age
or any nation can present to us” (H 1.74), Hume acknowledged that Alfred
was a king from and of another time, a “barbarous age” (H 1.75). As Jeffrey
Suderman has written, “Hume the historian remained ever cognizant that
different circumstances required different kinds of rule; an effective medi-
eval king must never be confused with a modern ruler” (2013, p. 136).
Allegiance is the virtue that sustains political authority. Because he
thought conventions of political authority are so dependent upon the
context in which they develop, Hume determined that the study of politics
requires a properly historical analysis. “All houses,” he wrote, “have a roof
and walls, windows and chimneys” (EPM 3.45). However, “men, in
different times and places, frame their houses differently” (EPM 3.44).
88 marc hanvelt
A conjectural history might account for the universal utility of political
authority and our corresponding moral approval of political allegiance. But
it is only by studying the particularities of “different times and places” that
we can come to understand authority and allegiance in the real world of
politics. The change to the manner of his presentation that Hume made by
excising the conjectural history from his discussion of political subjects in
EPM affected the matter of his argument also. It sharpened his critiques of
social contract and republican theory by highlighting the importance of
context in politics.

4.7 Changing Contexts Lead to Different Sets of Rules

Behind Hume’s analysis of allegiance lies the observation that human
beings require rules, “wherever [they] have any intercourse with one
another” (EPM 4.18). In any particular context, he thought, “common
interest and utility beget infallibly a standard of right and wrong among the
parties concerned” (EPM 4.20). Whether the standard of right and wrong
that emerges is necessary, or whether any number of other rules could serve
equally well, and what form the particular rules that do emerge actually
take, all depend on the context.
Hume framed his discussion of allegiance in the context of a society in the
singular (EPM 4.1). If we extend the context to the international arena, he
wrote, “a new set of rules are immediately discovered to be useful in that
particular situation; and accordingly take place under the title of LAWS of
NATIONS” (EPM 4.2). Under this heading, he included “the sacredness of
the person of ambassadors, abstaining from poisoned arms, quarter in war,
with others of that kind, which are plainly calculated for the advantage of
states and kingdoms, in their intercourse with each other” (EPM 4.2). Two
points are worth noting here: First, Hume did not intend this list to be either
exhaustive or prescriptive. It merely illustrated conventions that had arisen
among nations to serve their mutual interests. Second, moving from the
context of domestic to international politics establishes a new set of relevant
shared interests – this time among nations – that revises the measure of utility.
Among other things, Hume argued, this new measure of utility explained why
“REASONS OF STATE may, in particular emergencies, dispense with the
rules of justice” (EPM 4.3). Hume’s explanation was straightforward: rules of
justice are not as essential among nations as they are among individuals
because, whereas individuals cannot subsist without the society that justice
makes possible, “nations can subsist without intercourse. They may even
subsist, in some degree, under a general war” (EPM 4.3).
 History, Context, and Political Society 89
When we narrow the context to interactions among small groups of
individuals or married couples, new rules again emerge. Requirements of
chastity emerge to ensure uncontested parentage.10 As Annette Baier has
noted, “Hume’s account of the demand for female chastity depends upon
his psychological premises that men will be unwilling to care for children
not believed to be biologically their own, as well as on his epistemological
and ‘anatomical’ premises concerning the natural uncertainty of paternity”
(1979, pp. 7–8). As with allegiance and the laws of nations, Hume empha-
sized that laws of chastity emerge solely on account of their utility.
Hume’s explanation of the utility of chastity once again draws his
reader’s attention to the decisive importance of context in the development
of conventions of political society. As Baier has noted, Hume’s entire
discussion of the utility of chastity “depends upon an assumption made
but not stated, namely that a society be both patriarchal, so that control of
‘expences’ is in male hands, and patrilineal, so that property passes through
the male line. In a matriarchal and matrilineal society the question of true
paternity would become as ‘trivial’ as the anatomical facts which make
error there so easy” (1979, p. 8). In other words, though Hume may not
have acknowledged the fact explicitly in this particular instance, his argu-
ment again shows how perceptions of utility are always shaped by context,
and in the case of chastity, by the context of a particular type of society.
Hume’s discussion of chastity also calls attention to the force of habitu-
ation in the development of conventions. An oddity of chastity, he noted,
is that the “rules have all a reference to generation; and yet women past
child-bearing are no more supposed to be exempted from them than those
in the flower of their youth and beauty” (EPM 4.7). In other words, the
utility of chastity, as Hume presented it, evaporates as soon as women can
no longer bear children. Retroactively, he could hypothesize that, were the
rules of chastity limited to women of child-bearing age, “the example of the
old would be pernicious to the young” by causing them to “think more
lightly of this whole duty, so requisite to society” (EPM 4.7). However, this
conjecture did not explain the actual process through which the rules of
chastity had been extended to all women. That process was not rational.
Rather, Hume saw it as simply an example of a common trend: “general
rules are often extended beyond the principle, whence they first arise”
(EPM 4.7). This trend could be explained, as Hume had written in the
Treatise, by a propensity of the human imagination, “when set into any

10
For further scholarship on Hume’s account of chastity see, for example, Baier (1979); Villanueva
Gardner (2006); Levey (1997); Falkenstein (2015).
90 marc hanvelt
train of thinking . . . to continue, even when its object fails it, and like
a galley put in motion by the oars, carr[y] on its course without any new
impulse” (T 1.4.2.22). Central to Hume’s view of politics was the conclu-
sion that “man, born in a family, is compelled to maintain society, from
necessity, from natural inclination, and from habit” (“Origin of
Government,” E, 37). The last is particularly important. As Nicholas
Phillipson observed, notably absent from the list is “abstract reasoning”
(2011, p. 56).

4.8 Good Manners and the Politics of Factionalism

A common feature of the conventions that Hume discussed in Section 4 of
EPM is their utility for mitigating or preempting conflict. This feature is
evident in Hume’s discussion of good manners, rules he described as “a
kind of lesser morality, calculated for the ease of company and conversa-
tion” (EPM 4.13). We know from experience that rules of civility can vary
widely from context to context. Hume defined politeness as simply “the
arts of conversation” (“Rise and Progress,” E, 127).
Of his own context, he wrote, “among the arts of conversation, no one
pleases more than mutual deference or civility, which leads us to resign our
own inclinations to those of our companion, and to curb and conceal that
presumption and arrogance, so natural to the human mind” (“Rise and
Progress,” E, 126). Hume understood politeness as a “social lubricant”11
that enabled conversation, even between actors with very different inter-
ests, values, or beliefs. These rules are necessary, he thought, because
human nature inclines us to be intolerant of contrary opinions.
Such is the nature of the human mind, that it always lays hold on every mind
that approaches it; and as it is wonderfully fortified by an unanimity of
sentiment, so is it shocked and disturbed by any contrariety. Hence the
eagerness, which most people discover in a dispute; and hence their impa-
tience of opposition, even in the most speculative and indifferent opinions.
(“Parties in General,” E, 60)
Hume thought this tendency was particularly forceful on questions of
religion, politics, economics, and history: topics that could significantly
reinforce or undermine the public opinion that sustains political authority.
In this sense, then, his concern with politeness and good manners extended
well beyond the walls of the clubs and the coffee houses. While seeking to

11
I am indebted to Spyridon Tegos for this description. See Tegos (2013).
 History, Context, and Political Society 91
explain the virtues that please in company, Hume never lost sight of their
relevance to the virtue of allegiance At the limit, he thought, impoliteness
could threaten constitutional stability by undermining political authority.
One of Hume’s primary political concerns was with the negative conse-
quences of factionalism and fanaticism in politics. He argued that faction-
alism is an inescapable feature of political life under a mixed constitution,
such as that of Britain, but concluded that only extreme factions that
polarize the population are dangerous (“Coalition of Parties,” E, 493). In
concluding his essay “That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science,” Hume
issued a warning to his compatriots about the political dangers of polariza-
tion and uncompromising forms of discourse: “I would only persuade men
not to contend, as if they were fighting pro aris & focis, and change a good
constitution into a bad one, by the violence of their factions” (“Politics
May Be Reduced to a Science,” E, 31). Instead, he advocated moderation
and politeness. Writing to opposing parties in British politics, Hume
sought “to persuade each that its antagonists may possibly be sometimes
in the right, and to keep a balance in the praise and blame, which we
bestow on either side” (“Coalition of Parties,” E, 494).
On many political questions, Hume thought, reasonable people may
disagree without being unreasonable. Though it might seem an innocuous
claim, this conclusion ran directly against the inclination toward uncom-
promising defense of party and principle that Hume witnessed in the
politics of his age and that he rooted in human nature. The conclusion
that reasonable people may disagree without being unreasonable is
inaccessible to groups of individuals who think of politics in terms of
competing fixed abstract principles. It can only ring true to those who
understand how significantly history and context shape the conventions of
political society.

4.9 Conclusion
Throughout his literary career, Hume warned against invoking abstract
speculative principles in politics precisely because they lack any grounding
in historical and political contexts. When, in 1768, John Wilkes’ supporters
rioted in the streets of London, Hume deemed their cries for liberty so
abstract and ungrounded that he concluded the entire affair was “founded
on nothing” (L II, 178). To fully appreciate the importance of history and
context, Hume thought, is to understand why “it seems unreasonable
to judge of the measures, embraced during one period, by the maxims,
which prevail in another” (H 5.240).
92 marc hanvelt
By eliminating the conjectural history from his discussion of political
topics in EPM, Hume accentuated the importance of history and context
in shaping the conventions of political society. Understanding this influ-
ence is essential for making sense of Section 4 of EPM and for relating it to
Hume’s political thought more generally. Hume presented each of the
virtues necessary for life in society as valuable for its utility and as developed
through processes of habituation and historical accident. In a sense, the
fourth section of EPM is fascinating for how much Hume was able to say in
just a few short pages. At the same time, the section is notable for just how
few virtues necessary for society he was able to list. Allegiance, the laws of
nations, chastity, fidelity, and good manners comprise, at the same time,
both a wide-ranging and a rather limited set. Moreover, Hume was only
able to write about good manners and political allegiance in general terms.
He could not describe these virtues with greater specificity or expand his
list further precisely because the conventions of political society are always
so dependent upon history and context.12

12
I wish to acknowledge the editors for shepherding this volume to print, as well as Lorne Falkenstein
and Mark G. Spencer for generously offering their time to read an earlier draft of this chapter and
suggest valuable improvements. The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada
has provided financial support for my research.
 chapter 5

“Why Utility Pleases”

A Surprising Source of Discord
Emily Kelahan

Section 5 of Hume’s An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (EPM),

“Why Utility Pleases,” is a remarkable text for a variety of reasons. First,
there is no directly analogous section in the Treatise. The relationship
between Book 3 of the Treatise and EPM is a topic of perennial interest,
and this section, perhaps more than most, raises questions about whether
Hume engaged in substantial revision of his previous thought or simply
repackaged it in a more appealing manner.1 Second, “Why Utility Pleases,”
especially Part II, feels like an interruption.2 Hume treats much of the rest
of the text like a catalog of the virtues, identifying those traits we, in fact,
find meritorious and offering empirical evidence to support his claims. Part
II explores moral epistemology, even going so far as to border on normative
ethics.3 Third, because Hume discusses the role of utility in a moral theory
so extensively and favorably, this section has led many to wonder whether
Hume is a utilitarian. Finally, “Why Utility Pleases” advances some of the
relatively few positions that draw criticism from Adam Smith in his Theory
of Moral Sentiments.
In this chapter we will address each of these notable features. As “Why
Utility Pleases” has received comparatively little focused attention, Section
5.1 lays out a detailed analysis of it, engaging with two of the interpretive
questions above. First, does it advance any important changes from Book 3
of the Treatise? Second, does it supply any evidence of a normative moral
theory? In response to the first question, I argue, following established
scholarship, that there are important changes but none that involve

1
In addition to Taylor (2002, 2015b), I have found Abramson (2001), Baier (1991, 2008), Cohon
(1997), and Debes (2007b) particularly helpful for understanding this topic.
2
However, one can understand why Hume would ask why utility pleases at this particular juncture. It
follows his arguments that benevolence is valued in part for its utility and that justice is valued
entirely for its utility.
3
Here I must disagree slightly with Baier (2008). She identifies the first Appendix as the place where
moral epistemology receives the most attention, but Section 5 also includes important discussions.

93
94 emily kelahan
a rejection of the claims of the earlier work. In response to the second
question, I argue that “Why Utility Pleases” is best interpreted as falling
squarely within Hume’s descriptive moral psychology, thus answering in
the negative. Section 5.2 discusses Hume’s alleged utilitarianism, arguing
that the notion of Hume as a utilitarian is dubious, though his influence on
utilitarianism is not. Finally, Section 5.3 explores the disagreement between
Smith and Hume on utility.

5.1 A Textual Analysis of “Why Utility Pleases”

“Why Utility Pleases” is an understated title. Yes, Hume does tell us why
utility pleases – it’s human nature to find utility pleasing – but that and how
it manages to please in a range of social circumstances divorced from pure
self-interest – much less obviously a part of human nature – is the main
point of the section. Part I makes the case that utility plays a fundamental
role in moral evaluation and extends beyond narrow self-interest. Part II
reinforces Part I and explains how we come to feel other-regarding senti-
ments in relation to utility and to admire the useful traits of individuals
who have no direct bearing on our lives.

5.1.1 Part I
Hume never defines utility as clearly as one might like. He describes utility
as “only a tendency to a certain end” (EPM App. 1.3), where that end seems
to be simply usefulness or beneficial consequences. He begins by observing
that it is well confirmed by experience that utility pleases (EPM 5.1), but he
concedes that it’s initially somewhat mysterious why we approve of utility.
After noting that other moral philosophers seem reluctant to assign utility
a role in their theories, he speculates that its absence might be explained by
“the difficulty of accounting for these effects of usefulness” and responds
that this “is no just reason for rejecting any principle, confirmed by
experience, that we cannot give a satisfactory account of its origin, nor
are able to resolve it into other more general principles” (EPM 5.2).
Besides, he does think we can “deduce it from principles, the most
known and avowed in human nature” (EPM 5.2).4 In response to influen-
tial “sceptics, both ancient and modern” who believe that moral
4
Hume claims that we can reduce our approval of utility to more general principles of human nature.
This is not to say that he thinks we can reach some bedrock general principles. He readily concedes
that we may reach a point “beyond which we cannot hope to find any principle more general” (EPM
5 n.19.1, 219–20, italics added).
 “Why Utility Pleases” 95
distinctions are the exclusive product of education and socialization, he
raises a “paradox”: “Had nature made no such distinction, founded on the
original constitution of the mind,” moral education and political influence
would have no effect on us (EPM 5.3, italics added).
Hume anticipates that some will object that utility reduces morality to
pure self-interest. Of course, we praise useful traits when we are the direct
beneficiaries of them, but, Hume argues, it’s also possible that we find
them pleasing as they affect humankind more generally:
And as the public utility of these virtues is the chief circumstance, whence
they derive their merit, it follows, that the end, which they have a tendency
to promote, must be some way agreeable to us . . .. It must please, either
from considerations of self-interest, or from more generous motives and
regards. (EPM 5.4, italics added)
Hume recognizes that his detractors will try to link our generous-seeming
motives to our dependency on social bonds and cooperation, reducing
them to self-interest (EPM 5.5). We may praise an agent’s useful traits
when they help someone else, but, they say, what we’re really doing is
reinforcing the social order on which the quality of our own lives depends.
However, Hume contends, “the voice of nature and experience seems
plainly to oppose the selfish theory” (EPM 5.6).5 What Hume does next
is a beautiful application of his “experimental method.” He offers evidence
against the selfish theory drawn from careful observation of human life,
focusing on roughly four facts about moral appraisal.6 First, we praise
useful traits even in people far away or distant in time with no connection
to our self-interest (EPM 5.7, 5.11). Second, we praise useful traits in our
adversaries even though they might work against our self-interest (EPM
5.8, 5.11). Third, we can separate the sentiments associated with self-interest
from those associated with general regard for virtuous character without
diminishing the latter (EPM 5.9). Fourth, when one describes virtuous

5
This is an odd passage. After referencing Polybius as an authority who promoted the “selfish theory,”
the full sentence of which a fragment appears above reads: “But though the solid, practical sense of
that author, and his aversion to all vain subtilties, render his authority on the present subject very
considerable; yet is not this an affair to be decided by authority, and the voice of nature and
experience seems plainly to oppose the selfish theory” (EPM 5.6; SBN 215). As Phillip
D. Cummins explores in his “A Puzzling Passage in ‘Why Utility Pleases’” (2000), the clause “is
not this an affair to be decided by authority” would make more sense given the subsequent clause if it
read “this is not an affair to be decided by authority.” Given the weight of the rest of the paragraph,
section, and entire work, I will assume that Hume intended to condemn, rather than promote, appeal
to authority.
6
Taylor (2015b), especially chapter 1, “Experimenting with the Passions,” makes this point clearly and
compellingly.
96 emily kelahan
character, people feel feelings of approbation without ever wondering how
useful the person described is to them (EPM 5.10).
Hume revisits the self-interest objection: perhaps in all of the cases above
“we transport ourselves, by the force of imagination, into distant ages and
countries, and consider the advantage, which we should have reaped from
these characters” (EPM 5.13). The imagination is a powerful tool: “A man,
brought to the brink of a precipice, cannot look down without trembling;
and the sentiment of imaginary danger actuates him, in opposition to the
opinion and belief of real safety” (EPM 5.14). However, Hume is not
compelled by this suggestion, as “the imagination is here assisted by the
presence of a striking object” (EPM 5.14); that is, extreme heights.
Typically, the sentiments we feel when we personally encounter good
character are much stronger than the sentiments produced through
imagining ourselves in a different circumstance. Besides, even if imagin-
ation could do the work these objectors ascribe to it, as Hume has already
argued, empirically speaking, it doesn’t.

5.1.2 Part II
Part I is of a piece with the rest of EPM. Hume uses his experimental
method of careful observation of human behavior to support some general
claims about what we find morally praiseworthy. Part II continues that
work, but also explores the mechanics of how we come to have other-
regarding sentiments and impartial moral judgments. The first three
paragraphs of Part II bolster the empirical case for a moral theory that
acknowledges the role of utility and continue Hume’s argument against the
selfish interpretation of why utility pleases:
But notwithstanding this frequent confusion of interests, it is easy to attain
what natural philosophers, after lord Bacon, have affected to call the
experimentum crucis, or that experiment, which points out the right way in
any doubt or ambiguity. We have found instances, in which private interest
was separate from public; in which it was even contrary: And yet we
observed the moral sentiment to continue, notwithstanding this disjunction
of interests. (EPM 5.17)
This line of thought is familiar if not duplicative, but it’s notable that
Hume mentions Bacon in this passage, which lends support to interpret-
ations that see Hume as pursuing the largely descriptive project in EPM of
cataloging traits we find useful and agreeable. In fact, in a footnote to
paragraph 17, he rather boldly asserts that he needn’t do more than that:
 “Why Utility Pleases” 97
It is needless to push our researches so far as to ask, why we have humanity
or a fellow-feeling with others. It is sufficient, that this is experienced to be
a principle in human nature. We must stop somewhere in our examination
of causes; and there are, in every science, some general principles, beyond
which we cannot hope to find any principle more general. (EPM 5.17 n.19)
However, in the following paragraph Hume begins a subtle shift toward an
explanation of our moral judgments, engaging more directly questions
about the principles at work in our moral deliberations – for example, “the
force of humanity and benevolence” (EPM 5.18) – but this is just a teaser.
Hume spends another several paragraphs offering case studies before
returning to this topic.
Part I focuses almost exclusively on positive fellow-feelings, but Part II
explores negative fellow-feelings, for instance indignation at another’s
plight. For example, Hume details an imagined encounter with a kind
and hospitable host in his pleasant dwelling where the host describes his
struggles with a powerful neighbor who treated him poorly (EPM 5.19–22)
and how we are “actuated by the strongest antipathy against” him (EPM
5.22), despite being personally unaffected by his vice. Hume also explores
our sympathetic reactions to art, theatre, news, and history (EPM 5.23–35).
So capacious is our sympathy with others that, “When a person stutters,
and pronounces with difficulty, we even sympathize with this trivial
uneasiness, and suffer for him” (EPM 5.37).
Having belabored the point that we naturally sympathize with others
when our own self-interest is not at stake, Hume considers an objection:
what about really awful, selfish people? First, Hume has a strikingly
optimistic view of human nature, more so than in the Treatise.7 He doubts
that anyone could be “so entirely indifferent to the interest of their fellow-
creatures, as to perceive no distinctions of moral good and evil,” and
follows with a vivid example:
Let us suppose such a person ever so selfish; let private interest have
ingrossed ever so much his attention; yet in instances, where that is not
concerned, he must unavoidably feel some propensity to the good of
mankind, and make it an object of choice, if every thing else be equal.
Would any man, who is walking along, tread as willingly on another’s gouty
toes, whom he has no quarrel with, as on the hard flint and pavement?
(EPM 5.39)

7
See, for example, “When experience has once given us a competent knowledge of human affairs, and
has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion, we perceive, that the generosity of men is
very limited, and that it seldom extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond their
native country” (T 3.3.3.2).
98 emily kelahan
Hume admits that the degree to which we sympathize with others may vary
from person to person, but even a very self-centered person, he thinks, will
prefer not to inflict pain on others where it is easily avoidable. But perhaps
there are people who would prefer to step on another’s gouty toes rather
than walk on the pavement. To this prospect, Hume replies that such
people are anomalies with “inverted” sentiments (EPM 5.40).

5.1.3 A Shift toward the Close of Part II?

Finally, Hume breaks from his cataloging and devotes himself to
a discussion of the mechanics of sympathy (or the principles of benevo-
lence and humanity) and moral judgment. In the previous paragraphs,
Hume shows through several examples and case studies that we have
a strong tendency to value social traits for their utility to ourselves and
others. Compared to the Treatise, EPM places more emphasis on the
empirical case for unselfish fellow-feeling as a part of human nature.
Compared to EPM, on the other hand, the Treatise places more emphasis
on the process by which we arrive at moral judgments. Though Hume has
been resisting the suggestion that human nature leans toward self-interest
for many paragraphs, he finally concedes, as he much more freely does in
the Treatise, that our sentiments naturally favor those closer to us:
A statesman or patriot, who serves our own country, in our own time, has
always a more passionate regard paid to him, than one whose beneficial
influence operated on distant ages or remote nations; where the good,
resulting from his generous humanity, being less connected with us, seems
more obscure, and affects us with a less lively sympathy. We may own the
merit to be equally great, though our sentiments are not raised to an equal
height, in both cases. (EPM 5.41)
He raises the same objection in the Treatise (T 3.3.1.14). Our sympathetic
reactions to people vary in relation to our closeness to them, but “we give
the same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in England.
They appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally to the
esteem of a judicious spectator” (T 3.3.1.14). This comes across as a problem
with Hume’s account in the Treatise. He’s made the case that morality is
rooted in the sentiments, not reason, but here it sounds like he’s claiming
that moral judgment proceeds from something other than sympathy.8 The
problematizing language disappears in EPM. Immediately after observing

8
Rachel Cohon (1997) argues convincingly that Hume has the resources to overcome the objection
that moral judgment apparently doesn’t derive from sympathy and explains how moral judgment is
 “Why Utility Pleases” 99
that our sentiments favor those closer to us, Hume claims, “The judgment
here corrects the inequalities of our internal emotions and perceptions; in
like manner, as it preserves us from error, in the several variations of
images, presented to our external senses” (EPM 5.41). In the following
paragraph, Hume is clear that moral judgment is ultimately a matter of
sentiment:
Sympathy, we shall allow, is much fainter than our concern for ourselves,
and sympathy with persons remote from us, much fainter than that with
persons near and contiguous; but for this very reason, it is necessary for us,
in our calm judgments and discourse concerning the characters of men, to
neglect all these differences, and render our sentiments more public and social.
(EPM 5.42, italics added)
The faculty of judgment works against the variability of the sentiments by
making them, the sentiments, less variable and not by replacing their role in
moral judgments.
In addition to the faculty of judgment, Hume discusses the role of social
engagement in regulating our sentiments. Compared to the Treatise, what
Hume has to say about socializing the sentiments to make them more
impartial in EPM is strikingly expansive:
The more we converse with mankind, and the greater social intercourse we
maintain, the more shall we be familiarized to these general preferences and
distinctions, without which our conversation and discourse could scarcely
be rendered intelligible to each other. (EPM 5.42)
In the Treatise Hume explains the “correction” of sentimental inequalities
using the notion of the “steady and general point of view” (T 3.3.1.15). First,
we survey the character of the agent about whom we are forming
a judgment from the perspective of her “narrow circle” (T 3.3.3.2) and
sympathize with them. Second, we regulate sympathy by relying on general
rules that allow us to understand the general effects of character traits.
From that perspective, we correct our biases and generate calm passions
that allow us to appreciate virtuous traits in distant people and facilitate
impartial moral judgment. Compare this to what Hume claims in EPM
5.42. It’s basically the same story, but with one important difference.
Instead of just the evaluated agent’s “narrow circle,” evaluators consider
“mankind” when regulating their sentiments.

still ultimately rooted in the sentiments. The relevant passages from “Why Utility Pleases” certainly
support her view.
100 emily kelahan
Jacqueline Taylor’s fine article on the differences between Hume’s
accounts of how we correct our moral judgments in the Treatise and
EPM argues that Hume’s reliance in the Treatise on the judgments of the
“narrow circle” of the agent under moral evaluation is a major shortcom-
ing, as Hume “assumes that the circle’s responses will be appropriate ones,
and that sympathy with the agent’s circle is therefore sufficient to guide the
approval or blame of those adopting the common point of view” (Taylor,
2002, p. 52). But, of course, the question remains whether the narrow
circle’s judgment is corrupted by unchecked prejudice. Her analysis sup-
ports the view that EPM isn’t just a sleeker version of the Treatise. The
social component of regulating our sentiments and making our judgments
more impartial is different and, arguably, better. In her recent book, Taylor
details the ways in which EPM expresses Hume’s “more mature and
sophisticated moral outlook” with its “appeal to the sentiment or principle
of humanity” and stress on “the importance of general conversation and
good reasoning to establish a standard of virtue, rather than appealing to
sympathy with the responses of an agent’s associates” (2015b, pp. 121–23).
Is the EPM account a better account of our actual practice of making
our moral judgments impartial, or is it thought to be a better moral theory
because it succeeds in showing how we arrive at justified moral judgments?
This is a perennial question in the study of Hume’s moral theory. Does
Hume have a first-order ethical position? Is there a normative moral theory
in Hume’s works or is his project in ethics primarily descriptive?9 One
section of one work can hardly settle the matter, but “Why Utility Pleases”
seems to point in the latter direction.
When Hume shifts to moral epistemology in Part II, it’s unclear
whether he’s using the same empirical method he used throughout EPM
to describe more sophisticated moral phenomena or laying a foundation
for a normative moral theory. If the former, we must understand Hume as
explaining the uniformity of moral judgments. First, a laudable trait is
a laudable trait, no matter how close we are to the possessor. We often judge
two agents’ characters to be equally laudable though we feel more affection
for one than the other. Second, we often arrive at the same judgments as
other spectators even though our degrees of closeness to the agent judged
vary. If, however, Hume is shifting gears from his descriptive project, we
have to see him as making something like the first-order claim that we

9
There are many excellent resources on this debate, for example, Abramson (1999), Baier (1991)
Darwall (1995), Flage (1985), Kemp Smith (1941), Mackie (1980), Sayre-McCord (1994), and Shaver
(1995).
 “Why Utility Pleases” 101
ought to judge all moral agents fairly or the metaethical claim that together
judgment and socialization lead to justified moral judgments.
To help us decide the question of whether “Why Utility Pleases” tips the
scales in the debate about whether Hume’s moral philosophy has
a normative component, let’s dissect the rest of EPM 5.42, a rich and
lengthy paragraph:
Sympathy, we shall allow, is much fainter than our concern for ourselves, and
sympathy with persons remote from us, much fainter than that with persons
near and contiguous; but for this very reason, it is necessary for us, in our
calm judgments and discourse concerning the characters of men, to neglect
all these differences, and render our sentiments more public and social.
(EPM 5.42)
How should we understand “necessary” in this sentence? Hume has
pointed out again that our feelings are stronger as their objects are nearer
to us. This he takes to be an empirical fact. What he says next is less
obviously a report of fact. Is he claiming that because this is true (“for this
very reason”), we should work to make our moral judgments more impar-
tial? Or is he trying to claim that we experience discomfort and unease as
we detect natural partialities in our sentimental responses, itself
a sentimental phenomenon, and, in order to alleviate that unease, it is
psychologically “necessary” for us to “neglect all these differences” and
socialize our sentiments? This would echo much of what he says about
belief formation in the Natural History of Religion where he is quite clearly
pursuing a descriptive project. There he frequently cites discomfort as
necessitating the formation of certain beliefs (that is, “ignorance of causes”
and anxiety about “future fortune” [NHR 3.2] necessitate belief in “invis-
ible, intelligent power” [NHR 0.1]). He clearly isn’t endorsing these
beliefs, but rather providing an explanation of their psychological necessity
in the absence of good cognitive resources. Additionally, it is necessary for
us to render our sentiments more public because we need common
language about morality to be able to talk to one another. This consider-
ation, too, fits with the descriptive interpretation.
What Hume says next in EPM 5.42 leans closer to the normative
interpretation:
Besides, that we ourselves often change our situation in this particular, we
every day meet with persons, who are in a situation different from us, and
who could never converse with us, were we to remain constantly in that
position and point of view, which is peculiar to ourselves. The intercourse of
sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form some
102 emily kelahan
general unalterable standard, by which we may approve or disapprove of
characters and manners. (EPM 5.42)
Hume refers to a “general unalterable standard,” which suggests a “correct”
moral standard of judgment, but this could just be a description of how we
arrive at what we take to be our moral standard. He writes “some general
unalterable standard,” which suggests an explanation of how a community
arrives at its standard as well as the possibility that this standard might be
different in other communities or evolve within communities. What
Hume says in the final sentences of this paragraph strongly indicates that
he’s still firmly on descriptive ground:
And though the heart takes not part entirely with those general
notions, nor regulates all its love and hatred, by the universal, abstract
differences of vice and virtue, without regard to self, or the persons
with whom we are more intimately connected; yet have these moral
differences a considerable influence, and being sufficient, at least, for
discourse, serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit, on the
theatre, and in the schools. (EPM 5.42)
Hume observes that regulating our sentimental responses is difficult,
but that the norms we construct through social engagement do have
a significant influence on behavior in public contexts. The paragraph
ends on an undeniably descriptive note, but a footnote casts some
doubt. After noting again that it’s natural for “private connexions” to
have more influence than “universal views and consideration” because
it’s so much easier to have sentiments in relation to “a proper limited
object,” Hume observes that even in cases where our emotions play out
in this way, “still we know here, as in all the senses, to correct these
inequalities by reflection, and retain a general standard of vice and
virtue, founded chiefly on a general usefulness” (EPM 5 n.25). This last
sentence is more difficult to understand as purely descriptive than
anything claimed in the paragraph to which it is attached. To say
that “we know . . . to correct these inequalities . . . and retain
a general sense of virtue and vice” sounds more like “we know what
to do to be good people” (normative) than “we notice that our natural
sentiments sometimes result in social discomfort and, finding that
discomfort unpleasant, we seek to eliminate it by bringing our senti-
ments in line with social standards” (descriptive). Given the balance of
the texts, however, I think we have to see the use of the “we know what
to do” locution in the footnote as referring to our capacity to learn how
to alleviate psychological and social discomfort.
 “Why Utility Pleases” 103
5.1.4 Section 5 of EPM and the Treatise
We’ve already discussed some important differences between EPM and the
Treatise, but the entire section might be taken as an important difference,
as it has no obvious analog in the Treatise. However, “utility,” or “public
good,” is invoked throughout Book 3 of the Treatise where Hume discusses
it contextually, rather than pausing to consider it in relative isolation. The
influence of our natural regard for the public good comes up frequently in
his discussions of justice, property, allegiance, fidelity, and obligation. He
doesn’t devote nearly the same effort to making the case that our fellow-
feelings are natural and capable of refinement through social engagement
and good judgment – again, the sophistication of his account of how our
sentiments are socialized and our judgments rendered less partial is a key
difference between the two works – but those later refinements are implicit
in the earlier work. Consider the conclusion to Book 3, where it is most
clear that Hume already had something like his EPM Section 5 account in
mind:
Justice is certainly approv’d of for no other reason, than because it has
a tendency to the public good: And the public good is indifferent to us, except so
far as sympathy interests us in it. We may presume the like with regard to all
the other virtues, which have a like tendency to the public good. (T 3.3.6.1,
italics added)
He’s claiming, as he does in EPM, that we praise the social virtues for their
utility (“public good”). He’s also acknowledging that sympathy does inter-
est us in the public good. This is especially true when we disapprove of
injustice, which Hume describes as “pernicious to every one that
approaches the person guilty of it” (T 3.2.2.24). Though the case is perhaps
somewhat understated in the Treatise, it turns out that sympathy (or the
principles of benevolence and humanity) “interests us in [utility]” in an
incredibly broad range of circumstances. Detailing those circumstances is
one of the objectives of “Why Utility Pleases.”

5.2 Hume’s Utilitarianism

On the one hand, the foregoing analysis of “Why Utility Pleases” would
seem to leave us in doubt as to whether Hume advances anything that
might properly be called a first-order ethical view, let alone one that is
specifically utilitarian. On the other hand, one can hardly be blamed for
thinking Hume is some sort of utilitarian on the basis of “Why Utility
Pleases.” The opening paragraph of the section claims that utility so
104 emily kelahan
obviously explains why we find praiseworthy traits praiseworthy “that one
would expect to meet with this principle every where in moral writers, as
the chief foundation of their reasoning and enquiry” (EPM 5.1). Hume
claims that utility is the foundation of morality, and that sounds awfully
utilitarian, so perhaps Hume is some kind of parent of utilitarianism if not
a utilitarian himself.10 If there is clear evidence for that conclusion, one
might expect to find it in “Why Utility Pleases.”
The debate about Hume’s utilitarianism seems to have begun in earnest
in the 1970s, apparently sparked by recognition of the assumptions of
intellectual historians and political philosophers by scholars of Hume’s
moral philosophy. In one of the earliest texts on this debate, Aryeh
Botwinick begins by observing that “IN MANY HISTORIES OF
WESTERN THOUGHT – as well as in those devoted more specifically
to the history of Western political thought – the designation of Hume as
a utilitarian in his ethical and political theory is taken for granted” (1977,
p. 432). When Hume is considered as one influence among many in
shaping western thought, it is often assumed that he is a utilitarian.
However, the balance of work on his thought specifically strongly suggests
that it’s not helpful for understanding Hume to think of him as
a utilitarian. In short, there is an asymmetrical relationship. It may be
helpful for understanding utilitarianism to think of it as informed by
Hume’s thought, but utilitarianism is a mostly distorting lens for Hume
interpretation. Even work that is sympathetic to the utilitarian interpret-
ation of Hume acknowledges that there is much more going on in Hume’s
moral philosophy besides utilitarianism and that the type of utilitarianism
we might justifiably ascribe to Hume is highly qualified, incomplete, and
attenuated.11
Reviewing the dialectic, scholars of topics that include but don’t focus
on Hume overstated Hume’s utilitarianism. In response, some scholars of
Hume argued that this is not the right way to understand his philosophy.
What happened next? I will focus on some of the highlights. In his “Hume
and the Invention of Utilitarianism,” Stephen Darwall (1995b) advances
a strong scholarly case for interpreting Hume as an important figure in the
rise of utilitarianism. There is simply no doubt that Hume inspired
Bentham. Bentham tells us himself that after reading some parts of Book

10
Moore (2002) doesn’t directly consider the question of Hume’s alleged utilitarianism, but argues
that the role of utility in Hume’s moral theory is not foundational. According to Moore, utility is
important to moral distinctions, but the foundation of morality is the sentiment of humanity. This
is clearly at odds with utilitarianism.
11
See, for example, Glossop (1976) or, more recently, Ashford (2005) and Crisp (2005).
 “Why Utility Pleases” 105
3 of the Treatise, “I felt as if the scales had fallen from my eyes” (Bentham,
1776, p. 51). His praise for Hume is high, but his criticisms are harsh, so
there is also no doubt that Hume was an inspiration and not a guide. Hume
couldn’t be a guide, one might reasonably think, because he wasn’t any sort
of utilitarian. Geoffrey Sayre-McCord deserves much of the credit for
making this case. In his “Hume and the Bauhaus Theory of Ethics,” Sayre-
McCord argues compellingly that “no version of utilitarianism – neither
act, nor rule, nor motive utilitarianism – sits comfortably as an interpret-
ation of Hume” (1995, p. 280). Sayre-McCord goes on to detail the
requirements of a utilitarian theory and show how awkwardly Hume
satisfies them when he can be said to satisfy them at all. At best, he argues,
Hume’s “Bauhaus” moral theory, as he calls it, has some “affinities” with
some aspects of utilitarianism.
A decade later, Hume as a utilitarian interpretation strikes back in a pair
of 2005 papers. In “Utilitarianism with a Humean Face,” Elizabeth
Ashford directly responds to the challenge implicit in Sayre-McCord’s
paper – that of finding a version of utilitarianism that does sit comfortably
as an interpretation of Hume. Sayre-McCord and Ashford agree that
Hume is not committed to any kind of calculus or maximization of utility.
They also agree on three other ways a view can fail to be utilitarian: (1) it
can fail to see welfare promotion and suffering reduction as the ultimate
point of morality (welfarism), (2) it can fail to consider utility for all who
will be affected (impartiality), and (3) it can fail to see “utility as the
underlying criterion by which to solve all moral questions” and to prioritize
the utility of all instead of the utility of each (single-measurism). Contra
Sayre-McCord, Ashford argues that Hume’s view doesn’t fail to be welfarist
(though focused on the virtues, “the ultimate point of the virtues is to
promote well-being” [Ashford, 2005, pp. 65–66]), doesn’t fail to be impar-
tial (“no one’s interests are excluded from the scope of the moral senti-
ments that form the basis of the moral point of view” [Ashford, 2005,
p. 70]), and doesn’t fail to be single-measurist (“Hume’s . . . sympathetic
spectator suggests a conception of the moral point of view that does consist
in concern for the interests of all rather than the interests of each . . . and . . .
does take the general good to be a measure of interpersonal value”
[Ashford, 2005, p. 89]). Her second argument directly concerns “Why
Utility Pleases.” Following Taylor (2015b), I argued in the previous section
that the account of how we render our moral judgments impartial in EPM
is more sophisticated and capacious than what we find in the Treatise.
Undoubtedly, Hume is committed to the belief that people get better at
making impartial judgments the more and the more broadly they socialize,
106 emily kelahan
but this is not to say that he thinks we have an obligation to consider
everyone’s interests. Ashford is right that no one is excluded from the social
sphere we might engage in broadening our sentiments, but no one is
required to be included.
Roger Crisp’s excellent 2005 paper, the other member of the pair, is
notable for explaining the possible upshot of exploring Hume as
a utilitarian interpretation, an endeavor that is long overdue. To be clear,
Crisp believes that “Hume is not, in the usual sense, a utilitarian of any
kind” (2005, p. 16). Though I have been arguing that the interpretive
relationship between Hume’s philosophy and utilitarianism is asymmet-
rical – Hume can help us understand utilitarianism, but it can’t help us
understand him – Crisp reminds us of why it can be beneficial to read
newer theories into older philosophy and how we can do so without
anachronism. He writes from the perspective of a contemporary philoso-
pher who doubts “the prevailing view . . . that virtue ethics is opposed to
utilitarianism” and who is writing at a point in time when Hume didn’t
receive the attention in virtue ethics circles that he now enjoys (2005,
p. 159). Crisp thinks it’s possible for a view to fall squarely in virtue ethics
and utilitarianism depending on its scope and the type of questions it
answers. He looks to Hume because “his position combines both a form of
common-sense morality which could plausibly be described as a kind of
virtue ethics and a form of utilitarianism” (2005, pp. 159–60). The form of
utilitarianism he ascribes to Hume is tenuous indeed – he sees the virtues as
“justified, from the moral point of view, by their promoting overall utility”
and “the institution of morality itself emerg[ing] only because of its utility
value” – but I couldn’t agree more that Hume is an illuminating example of
how a moral theorist can build a complex view that combines different
schools of thought (2005, pp. 177–78). I think that this is fast becoming the
accepted view, though disagreements linger about the extent to which
Hume fits in any particular school.
Where are we now? A 2016 paper by Massimo Reichlin, “Hume and
Utilitarianism: Another Look at an Age-Old Question,” resurrects and
augments many of the ideas presented by Darwall and Sayre-McCord. Like
Sayre-McCord, Reichlin delineates four features of utilitarianism (a con-
sequentialist theory of the right, a hedonist theory of the good, impartial-
ity, and a prescriptive attitude) and argues that Hume’s moral theory
doesn’t embody any of them. Like Darwall, he traces Hume’s influence
on the rise of utilitarianism, agreeing that he was influential but by no
means a blueprint. A thorough analysis of one of the texts that would seem
to be most decisive in settling the question, “Why Utility Pleases,” is more
 “Why Utility Pleases” 107
supportive of those interpretations that claim that utilitarianism is an
anachronistic and misleading way of understanding Hume’s moral phil-
osophy. In fact, Reichlin argues for just this conclusion, describing EPM
5.44 as “Hume’s single passage mostly nearing the utilitarian view accord-
ing to which utility is the criterion of morality” (2016, p. 17):
that the circumstance of utility, in all subjects, is a source of praise and
approbation: That it is constantly appealed to in all moral decisions con-
cerning the merit and demerit of actions: That it is the sole source of that
high regard paid to justice, fidelity, honour, allegiance, and chastity: That it
is inseparable from all the other social virtues, humanity, generosity, charity,
affability, lenity, mercy, and moderation: And, in a word, that it is
a foundation of the chief part of morals, which has a reference to mankind
and our fellow-creatures. (EPM 5.44)
But he argues convincingly that “If properly read, this statement implies
that utility is not the single criterion of morality” as utilitarianism requires
(2016, p. 17). Utility is one source of praise for virtuous traits and
“a foundation of a part of morals” (2016, p. 17). Reichlin seizes on two
other passages from “Why Utility Pleases” in two footnotes – one we’ve
already considered and one we will consider in Section 5.3 in relation to the
dispute between Hume and Smith. The one we will consider in Section 5.3
maintains that “the tendencies of actions and characters, not their real
accidental consequences, are alone regarded in our moral determinations
or general judgments” (EPM 5 n.24). Reichlin notes that this passage is
strong evidence of Hume’s non-consequentialism and therefore nonutili-
tarianism. When we considered the other footnote in Section 5.1, it stood
out there, too, as possibly committing Hume to a normative view accord-
ing to which we are obligated to render our judgments impartial:
IT is wisely ordained by nature, that private connexions should commonly
prevail over universal views and considerations . . .. But still we know here,
as in all the senses, to correct these inequalities by reflection, and retain
a general standard of vice and virtue, founded chiefly on a general useful-
ness. (EPM 5 n.25)
I argue then that we should understand “still know here” as referring to our
capacity to learn how to alleviate psychological and social discomfort and
not interpret this footnote as making a normative claim. Reichlin disagrees.
He sees Hume as making a normative claim, but an anti-utilitarian one:
“we should act mainly with a view to the interests of ourselves and our close
friends, rather than of a distant commonwealth, but judge on the basis of
a more general standard” (2016, p. 18). It would seem that at this point in
108 emily kelahan
time the prevailing view is that Hume is not a utilitarian, at least not “in the
usual sense” (Crisp, 2005, p. 160). However, as Darwall observes, Hume
can be credited with “open[ing] up a space for philosophical utilitarianism
even if he himself did not occupy it” (Darwall, 1995b, p. 76). But not only
did he not occupy it; it’s becoming less clear what we gain from trying to
force him into it.

5.3 Hume and Smith’s Disagreement

Beyond its role in understanding how Hume’s views might have evolved
from the Treatise to EPM and its influence on the development of utilitar-
ianism, “Why Utility Pleases” is an important work for another reason. It
captured Adam Smith’s attention and became a target of criticism in his
Theory of Moral Sentiments (TMS).12 With the exception of some subtle
remarks in his anonymous review of Smith’s TMS, Hume doesn’t directly
reply to Smith, so readers are left to piece together replies on Hume’s
behalf.13 The disagreement is rich and interesting, but has received com-
paratively little attention. Smith takes issue with three claims:
1 “Utility . . . is a source of praise and approbation” (EPM 5.44).
2 Our approval of utility “frequently extends farther [than self-interest]”
(EPM 5.15) to “the interests of society” (EPM 5.46).
3 “usefulness is only a tendency to a certain end; and it is a contradiction
in terms, that any thing pleases as a means to an end, where the end
itself no wise affects us” (EPM 5.17).
Smith’s objection against (3), that nothing pleases as a means alone, is
arguably the least serious. His objections to (1) and (2), however, indicate
more fundamental disagreements about key features of their moral theor-
ies, such as the nature of sentimentalism and moral judgment.14
Smith’s issue with (3) is a bit convoluted, but well worth our attention.
First, he focuses on what Hume has to say about the utility of objects. This
is an odd focus, as Hume is clear that he’s discussing objects only to bolster

12
I found Martin (1990) and Rasmussen (2017) extremely helpful in understanding this disagreement.
13
See Raynor (1984) for a helpful discussion of Hume’s role in the development and popularization of
Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments. Raynor explains how Hume delicately holds Smith accountable
for oversimplifying his account of moral approbation by seeing it almost exclusively through the lens
of utility to the neglect of agreeableness.
14
These disagreements are rich and reach far beyond “Why Utility Pleases.” I recommend Sayre-
McCord (2013), “Hume and Smith on Sympathy, Approbation, and Moral Judgment,” as an
excellent introduction to the subject.
 “Why Utility Pleases” 109
the case for utility as the source of our approbation of the social virtues and
concedes that the two ought to be treated differently:
The sentiments, excited by utility, are, in the two cases, very different; and
the one is mixed with affection, esteem, approbation, &c. and not the
other . . .. For though there be a species of approbation attending even
inanimate objects, when beneficial, yet this sentiment is so weak, and so
different from that which is directed to beneficent magistrates or statesman;
that they ought not to be ranked under the same class or appellation.
(EPM 5 n.17)
Smith agrees with Hume that the utility, or “the fitness of any system or
machine to produce the end for which it was intended,” of an object
contributes to its beauty and merit (TMS IV.1.1). However, he disputes
Hume’s claim that nothing pleases as a means where we aren’t affected by
its end:
But that this fitness, this happy contrivance of any production of art, should
often be more valued, than the very end for which it was intended; and that
the exact adjustment of the means for attaining any conveniency or pleasure,
should frequently be more regarded, than that very conveniency or pleasure,
in the attainment of which their whole merit would seem to consist, has not,
so far as I know, been yet taken notice of by any body. (TMS IV.1.3)
Smith thinks we often do value the means more than the end for which the
means was intended. He reinforces his claim with an example. A person
walks into their living room to find the furniture in disarray and is
unnerved by what they see. The presumptive reason they prefer array
over disarray is convenience and utility. However, to attain the conveni-
ence and utility of a properly organized room, they have to go to a lot of
trouble and inconvenience when they might have just plopped down
(TMS IV.1.4). Smith takes the upshot to be that the end we value is the
arrangement of furniture itself and not the convenience it is purported to
afford. As Dennis Rasmussen puts it, we “confuse means for ends and
attach greater importance to the ‘fitness’ of an object to produce pleasure –
its appearance of convenience or efficiency – than we do to the pleasure it
actually affords” (2017, p. 95).
It’s difficult to see this as a genuine disagreement with Hume. Hume
claimed that we don’t find means pleasing where we’re in no way affected
by their ends. Smith has shown that a means (the arrangement) can please
independently of the ends (convenience) in particular cases, but, arguably,
Hume is concerned with the general effects of means. Hume doesn’t claim
that the ends must always be pleasing; he claims that we must somehow be
110 emily kelahan
affected by the ends. This echoes what he says about moral approbation.
When Hume describes the process by which we arrive at the general point
of view in the Treatise, he notes that we come to understand the general
effects of character traits. That is, we form an idea of the effects certain traits
tend to bring about. This explains, for example, why we admire “virtue in
rags” (T 3.3.1.19). He reaffirms this in EPM when he claims that the
“tendencies of actions and characters” and “not their real accidental
consequences, are alone regarded in our moral determinations or general
judgments” (EPM 5 n.24). This positions Hume to respond to Smith by
agreeing that on occasion we do value a particular means independently of
its end, but generally, if types of means didn’t tend to bring about pleasing
ends, we wouldn’t find those means pleasing. If tidy arrangements of
furniture never made it easier to socialize or relax, we would value them
less, if at all.
Additionally, utility isn’t the only explanation of our approbation;
agreeableness is also pleasing to us, and we might even decide to forgo
convenience for the sake of agreeability. Imagine a case where a particular
piece of furniture looks beautiful in a location that is uncomfortable for
sitting because it is under a noisy, agitating vent. We may very well care
more about the aesthetic features of the room than its comfort or utility,
and leave the piece under the vent. Relatedly, Hume has another reply to
Smith. Hume can distinguish between types of virtue and argue that what’s
in question in “Why Utility Pleases” are judgments of moral virtue, while
what’s in question in Smith’s case study are aesthetic judgments. Perhaps
it’s not just the convenience of orderly furniture we value. The fact that
a disorganized room is jarring to us may reveal that order itself is an end to
be valued, and tidying a means to achieve it.
Let’s move on to Smith’s objections to the other two claims. While
Smith agrees that people approve of useful qualities and disapprove of
harmful ones, he doesn’t agree that (1) “utility . . . is either the first or
principal source of our approbation or disapprobation” (TMS IV.2.3,
italics added). That is, he doesn’t think we approve of useful qualities
because they are useful and he doesn’t think that considerations of utility
motivate our approval, even though utility is praiseworthy. Why not? First,
he thinks there must be a sentimental difference in our approval of a person
and our approval of things (TMS IV.2.4). If the approval of both is based
in utility, then it’s difficult to explain why we experience such different
sentiments and are moved to do such different things in the two cases.
Rasmussen notes that we might risk our lives for a person, but certainly not
for a nice piece of furniture (2017, p. 97). Hume actually agrees, as we’ve
 “Why Utility Pleases” 111
already noted. The sentiments we experience in relation to useful human
traits and useful objects are different, but Hume doesn’t really explain why.
Hume and Smith agree that the object of moral evaluation is the motives,
and clearly a chest of drawers has no motives, but because Smith’s theory
focuses on sympathy with the agent, and not just with the people who are
benefited by the utility, Smith is better poised to explain the difference in
our sentimental responses to people whose actions benefit us and things
whose function we appreciate.
Second, having distinguished between two types of moral sentiment, the
sense of propriety and the sense of merit, Smith objects that when we make
moral judgments of propriety, we rarely consider utility. Smith describes
this as “a sense of propriety quite distinct from the perception of utility”
(TMS IV.2.4). We do, however, consider utility when making moral
judgments concerning merit – those judgments based on perceived benefit
to others. Who is “we” in “when we make moral judgments of propriety”?
Smith makes a distinction between ordinary people and philosophers and
argues that ordinary people don’t consider the usefulness of a trait when
they approve of it:
When a philosopher goes to examine why humanity is approved of . . . he
does not always form to himself, in a very clear and distinct manner, the
conception of any one particular action either of cruelty or of humanity, but
is commonly contented with the vague and indeterminate idea which the
general names of those qualities suggest to him. But it is in particular
instances only that the propriety and impropriety, the merit or demerit of
actions is very discernible. (TMS IV.2.2)
Philosophers look at generalities in human behavior and explain phenom-
ena in terms of abstract notions like utility, but ordinary people making
specific judgments in daily life don’t stop and think about whether a trait
they admire in the moment is useful; they just admire it. A more mature
individual will make moral judgments by consulting their impartial spec-
tator, but this process is not primarily one of considering whether the trait
in question is useful. This line of thinking puts pressure on claim (2) as well
as (1). If utility doesn’t explain why ordinary people, and even mature
moral judges, approve of traits in specific circumstances, it certainly
doesn’t explain why they approve of useful traits when they affect distant
others, as this would be an even further removed and abstract maneuver.
To some extent, Hume agrees. Several paragraphs of “Why Utility
Pleases” are devoted to demonstrating how readily we approve of useful
traits when they benefit other people. Hume observes that it doesn’t occur
112 emily kelahan
to us to ask “what is it to me?” when admiring another’s useful traits. If it
doesn’t occur to us to wonder about that, how can utility explain our moral
approbation? Hume could argue that abstract reasoning and the effect of
custom and habit explain the immediacy (that is, the apparent lack of
reflection) and generality (that is, the apparent unrelatedness to utility) of
our moral approbation. We may not invoke utility explicitly in specific
everyday judgments, but the general effects of useful traits internalized over
the course of our lives could still explain them. Unfortunately, this par-
ticular disagreement is too rich and complicated to resolve here.
On balance, “Why Utility Pleases” is an underappreciated text. Though
not as widely read as many of Hume’s other works, it has generated some
stimulating debates that have spanned generations of scholars. Though
neglected as a standalone work, it beautifully showcases Hume’s experi-
mental method and illuminatingly displays the evolution of Hume’s
thought on moral evaluation and human nature.15

15
I am grateful to William & Mary for hosting a subset of the contributors to this volume for
a workshop; to Lorraine Besser, Lorne Falkenstein, Ryan Hanley, Esther Kroeker, Willem
Lemmens, Rick McCarty, Elizabeth Radcliffe, and Margaret Watkins for their helpful feedback at
said workshop; to McGill University Rare Books and Special Collections for the support of the
David Hume Research Grant; to Adeline Schultz for her editorial assistance; and to the editors and
Jacqueline Taylor for their thoughtful comments.
 chapter 6

Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues

James Fieser

6.1 Introduction
Here’s a conversation that wouldn’t take place today, but might have if
Hume had his way:
Esther: I heard you’re sick so I brought you some soup.
Willem: That’s very kind of you! Your benevolence says a lot about your moral
character. To prevent a pandemic, when you leave, please exit through the
decontamination chamber where the Center for Disease Control will keep you
in quarantine for a few weeks.
Esther: That’s very funny! Your wit says a lot about your moral character.
Willem: That’s very kind of you, but I’m a little confused. Doesn’t morality have
to do with virtues that benefit society, like benevolence? Wit seems very different; it
has no social benefit. It ridicules everything sacred and teaches children that life is
a joke. At best wit is entertaining. But moral? Quite the opposite.
Esther: That’s very funny, but in this case the joke may be on you. Benevolence
and wit fall into the same moral category. They both pick out mental qualities in
people that spectators approve of, and that’s all that is needed for something to be
moral. Ancient moral philosophers grouped benevolence and wit together, and
we’d all feel the same way now if it wasn’t for the influence of somber philo-
sophers and theologians. I have to go now, but I’ll bring more soup by tomorrow.
Willem: That’s very kind of you. You’ve been a great audience and I’ll be here
all week, eating the soup of the morally benevolent, and entertaining one and all
with my moral wit.

The issue here involves what counts as a distinctively “moral” virtue, and
whether benevolence and wit should be grouped together in the same
category. In this exchange, Esther presents Hume’s view that benevolence
and wit are indeed both genuine moral virtues. This is a strange thing to
say. While we all would recognize benevolence as a moral virtue, we would
instead classify wit as something like an admirable talent or skill, but not
a moral virtue in the true sense of the word “moral.” Nevertheless, Hume
unapologetically places wit among the moral virtues, as he does other

113
114 james fieser
talents like good memory, cheerfulness, good manners, inventiveness,
cleanliness, “and a thousand more of the same kind” (An Enquiry
Concerning the Principles of Morals [EPM] 6.21). What led Hume to this
view? Is he correct that genuine moral virtues are as broad as he claims? He
defends his position in Sections 6, 7, and 8 and in Appendix 1 of his EPM,
and here we will explore his reasoning and determine whether he was on
the right track. Ultimately, we will see that he was not, and the source of
the problem is his notion of “immediate agreeableness.”
From the start, we might be suspicious about whether Hume truly
believed that there was no real distinction between virtues and talents.
He had a reputation for defending innovative and controversial positions
as a way of drawing attention to himself. As an early critic of his writes,
“The great object of Mr. Hume’s ambition, as we are informed by himself,
was literary fame. And in order to excite public attention, he seems to have
thought it necessary to be singular. Accordingly, we find an affectation of
singularity of sentiment, very predominant in his writings.”1 While we can
legitimately raise questions about the sincerity of what Hume says in many
of his works, EPM is entirely different. In this he is on a mission to ground
an optimistic view of morality solely upon the facts of human psychology,
and the genuineness of this mission is transparent. His moral theory is
optimistic in the sense that he advocates a set of virtues that include
traditional ones, and he does not reduce moral conduct to mere self-
interest. He also maintains that major virtues like benevolence, charity,
generosity, and moderation are natural to humans.
We might ask, then: what motivated Hume to knowingly expand
the catalog of virtues in a way that distanced himself from other
moralists? The short answer is that he valued Cicero’s broader vision
of the virtuous person over the narrower view taken by later Christian
philosophers and theologians. When he devised his theory around
1739, he stated in a letter to Francis Hutcheson that Cicero’s book
Offices was his principal inspiration for blending virtues with talents:
“Whether natural Abilitys be Virtues is a Dispute of Words. I think
I follow the common Use of Language . . .. Upon the whole, I desire to
take my Catalogue of Virtues from Cicero’s Offices, not from the
Whole Duty of Man. I had, indeed, the former Book in my Eye in
all my Reasonings” (L I, 13). Hume is correct that, in Offices, Cicero
1
Joseph Towers, Observations on Mr. Hume’s History of England (1778). All quotations of Hume’s early
critics in this chapter are taken from Fieser (2004).
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 115
has a very broad conception of the virtues. It is particularly in Cicero’s
discussion of “decorum,” sometimes translated as “propriety” or
“gracefulness,” that he pushes the boundaries of virtue, which probably
most influenced Hume:
The decorum to which I refer shows itself also in every deed, in every
word, even in every movement and attitude of the body. In outward,
visible decorum there are three elements: beauty, tact, and taste . . .. So, in
standing or walking, in sitting or reclining, in our expression, our eyes, or
the movements of our hands, let us preserve what we have called
“decorum.” (Cicero, 2013, p. 35)
A key feature of decorum is speaking ability in both public oratory and
private conversation. It is here that wit comes to play, and, as an example,
Cicero describes how Julius Caesar outshined his rivals:
But in wit and humor Caesar . . . surpassed them all: even at the bar he
would with his conversational style defeat other advocates with their
elaborate orations. If, therefore, we are aiming to secure decorum in
every circumstance of life, we must master all these points. (Cicero,
2013, p. 37)
Hume not only valued Cicero’s philosophy, but in his youth he
attempted to internalize the moral message of Cicero and similar
classical Stoic moralists. Hume states in an early letter, “having read
many Books of Morality, such as Cicero, Seneca & Plutarch, & being
smit with their beautiful Representations of Virtue & Philosophy,
I undertook the Improvement of my Temper & Will, along with
my Reason & Understanding” (L I, 3). Hume was evidently inspired
by the more aesthetic vision of morality that Cicero offered, as
compared to the solemn and legalistic approach offered by Christian
moralists. It didn’t matter to him that Cicero’s broad view of virtues
conflicted with the Christian approach, and, because of Hume’s
skeptical view of religion, this may even have motivated him all the
more to defend Cicero’s view.
The issue of moral virtues vs. nonmoral talents is central to Hume’s
EPM, and everything he says about the scope of morality in this work is
sandwiched between these two statements in the opening and concluding
sections:
• Section 1: “we shall endeavour to follow a very simple method: we shall
analyse that complication of mental qualities, which form what, in
common life, we call Personal Merit [i.e., virtue].”
116 james fieser
• Section 9: “It may justly appear surprising that any man in so late an
age, should find it requisite to prove, by elaborate reasoning, that
Personal Merit [i.e., virtue] consists altogether in the possession of
mental qualities, useful or agreeable to the person himself or to others.”
Note that in the above two quotes Hume uses the term “personal merit”
rather than “virtue,” which I have supplied in brackets. In the first edition
of EPM, though, he in fact prominently used the term “virtue” in both
passages:
• Section 1.10 (1751 edition): “We shall consider the Matter as an Object
of Experience. We shall call every Quality or Action of the Mind, virtu-
ous, which is attended with the general Approbation of Mankind: And we
shall denominate vicious, every Quality, which is the Object of general
Blame or Censure. These Qualities we shall endeavour to collect; and
after examining, on both Sides, the several Circumstances, in which
they agree, ’tis hop’d we may, at last, reach the Foundation of Ethics,
and find those universal Principles, from which all moral Blame or
Approbation is ultimately derived.”
• Section 9.1 (1751 edition): “It may justly appear surprizing, that any
Man, in so late an Age, should find it requisite to prove, by elaborate
Reasonings, that virtue or personal merit consists altogether in the
Possession of Qualities, useful or agreeable to the Person himself or to
others.”
He gives his rationale for the change in terminology here: “I avoided the
terms virtue and vice; because some of those qualities, which I classed
among the objects of praise, receive, in the English language, the appella-
tion of talents, rather than of virtues; as some of the blameable or censur-
able qualities are often called defects, rather than vices” (EPM App. 4.1).
His shift in terminology, then, is directly related to the question of virtues
and talents that we are examining here.
What is important about these passages from Sections 1 and 9 is that he is
proposing that we first hunt for all the mental qualities that we call “virtues,”
then identify the features that all these virtues have. The process itself, he says,
is modeled after experimental science: “As this is a question of fact, not of
abstract science, we can only expect success, by following the experimental
method, and deducing general maxims from a comparison of particular
instances” (EPM 1.10). His conclusion is that a person’s mental quality is
a moral virtue if it is either useful or agreeable to the possessor or others. For
simplicity, I will refer throughout to this as Hume’s four-pronged test for
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 117
virtue. For our purposes, what is important about this experimental process is
that Hume is first identifying wit and other talents as genuine moral virtues,
and only afterwards devising his test for virtue in such a way that it includes
them. That is, Hume is not doing the reverse by beginning with his test and
then concluding that wit is a moral virtue since it passes his test. His catalog of
virtues, then, is the evidence for the test, which means that, up front, he must
have some reason why wit qualifies as a moral virtue, rather than a mere
nonmoral talent. What, then, are his reasons? We turn to this next.

6.2 Rejection of Common Reasons for Distinguishing

Virtues from Talents
Hume devotes an entire Appendix of his EPM to the issue of virtues and
talents. His reason for why the two should be taken as a package is that there is
no good reason to separate them. The fact that this discussion is in an
Appendix does not mean that it is a minor part of his theory. In fact, in the
1751 first edition of EPM, a shorter version of this material appeared at the very
beginning of Section 6. As in other areas of EPM where Hume moved
discussions to the Appendix, he did so to facilitate ease of reading, relegating
to the Appendixes the more philosophically technical discussions. His argu-
ments in this Appendix are powerful and focus on these four points:
• We do not find a clear separation between virtues and talents within
modern languages.
• We see no such separation between virtues and talents when we
consider which types of mental qualities enhance our feeling of self-
worth.
• Within the writings of classical moralists, we find no clear separation
between virtues and talents.
• The modern separation between virtues and talents owes much to the
influence of theologians who have attempted to link morality with law and
punishment, and the presumed voluntariness that legal culpability requires.
While each of these arguments warrants attention, we will here examine
only the first.
His first argument, concerning modern language, is itself multifaceted;
he evaluates four possible criteria of distinction.2 Perhaps (1) virtues are
voluntary but talents are involuntary, or (2) virtues are social and talents are
private, or (3) virtues involve action and talents involve the intellect, or (4)

2
Hume’s discussion of this did not appear in the 1751 first edition but was only added in 1764.
118 james fieser
virtues are emotional and talents are nonemotional. The first of these
possible criteria is especially interesting because of its long history.
A critic of Hume might argue that genuine moral virtues like benevolence
require a voluntary effort to acquire that mental habit, whereas nonmoral
talents like wit are simply natural gifts that are beyond our capacity to
choose. Interestingly, Cicero himself presents this distinction in De
Finibus, a work with which Hume was very familiar:3
One class [of virtues of the intellect] consists of those excellences which are
implanted by their own nature, and which are called non-volitional; and the
other of those which, depending on our volition, are usually styled “virtues”
in the more special sense; and the latter are the pre-eminent glory and
distinction of the mind. To the former class belong quickness of learning
[docilitas] and memory; and practically all the excellences of this class are
included under one name of “talent,” and their possessors are spoken of as
“talented.” The other class consists of the higher virtues properly so called,
which we speak of as dependent on volition, for instance, wisdom, temper-
ance, courage, justice, and the others of the same kind. (Cicero, 2015b, 5.36)
Here Cicero states that nonvoluntary talents include quickness of learning
and memory, whereas voluntary moral virtues are the traditional cardinal
virtues of Plato. It should be noted that Cicero himself may not have
endorsed this voluntary–nonvoluntary distinction. In fact, this quotation
from De Finibus even seems inconsistent with what we looked at earlier
from the Offices, where Cicero combines talents with virtues. However, De
Finibus is a dialogue and the above quote from it is presented by a character
named “Piso” who is describing a hybrid moral theory of the Peripatetic
and Academic philosophical schools. Cicero himself appears as a different
character in the dialogue and does not identify with Piso’s position.
Nevertheless, through the mouth of Piso, Cicero is drawing on a library
of Hellenistic philosophical works that has been lost to time, and this
reveals what may have then been a common theory of distinction between
virtues and talents in the classical world.
Hutcheson also believed that virtues and natural talents are distinct from
each other, and, like Cicero, in the following he maintains that voluntari-
ness and nonvoluntariness are what differentiate the two:
Need we mention again some natural sense, different from the moral one,
but not unlike it, by which we relish and value some powers of the mind and
the body quite different from any of the voluntary virtues. To all the powers

3
Hume quotes from Cicero’s De Finibus in the Treatise’s Appendix, EHU 5.2, Essays (“Of the Rise and
Progress of the Arts and Sciences”), and his letter to Hutcheson (L I, 13).
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 119
God has given us there’s conjoined some sort of sense or relish, recommend-
ing that exercise of them we call natural, which is also the most subservient
to the general good. Hence we highly approve the pursuits of knowledge
and the ingenious arts, a capacity of application, industry, and perseverance.
(Hutcheson, 2007, 3.1)
Hutcheson states here that humans have something like a sixth moral sense
that picks out and approves of voluntary virtues like benevolence. On top
of that, he suggests, we have something like a seventh nonmoral sense that
picks out and approves of natural abilities like industry and perseverance.
Hume does not directly cite either Cicero or Hutcheson in his discussion,
but they both may have been his targets. In any case, Hume rejects the view
that voluntariness vs. nonvoluntariness is the criterion of distinction
between moral virtues and nonmoral talents. His rationale is that many
virtues, such as “courage, equanimity, patience, self-command . . . depend
little or not at all on our choice” (EPM App. 4.2). That is, the criterion of
voluntariness is too exclusive since it leaves out some important virtues.
Although Hume doesn’t do this here, he could also argue from the
opposite side that many talents, such as wit, eloquence, and cleanliness,
do depend on choice and one’s willingness to acquire those skills through
practice. That is, the criterion of voluntariness is too inclusive since it still
contains some “talents.”
Turning to the other three possible criteria for distinguishing moral
virtues from nonmoral talents, Hume argues similarly that we can always
find some talent that passes the criteria of a virtue, or some virtue that
passes the criteria of a talent. He says this particularly regarding the action–
intellect criterion and the emotion–nonemotion criterion. Regarding the
criterion that virtues are social and talents are private, he concedes that we
call some character traits “social virtues” (EPM App. 4.2). However, he says
that this term in fact implies that “there are also virtues of another species”
(EPM App. 4.2), namely private virtues that focus on the betterment of
one’s personal character irrespective of its impact on others.
With all four of these alleged criteria, Hume seems victorious, and that
should come as no surprise. It is notoriously difficult to find a simple
criterion that adequately defines any complex natural phenomenon,
whether you are talking about the definition of a “planet,” or that of
biological “life,” or that of a biological “species.” So too with any simple
criterion that supposedly distinguishes all genuine moral virtues from all
nonmoral talents. Let’s grant Hume’s point, then, that we will not find any
simple criterion for distinguishing virtues from talents. Nevertheless, there
does seem to be some fundamental difference between the two. If we have
120 james fieser
any hope of disputing Hume’s view of virtues and talents, then, we need to
look at the details of his theory, which inclined him to clump virtues and
talents together, and thereby construct an overreaching four-pronged test
for virtue.

6.3 Roles of the Actor, Receiver, and Spectator

in the Test for Virtue
Let’s temporarily set aside the problem of virtues and talents, and look into
the moral psychology behind Hume’s four-pronged test for virtue.
Everything he says about virtue rests on an assumption that there are
three players in every moral judgment: (1) an actor who performs
a motivated action, (2) a receiver who is either the beneficiary or victim
of that action, and (3) a spectator who pronounces a judgment upon that
actor’s motive. Take, for example, Esther bringing soup over to sickly
Willem to make him feel better. Esther is the actor, Willem is the receiver,
and you and I are the spectators who judge that her motive is morally good.
The underlying moral psychology in this situation is that Esther’s act is
useful to Willem and thus gives him pleasure. I, then, who hear about this
event, sympathetically experience Willem’s pleasure, and my sympathetic
pleasure constitutes my moral assessment that Esther’s motive is a virtue,
and in this case the virtue of benevolence.
Without the spectator’s sympathetic feelings, there is no moral assess-
ment, and, in EPM Section 5 (“Why Utility Pleases”), Hume describes at
length the critical role that sympathy plays. A useful analogy for under-
standing Hume’s notion of sympathy is a phenomenon in physics called
the “sympathetic vibration of strings.” I take a guitar with two strings that
are tuned to exactly the same pitch. I pluck the first string and, without
even touching the second string, it too starts vibrating. That’s just how
physics works. By analogy, when Esther brings soup to Willem, which
gives him pleasure, I will then sympathetically experience that same pleas-
ure when I hear about this event. For Hume, that’s just how human
psychology works.
The same psychological mechanism that allows me to sympathetically
experience Willem’s pleasure also allows me to experience his pain if
someone mistreats him. Suppose that Esther is Willem’s landlord, and,
instead of bringing him soup, out of sheer meanness she brings him an
eviction notice for late payment, knowing full well that he is ill. “What
a horrible thing to do!” I say to myself. Esther’s action is disadvantageous to
Willem, which causes him pain, which I too sympathetically experience.
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 121
Through my sympathetic pain I thereby pronounce that Esther’s motive is
vicious, rather than virtuous, and in this case the vice of malevolence.
With this understanding of the respective roles of the actor, receiver, and
spectator, we are now able to clarify the four prongs of Hume’s test for
virtue. The first prong is that an actor’s mental quality is a virtue if it is
useful to the receiver. With our example of Esther and Willem, the full
scheme is this:
Useful to Others (public usefulness): (1) Esther (the actor) performs
a motivated action of benevolence that is (2) useful to Willem (the receiver),
which gives him pleasure, and (3) I (the spectator) sympathetically experi-
ence Willem’s pleasure, which is my assessment that Esther’s motive is
a morally virtuous one.
In Sections 2–4 of EPM, Hume shows how this works with several publicly
useful virtues, including benevolence, justice regarding property owner-
ship, political allegiance, chastity, fidelity, and good manners. In all of
these cases, the spectator deems these motives by the actor to be virtues
because of the utility and resulting pleasure they give the receiver, with
which the spectator sympathizes. Hume makes his case by emphasizing
three things. First, it is obvious that benevolence and these other qualities
of the actor are useful to various receivers in society (that is, useful to
others). Second, it is obvious that spectators approve of actions that are
useful to society. Third, it is obvious that spectators approve of such
socially useful actions even when the spectator herself does not benefit
from them. He concludes that at least part of what we consider to be
virtuous is grounded on its usefulness to others.4
Consider next prong 2, “qualities that our useful to ourselves,” in
Section 6 of EPM. In this he argues that the spectator morally approves
of an actor’s mental abilities even when they are useful specifically to the
actor herself, and not necessarily to society. Some principal ones are
industry, frugality, prudence, and temperance. As an example, let’s look
at Esther again, who we’ve seen is very industrious and enterprising. She’s
an accomplished cook, she manages rental property, and she does this in
her spare time apart from her day job. All this industry pays off for her: she
has more income, she knows lots of people, and she’s a valued member of
the community. Let’s ignore for the moment anyone else like Willem who
might benefit from her industry. In this case, Esther is both the actor and

4
The remaining parts of what we consider virtuous are one or more of the other three prongs of his test
for virtue, such as when benevolence is also agreeable to oneself.
122 james fieser
the sole receiver of her industry. Still, Hume says, the spectator will
sympathetically experience the pleasure that Esther alone receives from
the usefulness of her own industry. Here, then, is the second prong of
Hume’s test for virtue:
Useful to Oneself (private usefulness): (1) Esther (the actor) performs
a motivated action of industry that is (2) useful to Esther herself (the
receiver), which gives her pleasure, and (3) I (the spectator) sympathetically
experience Esther’s pleasure, which is my assessment that Esther’s motive is
a morally virtuous one.
Hume makes his case for prong 2 the same way he did for prong 1. That is,
he argues that, first, these types of actions are obviously useful to the
actor; second, that spectators obviously approve of these types of actions;
and third, spectators do so even when the actor’s action does not advance
the spectator’s self-interest. Regarding this third point, Hume says that
private virtues like industry are even more difficult to reduce to self-love
than public virtues like benevolence, for the simple reason that the specta-
tor gains nothing whatsoever from the actor’s industry:
But as qualities, which tend only to the utility of their possessor, without
any reference to us, or to the community, are yet esteemed and valued; by
what theory or system can we account for this sentiment from self-love, or
deduce it from that favourite origin? (EMP 6.1)
Continuing with prong 3, Hume argues in Section 7 that spectators
morally approve of an actor’s mental qualities that are simply agreeable to
the actor herself. Examples here are cheerfulness, tranquility, and dignity of
character. Esther, we’ve seen, is perpetually cheerful. Again, ignore for the
moment any benefit that Willem or others in society might receive from
her cheerfulness. What is at issue is how Esther’s cheerfulness makes her
feel, and her alone. Ignore also for the moment any usefulness or benefit
that Esther herself might receive from her cheerfulness, such as promotion
to a leadership position. The fact remains that her cheerfulness gives her
personal pleasure, or is “immediately agreeable,” using Hume’s termin-
ology. So too if she has the tranquility of a Stoic and carries herself with the
dignity of an accomplished professional. According to Hume, I as the
spectator will sympathetically experience Esther’s own personal pleasure,
which thus constitutes my moral approval of her virtues of cheerfulness,
tranquility, and dignity of character. Again, this is all independent of any
usefulness or benefit that these virtues might generate for her or others.
Hume states this explicitly in his Treatise: “We also approve of one, who is
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 123
possess’d of qualities, that are immediately agreeable to himself; tho’ they
be of no service to any mortal” (T 3.3.1). Here, then, is prong 3:
Immediately Agreeable to Oneself (private agreeableness): (1) Esther (the actor)
performs a motivated action of cheerfulness that (2) gives Esther herself (the
receiver) immediate personal pleasure, irrespective of any usefulness to
herself or others, and (3) I (the spectator) sympathetically experience
Esther’s pleasure, which is my assessment that Esther’s motive is a morally
virtuous one.
Finally, with prong 4, in Section 8 Hume argues that spectators morally
approve of an actor’s mental qualities that are simply agreeable to others,
and not necessarily to the actor herself. Examples here are good manners,
wit, inventiveness, eloquence, modesty, decency, cleanliness, and genteel-
ness. This is where Willem’s virtuous wit fits in: society gets pleasure from
funny people. Suppose you told me that Willem was at a party where he
was delivering one witty quip after another, and everyone at the party was
laughing uncontrollably. Even if you didn’t repeat any of his jokes to me,
I as a spectator would sympathize with the pleasure experienced by the
people at the party, and my sympathetic pleasure would be my moral
approval of Willem’s virtue of wittiness. Here, then, is prong 4:
Immediately Agreeable to Others (public agreeableness): (1) Willem (the actor)
performs a motivated action of wittiness, which (2) gives others (the
receivers) an immediate personal pleasure, irrespective of any usefulness to
Willem himself or others, or agreeableness to Willem himself, and (3) I (the
spectator) sympathetically experience the partygoers’ pleasure, which is my
assessment that Willem’s motive is a morally virtuous one.
With all four of these prongs, we see the same theme: (1) an actor
performs a motivated action, which (2) pleasurably impacts some receiver,
which in turn (3) produces a sympathetic feeling of pleasure in
a disinterested spectator. It is the commonality of this theme, then, that
opens the door to a broad range of virtues. At the same time, however, this
does not open the door to include every source of sympathetic pleasure,
such as those from inanimate objects. Hume uses the example of medicinal
herbs where people sometimes refer to their curative properties as “virtues.”
Suppose that, when Willem is sick, he takes a medicine that proves
beneficial and thus pleases him. When I as a spectator see this, I then
sympathetically experience Willem’s pleasure, which constitutes my
approval of the medicine’s “virtue.” For Hume, though, this does not
truly fit the above pattern since the targets are different: the target of
a spectator’s moral approval must be a quality of the actor’s mind, which
124 james fieser
is obviously lacking within an inanimate object like some medicine. I as
a spectator may sympathetically appreciate the curative properties of
a medicine, but that feeling of appreciation is insufficient to constitute
an assessment that those curative properties are “moral virtues” of the
medicine.
The result is that the spectator’s pleasure will be much stronger and
more complex when targeting a human mind vs. inanimate objects. In
Hume’s words, “the one is mixed with affection, esteem, approbation, &c.,
and not the other” (EPM 5.1 n.1). This is not merely an ad hoc attempt on
Hume’s part to differentiate those two types of pleasures of the spectator.
In Book 2 of the Treatise, he describes at length what he calls a “double
relation” whereby a spectator’s sympathetic feelings of pleasure or pain will
produce within the spectator additional feelings of love or hatred toward
the human actor. These additional feelings of love or hatred cannot be
triggered within the spectator’s mind by inanimate objects: the trigger
needs to be a mental quality within some human actor’s mind. Ultimately,
the spectator’s moral approval will be a composite of many feelings blended
together, much like how different spices blend together to make the taste of
a complex flavor like Indian curry or Chinese five spices.
The larger point here is that Hume places clear limits on the types of
sympathetic pleasures in the spectator that constitute morality, and their
targets must be qualities within the minds of human spectators.
Nevertheless, this psychological scheme still allows for a broad set of
mental qualities within the actor to count as virtues, some of which seem
more like nonmoral talents, particularly wit, eloquence, and cleanliness.

6.4 Early Criticisms of Hume’s View of Virtues and Talents

There is no question about the originality of Hume’s four-pronged test
for virtue and the psychological theory of the actor–receiver–spectator
behind it. In modern terminology, he is offering a normative theory of
moral virtue backed by a metaethical theory of moral psychology.
While he was hoping for instant recognition for his discovery, he
was disappointed that EPM “came unnoticed and unobserved into
the world” (MOL xxx). That is not entirely true, and from the
discussions that did appear we see that, on the whole, Hume’s critics
were not happy with how he erased the line between virtues and
talents. An exception is the first published reaction, a favorable twenty-
page review in the Monthly Review by William Rose, who stated that
the work, “being free from that sceptical turn which appears in his
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 125
other pieces, will be more agreeable to the generality of Readers” (1752,
p. 1). Rose summarizes the sections of EPM that concern us here, and
appears to have no problem with Hume’s broad test for virtue. Rather,
he says that Hume defends it “with great beauty and elegance” (p. 7).
However, in 1753, two years after EPM’s appearance, two publications
specifically took issue with Hume’s view of virtues and talents. The first is an
anonymous pamphlet titled Some Late Opinions, which states the following:
With how many heterogeneous things has he blended those moral distinc-
tions, which mankind have hitherto held sacred? And does not his theory
thereby tend to obscure and lessen the dignity of virtue? Our author, indeed,
acknowledges the sentiment of approbation, which we give to some of those
useful qualities, to be, perhaps, inferior, in degree, to that which we give to
the virtues of justice and humanity: but he contends, however, that the
sentiments are similar, and of the same kind. I absolutely deny that they are
similar, or of the same kind. (Anon., 1753, n.p.)
Hume’s problem, according to the author, is that he mixes together
different types of approval that should in fact be kept separate. Hume
read this pamphlet, and stated in a letter to a friend that “the work was well
wrote, but ill reasoned” (L I, 83).
The other critic that year was James Balfour in his A Delineation of the
Nature and Obligation of Morality (1753). Balfour charges that, in EPM,
“The notion of useful and agreeable, adopted by our author, leads him to
rank among the moral virtues not only the qualities of the mind, but the
properties of the body, beauty, strength, and just proportion: nay, even
external things, dress, riches, and indeed, by a necessary consequence,
pleasures of every kind” (1753, section 4). The central problem, Balfour
argues, is that Hume failed to distinguish between three different types of
perception:
With respect to the qualities themselves, he has not sufficiently limited their
nature and extent: for example, with regard to the agreeable, he does not
distinguish betwixt the moral sense, and the external senses, or perceptions
of imagination, but he applies that quality to every sensible pleasure we are
susceptible of. (1753, section 4)
Hume was impressed by Balfour’s book and, in a letter (L I, 81), reached
out to him requesting that the two meet and converse sometime. We don’t
know if this ever happened, but Balfour continued his attack on Hume in
two subsequent publications.
126 james fieser
Three years later, in a 1756 Supplement to his View of the Principal
Deistical Writers, John Leland wrote the following concerning Hume’s
view of virtues and talents:
[A person may] have wit, eloquence, a polite behaviour, a fine taste in arts,
great bodily strength and resolution, and yet be really a bad man. And when
these things are separated from good dispositions of the heart, from probity,
benevolence, fidelity, integrity, gratitude, instead of rendering a man useful
to the community, they qualify him for doing a great deal of mischief. These
qualities therefore should be carefully distinguished from those which
constitute a good moral character, and which ought to be principally
recommended to the esteem and approbation of mankind, as having in
themselves a real invariable worth and excellence, and as deriving a merit
and value to every other quality. (1756, Supplement)
Leland argues that mere talents can be misused by bad people, and, to give
such talents any type of merit, they must be grounded in a group of
genuine moral virtues that have genuine and unchanging value.5 Hume
read Leland’s Supplement, which contained other attacks on him, and
wrote to a mutual friend, “My Compliments to Dr Leland, & tell him,
that he has certainly mistaken my Character” (L III, 25).
A final early criticism worth adding is that by Henry Home, which
appeared in print only after Hume’s death in 1779. Home was a lifelong
friend of Hume, although the two had a falling-out at some point. Home’s
criticism is rhetorically harsh, and thus it was appropriate that it didn’t
appear while Hume was alive. Home’s charge is that Hume’s very test of
moral approval is so ill-defined that it permits nonmoral talents to count as
moral virtues:
The sense of right and wrong in voluntary actions, is what eminently
distinguishes virtue from the many trifling qualities confounding with it
by this author. He jumbles all of them into one mass by the test of
approbation; and yet has not attempted to give any precise meaning to
that term. (Home, 1751 [1779 edition], p. 90)
There is a valuable lesson that we can learn from these early critics. All four
make a similar observation: Hume fails to adequately distinguish between
the different types of assessments that a spectator can psychologically
make, and thus separate those that are relevant to morality from those
that are not. Even if we cannot articulate a simple criterion that presumably

5
Leland’s point is not new, and we find it, for example, in medieval philosopher Peter Abelard (1971,
1.1). Kant famously makes this same point in his criticism of virtue theory (Groundwork of the
Metaphysics of Morals, 1785, chapter 1).
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 127
distinguishes moral virtues like benevolence from nonmoral talents like
wit, as Hume correctly maintains, we can still attempt to psychologically
differentiate the types of assessments we make. Thus, following the recom-
mendations of Hume’s early critics, our next task is to single out the
specific type of assessment by the spectator that is responsible for the
problem of virtues vs. talents. We will see that the culprit is the spectator’s
sympathetic response to the receiver’s feeling of immediate agreeableness.

6.5 The Problem with Immediate Agreeableness

We may begin with a list of the various virtues within each of the four
prongs, which will help us locate the source of the problem:
• Useful to others (publicly useful): benevolence, justice regarding property
ownership, political allegiance, chastity, fidelity, good manners.
• Useful to oneself (privately useful): discretion, caution, enterprise, indus-
try, assiduity, frugality, economy, good sense, prudence, discernment,
temperance, sobriety, patience, constancy, perseverance, forethought,
considerateness, secrecy, order, insinuation, address, presence of mind,
quickness of conception, facility of expression.
• Agreeable to oneself (privately agreeable): cheerfulness, dignity of charac-
ter, courage, tranquility, benevolence.
• Agreeable to others (publicly agreeable): good manners, wit, inventive-
ness, eloquence, modesty, desire of fame, decency, cleanliness,
genteelness.
The first group of virtues, which are useful to others, are traditional ones
and do not look like mere talents. On the contrary, of all four prongs, these
are the ones that are most often associated with the core of morality.
The second group of virtues, which are useful to oneself, are also
traditional and do not include ones that look like mere talents. As Hume
himself states, “That we owe a duty to ourselves is confessed even in the
most vulgar system of morals” (EPM App. 4.22).6 One such “vulgar
system” of morality was the influential Anglican devotional work The
Whole Duty of Man (1658), with which Hume was familiar. Among the
duties to oneself that it discusses are diligence, industry, chastity, and
temperance, and these are consistent with Hume’s virtues of private
6
Hume is alluding to a common way of classifying virtues and duties during the modern period based
on those that are (1) directed toward God, (2) directed toward oneself, or (3) directed toward others.
Many philosophers adopted this scheme, most notably Samuel Pufendorf in his moral theory in De
Officio Hominis (1673).
128 james fieser
usefulness. As Hume extends his list of privately useful virtues, some are
very specialized, such as “secrecy, order, insinuation, address, presence of
mind, quickness of conception, facility of expression” (EPM 6.21). These
may be better viewed as secondary, or subsidiary to more foundational
virtues such as prudence, but even these specialized ones are in the spirit of
traditional moral duties to oneself. If there is a problem at all with virtues of
private usefulness, it is because, by our standards today, they do not seem to
be as central to morality as the first group involving public usefulness. But
that’s not Hume’s fault, and the shift may owe to the greater value that we
now place on autonomy and personal liberty. Whether that is a step in the
right direction is another matter, but, at least within the context of Hume’s
time, his list of virtues of private usefulness is unobjectionable.
Accordingly, his first two groups of virtues taken together constitute
a very traditional and complete set of virtues.
The third group of virtues, which are agreeable to oneself, are also
traditional, and none look like mere talents. His list of these in EPM
Section 7 is short and includes only cheerfulness, dignity of character,
courage, tranquility, and benevolence. On closer inspection, though, we
see that each of these could easily be included among the second group of
virtues that are useful to oneself. For example, if I have a cheerful dispos-
ition, then that will on the whole enable me to cope better with life’s
problems and will put me in a better position to advance in society.
Further, we see that this list of privately agreeable virtues includes benevo-
lence, which is also a publicly useful virtue. The point is that there is
nothing new in this third group of virtues, and, for all we know, their true
moral value may rest with their usefulness, not their agreeableness. This
then raises the question: what does “immediate agreeableness” add to our
assessment of morality?
To be more precise, consider again the example of private agreeableness
that we used earlier. Esther is both the actor who behaves cheerfully and the
receiver who immediately experiences pleasure from her cheerfulness. I,
then, as a spectator sympathetically experience her pleasure, which consti-
tutes my approval of it. It is important to bear in mind that I, as the
sympathizing spectator, am not contagiously experiencing Esther’s cheer-
fulness itself. Similarly, I do not become proud when sympathetically
spectating Esther’s pride, nor do I become tranquil when sympathetically
spectating her tranquility. For Hume, the spectator is impartial, and will
sympathetically experience Esther’s pleasure of immediate agreeableness
when simply hearing about Esther’s cheerfulness, pride, or tranquility.
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 129
To the extent that virtues of private agreeableness such as cheerfulness
overlap with those of private usefulness, then I as the spectator am sup-
posedly making two distinct assessments of moral approval: (a) my sympa-
thetic pleasure from the private agreeableness of Esther’s cheerfulness and
(b) my sympathetic pleasure from the private usefulness of Esther’s cheer-
fulness. Again, we may ask, how do I know that (a) is a genuine moral
assessment of Esther, rather than simply an added feeling of nonmoral
admiration? Hume’s answer to this question is in the following from the
Treatise, where he discusses the privately agreeable virtue of courage:
an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays itself
under the frowns of fortune, contributes, in a great measure, to the character
of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of posterity; at the same
time, that it ruins his affairs, and leads him into dangers and difficulties,
with which otherwise he wou’d never have been acquainted. (T 3.3.2)
In this passage, a hero’s pride gets him into trouble (thus lacks private
usefulness), yet we as spectators value that quality of pride in the hero.
Contrary to Hume, though, this provides no clear evidence of an extra
moral assessment from private agreeableness beyond its utility. A simpler
explanation is that, as a rule, great courage works well for heroes, even
though in some cases it doesn’t. If the overly courageous hero failed as
a rule, we would not value it and instead think that the so-called hero was
just an impulsive but lucky fool. We thus value the utility of great courage
as a rule,7 and we have no need to bring in private agreeableness to account
for the spectator’s moral approval of it. This is the same strategy that Hume
himself used when explaining why we value chastity in older women who
are beyond child-bearing age: chastity as a rule (even with the elderly) is
useful as a universal guideline for the young. In the case of the hero, great
courage as a rule among heroes is useful since they succeed more times than
they fail. If, as a rule, there was no utility to great courage or chastity, we
would not assess them to be virtues, and we would also not find them
immediately agreeable. In short, utility is all that we need to account for the
spectator’s moral approval of the overly courageous hero or the chaste
grandmother. The spectator’s sympathetic feeling of private agreeableness
may be nothing more than a nonmoral feeling of admiration.

7
There may be other admirable qualities that great heroes have, such as “a grandeur and force of
sentiment, which astonishes our narrow souls” (EPM 7.18). But here too the private agreeableness of
these qualities would depend on the utility of the hero’s conduct. If as a rule the hero was not
successful, his “grandeur” would only appear to be delusional megalomania.
130 james fieser
In Book 2 of the Treatise, Hume in fact discusses how flexible the feeling
of admiration is, and how it can apply to both moral and nonmoral
situations. From the nonmoral side, he says that the sheer vastness of
a mountain range or a forest contributes to our admiration of it. As to its
moral applications, he continues, “If this be allowed with respect to
extension and number [of mountains and forests], we can make no diffi-
culty with respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty,
happiness and misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always
attended with an evident emotion” (T 2.2.8.4). It seems, then, that admir-
ation in itself is a morally neutral emotion, which can arise when spectating
either moral or nonmoral things. This appears to be a better explanation of
what is going on with privately agreeable virtues: their morality really rests
on their utility, but they are also accompanied by a spectator’s morally
neutral feeling of admiration.
Hume thus presents a weak case for introducing a new category of
privately agreeable virtues. However, since Hume’s specific list of those
virtues is unobjectionable (i.e., cheerfulness, dignity of character, courage,
etc.), we might not be inclined to question the matter so much. But that
changes once we move on to the fourth group of publicly agreeable virtues.
These include good manners, wit, inventiveness, eloquence, modesty,
desire of fame, decency, cleanliness, and genteelness. None of these are
bad qualities to have, and, once again, they all have either public or private
usefulness. But it is this group of virtues that contain qualities that seem
more like nonmoral talents than full-fledged moral virtues, especially wit,
eloquence, and cleanliness. This is the group of virtues that Hume’s critics
challenged.
The moral psychology behind publicly agreeable virtues closely parallels
what we have seen with privately agreeable ones. Consider again our earlier
example of Willem’s wit: Willem displays his wit and receivers immediately
experience pleasure from it. I, then, as a spectator sympathetically experience
the pleasure of the receivers, which constitutes my approval of it.8 As with
privately agreeable virtues, Hume is thus claiming that I as the spectator am
making two separate assessments of moral approval: (a) my sympathetic
pleasure from the public agreeableness of Willem’s wit and (b) my sympa-
thetic pleasure from the either public or private usefulness of his wit.

8
Again, we must clarify that I, as the sympathizing spectator, am not sympathetically experiencing the
receiver’s laughter from Willem’s wit itself. Rather, the spectator only sympathetically experiences
the receiver’s immediate pleasure from being around a witty actor.
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 131
6.6 Solution to the Problem of Immediate Agreeableness
There are now two problems that plague the class of publicly agreeable
virtues. First, as we’ve seen, Hume does not make a convincing case that
my sympathetic pleasure from the public agreeableness of Willem’s wit is
by itself a genuine moral assessment of Willem, rather than simply a feeling
of nonmoral admiration. Second, this is the group of virtues that contains
the controversial qualities of wit, eloquence, and cleanliness that really
seem like nonmoral talents. We can thus solve both problems by simply
dispensing with “immediate agreeableness” as a criterion of moral assess-
ment. By doing so, we can differentiate genuine moral virtues from
nonmoral talents in this way:
• A character trait is a genuine moral virtue only if (a) it has a nontrivial
amount of public or private usefulness, (b) irrespective of its immediate
agreeableness.
• A character trait is a nonmoral talent that is worthy of admiration only
if (a) it has at most a trivial amount of public or private usefulness, and
(b) at the same time has a nontrivial amount of immediate
agreeableness.
The rationale here is that, if the level of usefulness of a quality like wit is too
insubstantial, then it is not a genuine moral virtue, but rather a nonmoral
talent that still deserves admiration.
The result of this is that Hume’s four-pronged test for virtue is reduced
to a two-pronged test: public and private utility. Further, virtues in either
of these groups can warrant admiration when accompanied by immediate
agreeableness. This is a simpler explanation of virtues and talents, yet at the
same time it is still Humean, since it retains the concepts of both usefulness
and immediate agreeableness, though restricting the moral component to
usefulness alone. That is, while the practical litmus test for moral virtue
would change slightly, his sophisticated moral psychology would remain
the same, with its heavy emphasis on the spectator’s emotions. What
distinguishes Hume from so many of his predecessors and successors is
his critique of so-called moral reasoning, and his advocacy of moral
sentiment. If any proposed modification of his moral theory is to remain
Humean, it must at its heart be grounded in emotion. The proposed two-
pronged test lives up to this expectation.
Hume could have reduced his test for virtue to two prongs with
less alteration to EPM than one might think. Sections 1–6, which deal
solely with utility, could remain exactly as they are. Sections 7–8,
132 james fieser
which deal with immediate agreeableness, would shift focus to how
we admire various character traits, whether publicly or privately
directed, and how their status as a genuine “virtue” hinges on their
degree of utility. Section 9 would only need to change the four-
pronged test into a two-pronged test. Appendix 4 could be retained
mostly as it is. It could still discuss the failure of simple criteria for
differentiating virtues from talents, but stress that the true criterion is
the character trait’s level of utility. He could also note how the level
of utility changes in differing social contexts. For example, in Greek
and Roman times the talents of military leaders and politicians
seemed to have more social utility than they do now.
Thus, it would have been relatively easy for Hume to have revised his
theory in this way. Is there any reason to think that this modification would
have been appealing to him? Maybe. By going this route, he would have
been able to avoid his own skeptical reflection regarding the truth of his
four-pronged test as he expresses it in EPM 9.13: “[I] suspect that an
hypothesis, so obvious, had it been a true one, would, long ere now, have
been received by the unanimous suffrage and consent of mankind.” That
is, with only a two-pronged test, Hume might have seen that he was at least
to some degree following in the longstanding Epicurean tradition of
morality where the pleasing consequences of an action would be the sole
criterion of its morality.9
Another bonus of such a revision is that, if Hume had reduced the four-
pronged test to a two-pronged one, he would have become more clearly
identifiable as the founder of classical utilitarianism, rather than just an
early influence. Bentham directly credits Hume for inspiring him with the
principle of utility in Book 3 of the Treatise: “I well remember, no sooner
had I read that part of the work which touches on this subject, than I felt as
if scales had fallen from my eyes.”10 However, Bentham continues by
placing the following caveat on Hume’s theory:
That the foundations of all virtue are laid in utility, is there demonstrated [in
Treatise Book 3], after a few exceptions made, with the strongest force of
evidence: but I see not, any more than Helvetius11 saw, what need there was
for the exceptions. (1776, chapter 1, p. 29)

9
Since Hume’s two-pronged test would retain the criterion of public utility and the moral assessment
of the impartial spectator, he would still be distancing himself from modern egoistic Epicureans
such as Hobbes and Mandeville, and thus maintain his optimistic view of morality.
10
Jeremy Bentham, A Fragment on Government (1776), 1.36, note.
11
Helvétius (1810), 9.2.25. Helvetius’ point is that we should value our duties to our country more than
our narrower duties to our friends and family.
 Hume on Talents and Moral Virtues 133
Bentham’s wording is obscure, but his point is that Hume almost got it
right by reducing all virtue to utility, but diluted it by making “a few
exceptions.” Bentham does not say what those “few exceptions” are, but
what obviously comes to mind is immediate agreeableness in prongs 3 and
4 of his test for virtue, which for Hume stand independently of utility.
Thus, had Hume abandoned immediate agreeableness, not only could he
have avoided the problem of virtues and talents, but his status in the history
of utilitarianism would also have been elevated.
 chapter 7

Virtues Suspect and Sublime

Margaret Watkins

Myself, I say, and it is enough.

(Medea, EPM 7.7)

Ancient heroines and heroes populate Hume’s study of greatness of mind

in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (EPM). Among these is
the disturbing figure of Medea, a sorceress who murders her own children
for revenge. Readers not familiar with her story may find inspiring Hume’s
example from Corneille’s Médée. When asked who will support and defend
her, she answers, “myself, I say, and it is enough” (EPM 7.7). But the
details of her story check our admiration: she is a woman scorned, criminal
in her anger, betrayer of the parental love that Hume believes to be natural
and universal.1 How can she be an exemplar of a virtue?
EPM 7 is full of such puzzles. Why is courage here, among the virtues
immediately agreeable to self, when it is useful to both self and others? Why
do many of the virtues listed here seem like vices? And why does Hume
linger on those virtues of which he seems the most suspicious?
My attempt to answer these questions consists of three parts. The first is
an exposition of Section 7, which outlines its structure and explains its
oddities in more detail. These oddities reflect Hume’s ambivalence about
some of the virtues immediately agreeable to self. The second argues for the
importance of the aesthetic concept of the sublime for his treatment of
these virtues. Appreciating this importance can illuminate some of the
oddities. The third argues that, although Hume believes that our attraction
to these virtues needs correction, this correction cannot consist merely in
judging these virtues against the standard of useful virtues. Instead, the
correction requires another virtue immediately agreeable to self – delicacy
of taste.

1
See T 2.3.3.8, NHR Intro 1, and EPM 3.40.

134
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 135
7.1 The Complex Catalog of Virtues Agreeable to Self
Section 7 begins with a virtue of the salon. The shadows that grave, melan-
choly fellows cast over pleasant evenings show that “CHEERFULNESS
carries great merit with it” (EPM 7.1). It sounds like an introduction to
virtues that are agreeable to others. Like wit and ingenuity, cheerfulness
seems endearing because it pleases others, regardless of its utility. This is the
first section on immediately agreeable qualities, and in the earlier sections
Hume discusses qualities that are useful to others before qualities that are
useful to self. But in these later sections he inverts the order of presentation,
beginning with qualities that please their possessors. Though our cheer does
please others, the explanation of this pleasure gets pushed back a step. Unlike
modesty or cleanliness, it does not conciliate by preventing pain in the
spectator. It pleases, Hume says, because of sympathy: we “enter into the
same humour, and catch the sentiment” that the cheerful person enjoys
herself (EPM 7.2).2
From this humble setting the reader is yanked into magnificence. There
is a brief discussion of Cassius,3 whom Hume condemns not for betraying
and assassinating, but for insensitivity to the salon’s pleasures. Such people
are dangerous, but they also fail to “contribute to social entertainment”
(EPM 7.3). In placing this domestic vice in such a magnificent context,
Hume smooths the transition between the virtues of the salon and the
virtues of the great that follow. Most of what follows considers the virtues
of the great.
Signal among these virtues is courage. Hume introduces courage as
a virtue in the second third of Section 7, acknowledging that it could fit
elsewhere: “The utility of COURAGE, both to the public and to the
person possessed of it, is an obvious foundation of merit.” Yet he chooses
to treat it here, emphasizing its aesthetic appeal with descriptive adjectives
and metaphors. Courage “has a peculiar lustre,” so that its “figure, drawn
by painters and by poets, displays, in each feature, a sublimity and daring
confidence” (EPM 7.11). The analogy with aesthetic beauty is not unusual

2
As Lorraine Besser argues in this volume, Hume’s use of “sympathy” shifts in EPM. Treatise
sympathy is a mechanism for catching others’ sentiments; EPM sympathy is often concern for
others. In some EPM passages, however, “sympathy” means the mechanism of catching others’
sentiments. Section 7 contains the least ambiguous of those passages. In addition to 7.2, see 7.11
and 7.21.
3
Gaius Cassius Longinus was a leader of Caesar’s assassination; Hume quotes the Shakespearean
Caesar’s description of Cassius, but not what is now the most famous part: “Yon Cassius has a lean
and hungry look./He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous” (Julius Caesar, I.ii.195–96). This
Cassius should not be confused with the later rhetorician to whom On the Sublime was traditionally
attributed, Cassius Longinus; see Section 7.2 of this chapter.
136 margaret watkins
for Hume; he regularly describes virtues as beautiful and draws compari-
sons between the various kinds of beauty that we appreciate.4 But here he
emphasizes the category of the sublime. I return in Section 7.2 to this term’s
significance.
For now, consider how odd the choice is to discuss courage here. This is
no supplementary note, explaining a secondary aspect of courage. It is
EPM’s primary treatment of courage – a characteristic long placed among
the four cardinal virtues. When Aristotle moves in the Nicomachean Ethics
from preliminary questions to treat specific virtues, the first virtue he treats
is courage. Hume gives it no pride of place. This difference between
Aristotle and Hume is more striking because they use the corresponding
terms in similar ways. Aristotle defines courage as “a mean with respect to
fear and confidence” (Aristotle, 2011, 1115a7–8). But in “the authoritative
sense,” he says, “a courageous man could be said to be someone who is
fearless when it comes to a noble death and to any situation that brings
death suddenly to hand. What pertains to war is above all of this character”
(1115a33–35). Aristotle’s courage is primarily a martial virtue. Hume does
not explicitly define courage in this way, but at least in Section 7, courage
shares this character. His first example is Demosthenes’ description of
Philip, who endures horrendous wounds in battles for “empire and domin-
ion” (EPM 7.12). Hume then notes that the Romans conflated courage
with virtue because of their “martial temper” (EPM 7.13). The Scythians
exhibited their bravery by collecting scalps as trophies, Charles XII of
Sweden by assaulting neighboring countries (EPM 7.14, 24).
For Hume, courage’s virtuous status seems precarious. The shadow of
tyranny darkens Philip’s magnanimity. The Scythians’ love of martial
bravery “destroyed the sentiments of humanity; a virtue surely much
more useful and engaging” (EPM 7.14). Extreme admiration of courage
goes along with what Hume considers the barbarism of “uncultivated
nations,” though attraction to it “appears so natural in the mind of man”
(EPM 7.15, 25). He does not mince words in warning against this attrac-
tion: there is “no comparison, in point of utility, between . . . peaceful and
military honours,” and the partiality for the latter is “condemned by calm
reason and reflection” (EPM 7.25).5
Hume’s portrayal of the related virtue of greatness of mind evinces similar
ambivalence. He describes this quality as “Dignity of Character . . . elevation

4
See, for example, EPM 1.7, 1.9, 5.4, and 9.10.
5
For a treatment of the virtues of greatness that emphasizes their contrast with humanity, see Taylor
(2015b), pp. 148–52.
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 137
of sentiment, disdain of slavery, and . . . that noble pride and spirit,
which arises from conscious virtue” (EPM 7.4). This sounds like
Aristotelian magnanimity. But Aristotle’s treatment of magnanimity
has long been criticized as praising arrogance and callousness, and
Hume’s treatment seems to offer little redemption. Again, his examples
are confounding: in addition to Medea, we have Ajax too indignant to
speak in the face of defeat6 and Alexander scorning and taunting his
advisors and soldiers.
The “modest, the gentle PHOCION,” facing death with quiet dignity,
provides some relief. Yet the example – an Athenian leader admonishing
his fellow prisoner that he ought to glory in dying with Phocion – hardly
provides a model for emulation for most of Hume’s readers. Instead, this
story might remind them of another – Jesus’ comforting his fellow prisoner
on the cross. The other prisoner recognizes Jesus’ innocence, asks for his
help, and receives this promise: “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me
in Paradise” (Luke 23:43). Hume might not find this story more inspiring
than Phocion’s, but he would know that many of his readers would. For
those readers, the contrast between these two cases might weaken their
esteem for Phocion’s nobility in death. It is as if Hume has chosen his
example with the aim of dampening readers’ admiration of this virtue.7
Lest we conclude that this section should have been called “Of Vices
Immediately Agreeable to Ourselves,” Hume expresses less or no ambivalence
about several of the qualities discussed here. Cheerfulness is pleasing and
harmless. In addition to “greatness of mind,” he considers another version of
magnanimity: “that undisturbed philosophical TRANQUILLITY, superior
to pain, sorrow, anxiety, and each assault of adverse fortune” (EPM 7.16).
Hume’s treatment of this virtue does include criticism and qualification. He
associates it too with ancient heroes, which might seem to imply that it is
a virtue fit only for pre-civilized peoples. “Among the ancients,” he writes, “the
heroes in philosophy, as well as those in war and patriotism, have a grandeur
and force of sentiment, which astonishes our narrow souls” (EPM 7.18). He
cites Socrates’ equanimity in the face of trials of every kind and Epictetus’
serene self-imposed poverty. His initial presentation of philosophical tranquil-
ity, moreover, suggests an unattainable, perhaps indefensible, ideal. In lan-
guage reminiscent of Lucretius’ philosopher enjoying his freedom from

6
Longinus (1995) uses Ajax’s example in On the Sublime (p. 185). Hume appeals to Longinus’ reference
to Alexander on the same page (EPM 7.5).
7
Alternatively, Hume may have meant to provide an example of a magnanimous death that would be
less likely to encourage religious enthusiasm. For an argument that EPM is an attempt to replace
Protestant moral texts, see Chapter 11 in this volume.
138 margaret watkins
the toils of those dying on tempestuous waves,8 Hume notes the philo-
sophers’ portrayal of the “sage” who “elevates himself above every acci-
dent of life; and securely placed in the temple of wisdom, looks down on
inferior mortals, engaged in pursuit of honours, riches, reputation, and
every frivolous enjoyment” (EPM 7.16). No one can attain this ideal, as
Hume has already told us elsewhere and now reiterates. Compare his
remark here with a parallel passage from the 1741 essay, “Of the Delicacy
of Taste and Passion”:
These pretensions, no doubt, when stretched to the utmost, are, by far, too
magnificent for human nature. They carry, however, a grandeur with them,
which seizes the spectator, and strikes him with admiration. And the nearer
we can approach in practice, to this sublime tranquillity and indifference
(for we must distinguish it from a stupid insensibility) the more secure
enjoyment shall we attain within ourselves, and the more greatness of mind
shall we discover to the world. (EPM 7.16)
Philosophers have endeavoured to render happiness entirely independent
of every thing external. That degree of perfection is impossible to be
attained: But every wise man will endeavour to place his happiness on
such objects chiefly as depend upon himself. (DT 5)
In both places, Hume is clear: no philosophy immunizes us from life’s
maladies. Complete Stoic detachment is impossible. Yet in both places, he
is also clear that it is wise to try to approximate the ideal. The position that
Hume rejects is extreme: it recommends a life untouchable by misfortune,
without concern for others’ admiration, and without the consolation of
any pleasures. Such a life is not only impossible; it would not be worth
pursuing if it were. It is not only that the detached sage seems callous.9 He
seems inhuman and detached from the sensibilities that allow us to be
virtuous in general. To be utterly careless of what others think of you is no
Humean excellence. To infer that Hume therefore commits himself to the
worthlessness of all attempts at philosophical tranquility, however, is to
assume a false dichotomy that he explicitly rejects. We need not despair of
all tranquility, although its most extreme form is beyond our reach (and
undesirable).
A similar point applies to Hume’s association of this virtue with the
ancients. He can be very critical of the ancients, as in his censure of
“barbaric” infatuation with martial excellence. But this criticism concerns

8
See Lucretius’ On the Nature of Things, Book II.1–15.
9
In his essay, “The Stoic,” Hume’s Stoic adopts the Lucretian metaphor but adds that the sage looks
down on others’ errors with “pleasure, mixed with compassion” (E, 151, italics added).
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 139
more the ancient ethos than ancient ethics: he believes that the circum-
stances of ancient polities, battle practices, and lack of experience with
other forms of life encourage aggression that increases human suffering. He
praises ancient moral philosophy, in contrast, as superior to most modern
versions. The character who seems to be speaking for Hume in “A
Dialogue” acknowledges modern progress in most sciences but excepts
morals (EPM D 18). In his own voice, Hume refers to “the ancient
moralists” as “the best models” in Appendix 4 (EPM App. 4.11). Mere
association with the ancients, therefore, implies no necessary condemna-
tion for Hume.
Hume’s presentation of the modern reaction to philosophical tranquil-
ity, moreover, is revealing. He writes that ancient philosophical heroes
astonish our narrow souls with their “grandeur and force of sentiment,” and
that we therefore “rashly” reject this grandeur as “extravagant and super-
natural” (EPM 7.18, italics added). To call modern souls “narrow” is to say
that they lack magnanimity (greatness of soul). It strains credulity to think
that Hume does not see widespread pusillanimity as a failing. The ancients
may have overstated the possibilities for enlarged spirits, but Hume never
suggests that it is good to have a contracted one. The paragraph then details
the superiorities of modern societies – increased humanity, peaceableness,
and orderly government. These are compensations, as Hume calls them,
that more than make up for a loss of magnanimity. Their benefits affect
a larger share of the population: magnanimity is a rare virtue, attainable by
the few rather than the many. Moreover, the particular form of magna-
nimity under consideration – philosophical tranquility – is most useful in
times of widespread suffering. We seek ataraxia when we recognize that
fortune is beyond our control – a realization much easier to achieve when
fortune is cruel. Since orderly government, international peace, and more
humane behavior in general reduces the incidence of cruelties, philosoph-
ical tranquility may be less necessary in more humane ages. Nonetheless,
the loss of magnanimity is real. No form of human life can block all forms
of suffering, just as no person can detach from it entirely.
About Section 7’s remaining virtues, Hume shows no ambivalence
whatsoever. Having dedicated a full section to benevolence, he still has
more to say. Benevolence, like courage, is a virtue whose approval stems
from more than one principle. Section 2’s treatment of benevolence
actually begins with greatness: when benevolent affections combine with
“birth and power and eminent abilities, and display themselves in the good
government or useful instruction of mankind, they seem even to raise the
possessors of them above the rank of human nature, and make them
140 margaret watkins
approach in some measure to the divine” (EPM 2.1). Aristotle claims that
the philosophical life allows us to approach divinity;10 Hume gives that
honor to both the political and the philosophical life, if pursued with
kindness and humanity. The exemplar is Pericles, who can say at his death
“that no citizen has ever yet worne mourning on my account” (EPM 2.2).
Section 7, on the other hand, focuses on benevolence through the lens of
intimate relationships. In approving of benevolence as immediately agreeable
to its possessor, we note “the very softness and tenderness of the sentiment, its
engaging endearments, its fond expressions, its delicate attentions, and all that
flow of mutual confidence and regard, which enters into a warm attachment of
love and friendship” (EPM 7.19). Even in the Elysian fields, where circum-
stances render the social virtues useless, the pleasure of “a constant intercourse
of love and friendship” remains (EPM 7.20). Our sympathy with these
affections produces “the purest and most satisfactory enjoyment” (EPM 7.19).
At the end of Section 7, Hume turns to another set of unquestionably
admirable qualities. Having noted that poetic depictions of both sublime
and tender sentiments are essential to “the great charm of poetry,” he adds
poetic talent to his catalog of virtues (EPM 7.26). It is also a virtue of
greatness: “being enhanced by its extreme rarity,” it “may exalt the person
possessed of it, above every character of the age in which he lives” (EPM
7.27). His treatment of it is brief, however, and what he does say does not
explain how it is immediately agreeable to self. He speaks of the pleasure
that an audience receives from the dramatic presentation of sublime and
tender passions and then states that the ability to produce this pleasure is an
exalted virtue. It is not clear why poetic talent is not classed among virtues
immediately agreeable to others.
There is no such confusion about the last virtue of this section – delicacy
of taste. Hume gives it only one sentence, but his praise is superlative: “The
very sensibility to these beauties, or a DELICACY of taste, is itself a beauty
in any character; as conveying the purest, the most durable, and most
innocent of all enjoyments” (EPM 7.28).11 Hume begins his first volume of
essays by recommending and praising this quality in “Of the Delicacy of
Taste and Passion.” He there ties delicacy to philosophical tranquility. We
should not infer that his quicker treatment of it in EPM implies any
lessening of his admiration of it or of his sense of its significance. The
final place is as much a position of honor as the first. And in a section that
10
See Nicomachean Ethics, 1177b27–1178a1.
11
This language resembles Hume’s descriptions of our sentiments in response to benevolence. I take it
that Hume is not saying that these two sentiments are the same, but that both are as pure as any
enjoyment can be.
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 141
depends heavily on the concept of the sublime, Hume may be following
the advice of one of the most influential modern theorists of the sublime,
Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux. Boileau uses Corneille’s Médée to illustrate
this point: “the sublime is sometimes found in the simplest manner of
speaking” (1857, p. 372, my translation).
Hume thus expresses unbounded admiration of some qualities immedi-
ately agreeable to self. But this admiration raises another puzzling feature of
Section 7. He spends less time discussing each of these qualities than those
that have problematic features – let us call them the “suspect virtues.”
Section 7 is twenty-nine paragraphs long. Divisions in the text are not
always neat, but by a fair count seven paragraphs are about greatness of
mind and seven are about courage. His treatments of cheerfulness, philo-
sophical tranquility, benevolence, poetic genius, and delicacy of taste are
each much briefer – one to three paragraphs each.
This lingering on the suspect virtues gives Section 7 a halting
character. Hume insists that his task in this work is not to recom-
mend the virtues, but to explain their foundation in principles of
human nature. He does sometimes recommend them, most extensively
in Section 9. But in Section 7, he seems sometimes to recommend against
them. In truth, Hume cautions only against certain interpretations of the
suspect virtues. Nonetheless, his stance toward these qualities is neither that
of the coolly dissecting anatomist nor the flattering portrait-artist. It is more
that of a journalistic photographer, recording images that reveal the often-
concealed side of qualities that we hold dear. He spends extra time on the
suspect virtues to capture these sides.
The journalist has a mission because the problem is perennial. Partiality
for martial virtues “appears so natural in the mind of man” because it keeps
reappearing. Each generation must be taught otherwise to preserve
a humane society. The “excessive bravery and resolute inflexibility of
CHARLES the XIIth” [1697–1718] strikes us with admiration, he claims,
even if we withhold our full approval (EPM 7.24). The History of England is
full of Hume’s acknowledgments that barbarism persists into the modern
era. He may be sanguine at times about the progress of a more humane
sensibility. But at no time does he believe that the danger had been finally
conquered. Our fondness for the excellences of violence may be “con-
demned by calm reason and reflection,” but calm reason and reflection are
habits that themselves need cultivation, study, and practice.12 The required

12
Cf. Hume’s sceptic’s description of the difficulty of “a serious attention to the sciences and liberal
arts” (“The Sceptic,” E, 170–71).
142 margaret watkins
time and strength of character are in short supply. If reflection triumphs
over a critical mass of people for a time, calm reason and reflection would
still forbid any complacency about this good fortune. Hume cannot expect
that in his own society, everyone agrees with his cool praise of martial
courage and his warm commendation of delicacy of taste. In this section,
therefore, he seeks to persuade as well as analyze.

7.2 The Significance of the Sublime

Let us return to courage’s placement: why categorize courage as immedi-
ately agreeable to self, given the salience of its utility?
One possibility is that Hume is following his order of presentation in
the Treatise. The distinction between artificial and natural virtues struc-
tures Book 3 of the Treatise’s discussion of individual virtues. The
extended treatment of courage is in “Of the other virtues and vices.”
After a preliminary section, explaining our approval of natural virtues,
come three sections discussing particular virtues: “Of greatness of mind,”
“Of goodness and benevolence,” and “Of natural abilities.” The distinc-
tion between virtues of the great and virtues of the good, then, is
fundamental here.13 Courage appears among the virtues of the great,
which are closely related to pride. The order of this part of Book 3 follows
the presentation of the passions in Book 2, where pride and humility
come before love and hatred. Hume almost characterizes the virtues in
“Of greatness of mind” as varieties of pride: “whatever we call heroic
virtue, and admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind,
is either nothing but a steady and well-establish’d pride and self-esteem,
or partakes largely of that passion” (T 3.3.2.13).
In EPM, pride recedes from this prominent place. Perhaps, then, the
discussion of courage in Section 7, alongside other virtues more obviously
related to pride, is just an artifact of a less-than-thoroughgoing revision.
Having restructured his moral philosophy to de-emphasize this conten-
tious term, he should have moved courage to a section on useful virtues but
leaves it here as a remnant of his former ordering scheme.

13
The idea that “greatness,” variously conceived, came with special virtues had long precedent. In the
Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle distinguishes magnificence from liberality and magnanimity from
honor-loving, where the former qualities require great wealth or power. He also mentions a “heroic”
form of virtue at the beginning of book 7, which would be possible only for god-like humans.
Beginning with Augustine, “heroic” virtue is ascribed to Christian martyrs. Hume is not straight-
forwardly channeling either of these distinctions but develops his own categories related to concepts
that his readers would have been familiar with.
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 143
The problem with this hypothesis is that it fails to appreciate the
continuity in Hume’s thinking about courage. He has not decided between
the composition of the Treatise and EPM that courage is more useful than
he had initially suggested: his dim view of courage endures throughout his
writings. The History acknowledges the importance of courage (and
a reputation for it) in princes and their soldiers. But Hume still warns
about its too-seductive gleam. “The unhappy prepossession,” he writes in
Volume 5, “which men commonly entertain in favour of ambition, cour-
age, enterprize, and other warlike virtues, engages generous natures, who
always love fame, into such pursuits as destroy their own peace, and that of
the rest of mankind” (H 5.51). In Volume 1, his criticism of the “profound
barbarism and ignorance” of the Irish includes the claim that in Ireland
“courage and force, though exercised in the commission of crimes, were
more honoured than any pacific virtues” (H 1.339–40). He repeatedly
reminds us that a slew of harmful effects mars the utility of courage.
In light of these harms, Hume concludes that utility is not the primary
reason we approve of courage.14 It belongs with the virtues that involve
spirited pride. It is a “shining” virtue, whose glow strikes spectators and
sometimes blinds them to reason. This reaction, I believe, provides the
fundamental connection between the suspect virtues in Section 7.
The second Enquiry continues to place courage alongside virtues that
evince “noble pride and spirit.” But the dominant theme is now the
immediacy of pleasure, not pride. All virtues please, according to Hume,
but these please “without any utility or any tendency to farther good”
(EPM 7.2). This intimate relation to pleasure means that our responses to
these virtues necessarily include less reasoning.15 Before we can approve
a quality for its utility, we must determine that the quality tends to produce
benefits – an act of causal reasoning that can be more or less complex.
Thus, in the first Appendix, Hume connects reason particularly to the
useful virtues:
One principal foundation of moral praise being supposed to lie in the
usefulness of any quality or action; it is evident, that reason must enter for

14
I agree with Gill (2014, p. 30) that Baier goes too far in suggesting that Hume considers military
bravery a vice that necessarily destroys the sentiments of humanity and must “be transferred from
the battlefield to more peaceful fields . . . before it gets approved as a virtue (Baier, 1991, pp. 211–12).
Hume recognizes that such courage is sometimes indispensable, hence his argument in “Of
Refinement in the Arts” that improving mildness disciplines “martial spirit” and increases its
effectiveness rather than destroying such spirit altogether (E, 274).
15
Jacqueline Taylor, in her contribution to this volume (Chapter 8), argues that “the essential role of
reason” for the useful virtues is the “key difference” between them and the immediately agreeable
virtues.” See p. xx.
144 margaret watkins
a considerable share in all decisions of this kind; since nothing but that
faculty can instruct us in the tendency of qualities and actions, and point out
their beneficial consequences to society and to their possessor. (EPM
App. 1.2)
Such reasoning is not necessary for us to determine that a quality is
immediately agreeable. Spectators, observing the cheerful person, need
no inferences about the effects of cheer. They sympathize with the pleasure
that their cheerful companion derives from her character trait, and this
diffusion of pleasure generates approbation.
But don’t we need reasoning to learn that cheerfulness produces such
pleasure for its possessor? This thought is tempting, but it reflects
a misunderstanding about the way that Hume conceives of virtuous
qualities in EPM. These qualities are not independent elements in the
mind that generate passions; they are rather at least partly constituted by
passions.16 Qualifying his assertion that melancholy tempers fill us with
“aversion and disgust,” Hume explains that the occasional experience of
such feelings does not make someone vicious; “it is only when the dispos-
ition gives a propensity to any of these disagreeable passions that they
disfigure the character” (EPM 7.2 n.35). We judge a propensity or dispos-
ition, but it is a propensity to a passion. Likewise, when we approve of
benevolence as immediately agreeable, we are approving of its feeling:
“these feelings, being delightful in themselves are necessarily communi-
cated to the spectators, and melt them into the same fondness and deli-
cacy” (EPM 7.19). What of courage, which seems to be a propensity to
action or the ability to moderate the influence of certain passions? In fact,
Hume repeatedly refers to courage as a passion (or affection). “Fear, anger,
courage and other affections,” he writes in the Treatise, “are frequently
communicated from one animal to another, without their knowledge of
that cause, which produc’d the original passion” (T 2.2.12.6). The
Dissertation on the Passions likewise retains the Treatise’s claim that “our
temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itself into love, generos-
ity, courage, pride, and other resembling affections” (DP 2.7).17 And in
EPM 7 itself, Hume classes courage among “the sublime passions,” along
with magnanimity and disdain of fortune (EPM 7.26).18

16
Understanding what character traits in general are for Hume is notoriously difficult. For helpful
treatments, see Frykholm (2012), Ainslie (2007), and McIntyre (1990).
17
See also T 2.1.4.3.
18
Richard McCarty notices that Hume speaks of courage as a passion but sees this as Hume speaking
loosely. McCarty argues that the difficulty of finding a suitable passion motivating courageous acts is
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 145
Therefore, when a spectator approves of a quality as immediately
agreeable to its possessor, she begins by sympathizing with a passion that
has a pleasurable affect. She need not reason that greatness of mind
produces pleasure; she is observing someone experiencing a kind of pleas-
ure. Careful moral judgment of these attributes does require some causal
reasoning. Spectators need evidence that the person is not merely in
a passing mood but tends to experience the relevant passion often and in
different circumstances. In other words, they must infer that some signifi-
cant part of this person is the cause of this passion, rather than some
fleeting circumstance or insignificant tic.19 They do not, however, need to
infer that this significant part produces pleasure; the part in question is
a disposition to a kind of pleasure.
Recognizing virtues agreeable to self therefore also requires less causal
reasoning than virtues agreeable to others. Approval of virtues always requires
repeated observations to infer that a significant part of that person’s character
causes the expressions of the virtue. To approve of a quality as virtuous
because it is immediately agreeable to others, however, spectators also must
determine that the quality produces pleasure in the others affected by it.
Approval of wit requires observing the repeated expressions of wit by the
same person, to show that the person truly is witty. It also requires repeated
observations of the conjunction of expressions of wit with expressions of
pleasure from the witty person’s companions and the ensuing inference that
these expressions cause pleasure. Approval of greatness of mind, on the other
hand, requires observing repeated expressions of greatness of mind to deter-
mine that the person under observation truly has the relevant propensity.
But it does not require, in addition, observing what effect these expressions
have on others. Nor does the conclusion that the person has greatness of
mind require inferring that an independent quality produces pleasure. It
comes instead from inferring that this person possesses a disposition to
pleasures of a certain kind.20

an aspect of serious problems Hume faces accounting for courage as a virtue (2012, pp. 270–71). But
I think there may be a passion properly called “courage,” perhaps akin to Platonic thumos.
19
For further discussion of this point, see Watkins (2018), pp. 19–21.
20
This point is vital to maintaining Hume’s distinction between the two varieties of immediately
agreeable virtues. That distinction is clear when we consider virtues like greatness of mind, the
expression of which Hume thinks is pleasing to the possessor but displeasing in some degree to
others. It is more difficult to see for those virtues, like cheerfulness, that are only pleasing. If Jack is
cheerful, Jill will enjoy being around him because his cheerfulness is contagious. Hume believes that
we would morally approve of these traits prescinding from any such effects on other people. We
approve because we see that Jack’s temperament disposes him to experience cheerful pleasures. I am
grateful to Elizabeth Radcliffe for pressing me on the question of whether or not the distinction
between immediately agreeable virtues can be maintained.
146 margaret watkins
What kind? Virtues immediately agreeable to self produce “sublime
passions” or “tender affections” (EPM 7.26). The subset of these that
I am calling “suspect virtues” produce sublime passions. In using the
term “sublime,” Hume in part captures how experiencing these passions
feels to their possessor. Greatness of mind includes an “elevation of senti-
ment” (EPM 7.4). Courage is inseparable from its “noble elevation” (EPM
7.11). The mythical philosophical sage “elevates himself above every acci-
dent of life”; but we can hope only to approach this “sublime tranquility
and indifference” (EPM 7.16). These passions expand the spirits, making
us feel able to rise above difficulties and carry through our purposes. They
give us a sense of our own capacity or power. But they also take us out of
ourselves, as we feel impelled by their force and lose the anxious self-
consciousness that goes with smaller feelings.
Spectators of those with these virtues share these feelings. Some of the
spectator’s sublime passions come from sympathy: we “catch” them “by
a contagion or natural sympathy” (EPM 7.2). But when making a moral
judgment, we do not simply adopt the feelings of others. Our moral taste
“gives the sentiment of beauty and deformity”; it “raises, in a manner, a new
creation” by generating moral sentiments (EPM App. 1.21). Yet Hume notes
that moral sentiments vary considerably in their affect, and this variance tracks
the variance in the sympathetic passions. Sallust’s Caesar and Cato are both
virtuous, but in different ways that generate different sentiments: “The one
produces love; the other, esteem: The one is amiable; the other awful: We
should wish to meet the one character in a friend; the other we should be
ambitious of in ourselves” (EPM App. 4.6). Though love and esteem both
arise from pleasing qualities, esteem is produced “where this pleasure is severe
and serious; or where its object is great, and makes a strong impression; or
where it produces any degree of humility and awe” (EPM App. 4.6 n.67).
The moral response to the suspect virtues in Section 7 is an admiring
awe. Magnanimity “excites our applause and admiration” (EPM 7.4);
courage diffuses a “sublimity of sentiment over every spectator” (EPM
7.11); the noble aims of the philosophical sage “carry . . . a grandeur with
them, which seizes the spectator, and strikes him with admiration” (EPM
7.16). In using the language of sublimity to describe this moral beauty,
Hume appeals to aesthetic language that came into its own in eighteenth-
century English. Boileau’s translation of and reflections on “Longinus’”21

21
Scholars no longer accept that Cassius Longinus was the author of Peri Hypsous. Donald Russell
provides a concise summary of the problems with this attribution in his introduction to the text
(Longinus, 1995, pp. 145–48). For the sake of brevity, I refer to the author as Longinus.
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 147
Peri Hypsous (1674 and 1693) were enormously influential for the develop-
ment of British theories of the sublime. John Hall published an English
translation of Peri Hypsous in 1652, but under the title Of the Height of
Eloquence. Boileau entitles his French translation Traité du Sublime, ou du
Merveilleux dans le Discours. Hume quotes Longinus twice and Boileau’s
Réflexions once in Section 7.22
Longinus says that the sublime “consists in a consummate excellence
and distinction of language.” This excellence has a peculiar power, which is
reminiscent of Hume’s description of the effect of the suspect virtues.
The effect of genius is not to persuade the audience but rather to transport
them out of themselves. Invariably what inspires wonder, with its power of
amazing us, always prevails over what is merely convincing and pleasing. For
our persuasions are usually under our own control, while these things
exercise an irresistible power and mastery, and get the better of every
listener . . .. A well-timed flash of sublimity shatters everything like a bolt
of lightning and reveals the full power of the speaker at a single stroke.
(Longinus, 1995, p. 163)
As the virtues of the great strike the spectator with their grandeur and
diffuse sublime sentiments, sublime rhetoric or writing inspires awe that
the hearer or reader may be incapable of resisting. This beauty too takes us
out of ourselves, wholly capturing our attention from self-consciousness or
the gradual operations of sifting evidence and reasoning.
Boileau emphasizes these passionate effects of the sublime rather than its
relation to rhetorical style: Longinus, he says, does not mean by the
sublime “what the orators call sublime style, but the extraordinary and
marvelous that strikes in speech, and that makes a work lift up, enrapture,
transport” (Boileau, 1857, p. 318, my translation). As Timothy Costelloe
puts it, Boileau thus transforms “sublime” from an adjective describing
a style into a noun, “an essence or independent existence expressed in and
through language rather than belonging to or of language” (Costelloe, 2012,
p. 4). The sublime could thus be found not only in rhetorical compos-
itions, but in other arts too and, for Hume, in human characters. To
possess the sublime is to possess a quality that excites “particular emotions,
powerful enough to evoke transcendence, shock, awe, and terror”
(Costelloe, 2012, p. 2).23
22
Adam Potkay notes that “the eighteenth-century student of classical rhetoric . . . was, typically,
a devotee of Longinus” (Potkay, 1984, p. 2). For a helpful discussion of how Boileau’s interpretation
of Longinus influences later concepts of the sublime, see Costelloe (2012), pp. 4–7.
23
Does the use of this aesthetic language imply that our judgment of, for example, courage is really an
aesthetic rather than a moral response? My suspicion is that this question involves a false dichotomy,
148 margaret watkins
Given Hume’s description of the suspect virtues and the influence of
Longinus through Boileau, it is fair to assume that Hume has something
close to these ideas in mind when he describes the effects of those virtues in the
language of sublimity. None of the virtues that are immediately agreeable
require the same levels of causal reasoning for their approval as the useful
virtues. But these sublime virtues have an extra level of distance from reason.
Hume denies that there can be any conflict between reason and passion, if
such a conflict requires that reason alone be an independent motivating force.
But he does not deny that being in a highly passionate state might prevent one
from reasoning; he recognizes that violent passions can blind us to pertinent
facts and overtake our energy in ways that leave no space for reason. When
“seized by” sublimity and struck with admiration, it is natural to judge
without sifting through our experience or making inferences about the
consequences of the behavior we are witnessing. Much reasoning might
come before our experience of sublime passions. Fully appreciating the mag-
nificence of the Oresteia may require working hard to understand the histor-
ical context, the nature of Aeschylus’ audience and how the drama was likely
to affect that audience, and the relations between its three plays. Having done
this work, however, one is rewarded with a transcendent pleasure that leaves
little space for reasoning.24 Insofar as our admiration of virtues of the great
partakes of the sublime, then, it leaves little energy for reflection.25
The Treatise’s strong claims about the virtues of the great being forms of
or partaking of pride fade away in EPM. But in EPM, these virtues still share
something significant in common – their ability to inspire sublime admir-
ation. Such admiration is inspiring, elevating, and powerful. For precisely
the same reasons, it can also be corrupting, misleading, and dangerous.

7.3 The Delicate Correction of Our Admiration

for the Suspect Virtues
Does this danger mean that Hume believes that we should transfer these
qualities to the vice column after all? As I have indicated, I do not think

because the distinction between aesthetic and moral responses is vague for Hume. An explanation of
this intriguing possibility is unfortunately beyond the scope of this chapter.
24
Not all sublime pleasures require such antecedent reasoning, however. A small child might experi-
ence them in the face of a stunning vista. I am grateful to Emily Kelahan for pressing me on the
relation between reasoning and the sublime.
25
In her analysis of the “moral sublime” in Hume’s Treatise, Elizabeth Neill portrays the overpowering
aspect of sublime moral responses more positively. The strength of our response to heroic virtue
subdues our tendency to feel envy from comparison with superiors. We are thus able to admire
“without envy the awe-inspiring qualities of another moral subject” (Neill, 1997, p. 256).
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 149
that the text supports this interpretation. Seeing the suspect virtues as
united by their tendency to inspire sublime responses reveals more evi-
dence against this interpretation. Recall that Hume names Socrates and
Epictetus as heroic figures as well as Alexander and Medea. These philo-
sophical figures too “have a grandeur and force of sentiment” that aston-
ishes and strikes us with admiration. Though they are not reasonable
objects of emulation, Hume admires their fortitude and self-control.
And he recommends that we approach as near as we can to “this sublime
tranquillity and indifference” (EPM 7.16).
On the other hand, Hume does not certify the unthinking celebration of
the suspect virtues, so characteristic of cruel societies and playground
bullies. Excessive admiration of cheerfulness might cause some personal
difficulty and distraction, but excessive admiration of courage causes
domestic and political violence. “Calm reason and reflection” condemn
our partiality for the virtues of war. His extensive discussion of these virtues
looks like an attempt both to engage in and inspire such reflection. But
how is such reasoning and reflection supposed to proceed, given the
overwhelming reaction to the suspect virtues?
One tempting possibility is that Hume believes that we should judge the
virtues immediately agreeable to self by weighing them according to the
standards of other virtues. Although we might have an immediate sublime
sentiment observing a brave action, in succeeding moments we can pause
and reflect on that sentiment itself. Perhaps we should admire agreeable
virtues unless acting from them would cross a useful virtue. Hume does
give priority to those virtues that are useful to others, asserting that “the
qualities . . . which prompt us to act our part in society” (the “social
virtues”) are “the most valuable qualities” (EPM App. 4.2).
Something like this suggestion must be right. The suffering, destruction,
and death left in the wake of Alexander’s greatness of mind should dampen
our admiration. But correction of the suspect by the social virtues cannot
be the whole story. First, note how limited the effects of such correction
could be. It requires an already-cultivated set of social virtues that Hume
believes to be the product of centuries, not moments. To make people less
violent and more compassionate, we must rear children with more of
a propensity to empathy and less of one to violence, cruelty, and desire
for the glories of war. Remarking on the difference between the ancient and
modern assessments of such qualities, Hume uses the self-correction trope
to emphasize the influence of education: “Such is the compensation, which
nature, or rather education, has made in the distribution of excellencies
and virtues, in these different ages” (EPM 7.18). But a deliberate
150 margaret watkins
philosophical plan where we rationally condemn one set of alleged virtues
on the basis of another cannot effect such progress. Readings of the Essays
and the History show just how complex Hume’s understanding of progress
is, and how many unpredictable and uncontrollable factors influence
cultural change. Progress requires a slow, uncertain process of changing
conceptions of the virtues and changing circumstances of human life. In
ancient Athens, it is not at all clear that it would have been beneficial for
a particular set of parents to attempt to inculcate humanity at the expense
of bravery in their sons, at least not if the ancient Greek city-states were the
violent and unstable polities that Hume portrays them to be.26
Hume takes himself to be living in an age that has an appreciation for
humanity, benevolence, and clemency that would have seemed strange to
ancient Athenians. Those with these social virtues would be more capable
of using them to correct the others. Yet the capacity remains relatively
weak. It requires the kind of causal reasoning that sublime affections make
difficult, and the suspect virtues have perennial appeal. Such reflection
probably would be most effective in two situations: (1) when thinking
abstractly about the relations among various virtues or (2) when con-
fronted directly with the negative consequences of dangerous versions of
the suspect virtues. Inordinate admiration for martial courage, for example,
might be tempered as parents reflect on how celebrating the trait creates
bullies, or by a doctor walking through a battleground that has been the site
of enormous loss of life. These same parents and this same doctor, however,
may still cheer a modern Alexander leading troops to fight for a cause they
believe in.
Moreover, Hume does not think that the virtues of agreeableness
should always yield to the virtues of utility.27 Although he downplays
pride in EPM, he still uses positive language to describe the place of
politely obscured pride among the virtues. “A certain degree of generous
pride or self-value,” he says, “is so requisite that the absence of it in the

26
For Hume’s explanation of how ancient circumstances increased the violence and cruelty of war,
thus encouraging aggression and cruelty in other aspects of life, see his essay “Of the Populousness of
Ancient Nations” (E, 404–11).
27
One obstacle to understanding Hume’s distinction between the useful and the immediately
agreeable may be the utilitarian understanding of pleasure as a kind of utility. If utility and pleasure
are one, then they could provide a single scale by which any action can be judged. See Baier’s
discussion of the difference between Hume’s approach and that of Bentham, who “blunts Hume’s
distinction between the useful and the agreeable, distorting the agreeable into cash utility” (Baier,
1991, pp. 204–05). Christine Swanton (2015) argues for the importance of keeping distinct Hume’s
two criteria for a trait’s counting as a virtue, against interpretations like Roger Crisp’s. Crisp reads
Hume as “merely distinguishing between qualities which produce pleasure indirectly, and those
which do so directly, as soon as they are confronted” (2005, p. 170).
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 151
mind displeases, after the same manner as the want of a nose, eye, or any
of the most material features of the face or members of the body” (EPM
7.10). Although he mentions members of the body as well as features of
the face, I do not think it is an accident that his specific examples are facial
features. Our self-assessment, expressed in myriad nuanced ways along
the continuum of pride and humility, is the aspect through which we
present our character to the world. This presentation affects others not
only through their sympathy with our positive or negative feelings about
ourselves, but also through the effects of those feelings on their own self-
assessment. Pride is a virtue immediately agreeable to self; its proper
concealment – modesty – is a virtue immediately agreeable to others.
Modesty pleases “by flattering every man’s vanity” (EPM 8.8). If we were
to judge immediately agreeable virtues by the standards of benevolence,
we might infer that we should always err on the side of modesty, for the
sake of pleasing others. Yet Hume makes it clear that in certain situations,
this policy would be a real failing. Although in “ordinary characters, we
approve of a bias towards modesty,” “a generous spirit and self-value, well
founded, decently disguised, and courageously supported under distress
and calumny, is a great excellency.” For less “ordinary characters,” such
a bias could look ridiculous. For those in extreme distress, the opposite
tendency can be crucial: Hume mentions Socrates again here and notes
that “a noble pride and spirit . . . may openly display itself in its full
extent, when one lies under calumny or oppression of any kind” (EPM
8.10).28
The proper boundaries of display for pride, and the “certain degree” of
self-value that is required for moral beauty, are not determined by a rubric
constructed from the other virtues. They are determined by our moral
responses and consequent judgments. But some people are better moral
judges than others. As Jacqueline Taylor has argued, the second Enquiry
provides more resources than the Treatise for an account of the difference
between good and bad moral judgment.29 “Of the Standard of Taste”
supplements EPM in this regard by making explicit that a sentiment-based
account of value need not assume parity of judgment across individuals30
and discussing the specific criteria that qualify a critic to make judgments
of taste.
These criteria are “strong sense, united to delicate sentiment, improved
by practice, perfected by comparison, and cleared of all prejudice” (ST

28
For an extended argument against “prioritarian” interpretations of Hume’s ethics, see Gill (2014).
29
See Taylor (2015b), pp. 120–25. 30 See E, 234.
152 margaret watkins
241). Only some of these qualities require the good operation of causal
reasoning. Strong sense and freedom from prejudice, as Hume describes
them, do. Delicate sentiment, practice, and comparison, however, are
more perceptual. They concern the spectator’s ability to perceive relevant
aspects of a work to which our sentiments of beauty naturally respond.
A delicate critic perceives details, qualifications, flaws, and excellences that
others overlook. Such delicacy may be innate, but we need not despair of its
improvement if we find ourselves without it. Even those with such delicacy
must engage in practice and comparison – across a range of different works
and in repeated examination of a single work – to hone their craft and reach
more accurate judgments. Engaging in such practice could also cultivate
delicacy itself.
To correct our responses to immediately agreeable virtues, these
perceptive corrections of taste must step in where reasoning is absent
or weak. Causal reasoning tells me that martial courage might defend
the city but also endangers its more vulnerable citizens – and that at
one time or another, we are all vulnerable. It also tells me that the
greatest human effort cannot extirpate all human passions, so the
pretensions of extreme philosophical tranquility are unattainable and
therefore not worth pursuing. But it does not stop the feeling of
exhilaration when I observe a satisfying act of vigilante justice, or the
feeling of stupefying admiration when I see someone express supreme
confidence in their own abilities.
Because our moral sentiments are not the standard motivation for
virtuous acts, these reactions may seem relatively harmless. Yet they matter
insofar as they inform our encouragement of certain acts, passions, and
traits in ourselves, our friends, and, most importantly, the children in our
care. Fortunately, they too are subject to correction – not in the moment
through causal reasoning, but through the careful attention to detail that
cultivates delicacy of taste. To a person with such delicacy, the vigilante is
more frightening than gratifying, and the braggart is disgusting rather than
impressive. Her perceptions include the cruelty in the eyes and the sneer
across the lips.
Hume’s one-sentence penultimate paragraph in “Of Qualities
Immediately Agreeable to Ourselves” may well contain a “marvelous”
insight – that the virtue that we most need to correct our assessment
of the suspect virtues agreeable to ourselves is itself a virtue agreeable
to ourselves. Because taste enters into all our moral judgments, this
virtue will actually be important for all our moral judgments. We have
seen how Hume lingers in this section on the qualities that tend to be
 Virtues Suspect and Sublime 153
dangerous or questionable. We can now see that the inverse is true as
well: the virtue in this category that he treats most concisely may be
the most important, as well as “conveying the purest, the most
durable, and most innocent of all enjoyments” (EPM 7.28). It is
enough.31

31
I am grateful to Esther Kroeker and Willem Lemmens for inviting me to contribute to this volume
and for their helpful suggestions for improvement. I also benefited from conversation with the other
contributors and Richard McCarty at a workshop at William & Mary in October 2018, and from the
generous comments of Emily Kelahan on an earlier draft of this piece.
 chapter 8

Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment

Jacqueline Taylor

In a 1762 letter to Andrew Millar, Hume told Millar he would “make some
considerable Alterations on some Parts” of the next edition of his Essays and
Treatises (L I, 353; see also a 1763 letter to Millar, L I, 378). And indeed, the
1764 edition of Hume’s Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (EPM)
(in Volume II of Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects) does contain
“some considerable Alterations,” including increased use of the term
personal merit (now introduced in Section 1) and numerous deletions of
the term virtue. There is also a new penultimate paragraph in Section 1,
replacing the previous five-line paragraph included in the editions pub-
lished between 1751 and 1760. The new paragraph outlines in detail the
method Hume will employ in order “to discover the true origin of morals”
and thereby to establish the respective roles of reason and sentiment. The
“experimental method,” which arrives at “general maxims from
a comparison of particular instances,” focuses squarely on analyzing “that
complication of mental qualities, which form what, in common life, we call
personal merit” (EPM 1.10).1 Hume’s new emphasis on personal merit,
rather than virtue, and placing of the term in Section 1 in the 1764 and later
editions, certainly underscores his confidence about presenting a morality
that makes central the merit of persons, rather than our duties to God or
society. His catalog, which includes talents and immediately agreeable
qualities, represents “virtue in all her genuine and most engaging charms,”
while doing away with “useless austerities and rigours” (EPM 9.15).
Yet Hume’s main aim, in keeping with the title of the Enquiry, concerns
establishing “the foundations of ethics” and discovering the “universal
principles, from which all censure or approbation is ultimately derived”
(EPM 1.10). The experimental method involves analyzing various mental

1
Prior to the 1764 edition, the first instance of personal merit occurred in what had been Part I of
Section 6. Part I of Section 6 becomes Appendix 3 in 1764, and in the 1777 edition becomes
Appendix 4.

154
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 155
qualities, habits, sentiments, or faculties that comprise a person’s merit or
demerit, relying on the “thickness” of our moral language insofar as the
terms we use to identify various qualities or traits typically convey some
form of praise or blame.2 Hume’s systematic approach leads to the discov-
ery of the common circumstances that make some qualities “estimable” or
in some other way praiseworthy and others “blameable.” These common
circumstances will point to “the true origin of morals,” positioning us to
determine both “the general principles of morals” and the respective roles
of sentiment and reason (EPM 1.10).
In this chapter, I show that despite giving a less complicated account of
sympathy as a principle of human nature, in comparison with the Treatise,
Hume offers a more nuanced view of the moral sentiments that have their
source in sympathy. In particular, I will set out and analyze the connections
that Hume makes between utility as a source of merit, the principle of
humanity as that which elicits our approval of useful mental qualities and
blame for pernicious ones, and the role of reason, both in determining
usefulness and in reaching just evaluations of merit or demerit. I will
contrast this set of connections with sympathy as the source of another
set of moral sentiments that have as their object the immediately agreeable
or disagreeable qualities. I begin by showing how Hume’s method estab-
lishes utility as a “species of merit,” and as the common circumstance
shared by the social virtues of benevolence and justice. Utility pleases us,
Hume argues, from “a more social affection” than self-love, and that
affection is the sentiment or principle of humanity. I reconstruct the
argument meant to establish the principle of humanity as the foundation
of morality, drawing on Sections 5, 6, and 9. Another aim is to show that
the sentiment of humanity gains force through our collective participation
in the common point of view from which we form a general standard of
virtue, and that the force of humanity can counter the force of self-love.
While the stated aim of Hume’s argument is that of settling a controversy
about reason or sentiment as the foundation of morality, the selfish theory
becomes a primary target. Throughout EPM we see how reason assists
humanity – with reflection, argument and evidence, establishing facts, and
so forth – in reaching the proper sentiment. The immediate agreeableness
of mental qualities comprises the other source of moral merit. Both utility
and immediate agreeableness elicit moral sentiments of approval because of

2
Hume clearly recognizes the ways in which historical or cultural context can vary both the descriptive
content and evaluative valence of particular traits; see EPM 7 and “A Dialogue.” I have also discussed
the implications of such variability; see Taylor (2002, 2015b).
156 jacqueline taylor
our capacity for sympathy, but Hume characterizes differently the sym-
pathy-based sentiment that approves of utility and those sentiments arising
from mental qualities that give immediate pleasure to their possessor or
others. The key to the difference, or so I will argue, lies in the importance
of humanity and reason working together in the judgments we make
regarding useful mental qualities. As a reason-informed and reflective
principle, humanity provides a firm foundation for our moral evaluations
and our collectively establishing a general standard of virtue and vice.

8.1 The Merit of Utility and Its Command of Our Esteem

As noted at the start of this chapter, Hume’s method begins with an
examination of the terms we use in identifying and evaluating various
mental qualities in order, first, to discover the features shared by the
estimable, and those common to the blameworthy ones, and then from
a range of particular instances derive some “general maxims” about what
both makes certain mental qualities comprise personal merit and explains
our approval of them. He observes: “the only object of reasoning [as we
employ this method] is to discover the circumstances on both sides, which
are common to these qualities,” which will be matters of fact (EPM 1.10).
He begins with the social virtues of benevolence and justice. Various
virtues fall into the general category of benevolence, including compassion,
generosity, and friendliness, and our observation shows us that this set of
qualities typically earns our “good-will” and “favourable and affectionate
sentiments” of approbation (EPM 2.1, 2.5). In his actions and attitudes, the
benevolent person tends to promote the happiness of others, whether in his
role as parent, partner, friend, or colleague, or in simply taking the time to
better the lives of those who are worse off. Since these various social virtues
tend toward the benefit of others, and aim directly at that, Hume con-
cludes that the utility of “the social virtues, forms, at least, a part of their
merit,” and elicits moral approbation (EPM 2.8). Just as we praise useful
machines, clothing, homes, and generally anything that improves comfort,
convenience, or happiness, while we feel an aversion to what tends to have
a “baneful influence,” with morality too, “this circumstance of public
utility is ever principally in view” (EPM 2.9–10, 17). When he turns to
justice, rather than focusing on the various virtues of justice (which include
fidelity, justice, veracity, and integrity) to ascertain why their “very names
force an avowal of their merit,” Hume instead examines the circumstances
that make justice both possible and necessary for us (EPM 3.48, 6.21). Why
does Hume shift his focus to the circumstances of justice?
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 157
In beginning his examination of benevolence, Hume notes that it might
be superfluous to show that we consider this set of social virtues estimable
and worthy of our good-will and approbation. But it is not a superfluous
task to establish that part of their merit lies in their usefulness, thus Hume
sets out to persuade us that in promoting the well-being of others the
benevolent qualities prove to be useful. Given the standing of justice as
a social virtue and the evident benefit of the rules of justice, and by analogy
with what has been established regarding the usefulness of benevolence, it
is superfluous to show that justice is valued at least in part for its utility. The
questions to ask regarding justice are whether “public utility is the sole
origin of justice,” and whether our “reflections on the beneficial conse-
quences of this virtue are the sole foundation of its merit” (EPM 3.1). Hume
argues for an affirmative answer to both questions by setting out the unique
circumstances of human beings that make justice not simply useful but
entirely necessary to the support of society.3 The three sets of circumstances
allow Hume to draw several conclusions regarding human nature. First, we
lack abundant resources and an overly generous nature. Our limited
benevolence prompts us to take up the good of some others, for example
within marriage and families where goods are shared in common. But
sharing resources on a wider scale and at one’s own expense is inconsistent
with human nature. Hence, the rules of justice are necessary to facilitate
coordination and cooperation in society. Second, in circumstances such as
those of extreme scarcity, or a prevalent “desperate rapaciousness” among
people – the kind of circumstances we might face in a state of violent
lawlessness – considerations of self-preservation override those of justice.
The rules of justice, Hume concludes, depend on our particular situation,
and arise from the utility resulting to society “from their strict and regular
observance” (EPM 3.12). We learn from and can reflect on the advantages
of “more equitable conduct,” of combining our forces for security, and our
“art, labor, and industry” to meet needs for material resources. In particu-
lar, providing incentives to art and industry makes property necessary.
Taking these considerations together, we can conclude that “justice
derives its usefulness to the public: And hence alone arises its merit and
obligation” (EPM 3.13). The third set of circumstances emphasizes the fact
of human interdependence. We are neither completely self-sufficient nor
so dependent upon each other that we cannot, in principle, make felt the
effects of resentment for what we perceive as unjust treatment. Although
sociability remains limited, we accept the fact of our interdependence, as

3
For a detailed and helpful account, see Hope (2010).
158 jacqueline taylor
can be seen in intimate partnerships and the raising of children, and in our
establishing rules for collective life in the family. As families join together,
the rules of justice that help preserve peace, order, and security expand
their scope; as society increases, so do the rules that make possible greater
“convenience and advantage.” This “natural progress of human senti-
ments” includes “the gradual enlargement of our regards for justice, as
we become acquainted with the extensive utility of that virtue” (EPM 3.21).
Justice is absolutely necessary for the support of society, and Hume’s
surveying of the circumstances of justice establishes its sole origin in its
public utility. Hume points to the complexity of justice, including the laws
regarding property, contract, and the various institutions of justice, to
argue against our possessing any instinctive sentiment of justice. We teach
the importance of a regard for justice (and perhaps in particular for such
qualities as honesty or fidelity), and can reflect on the harmful conse-
quences of rampant disorder and injustice. The sole source of the merit of
justice derives from our reflections on its utility, and that utility suffices for
our moral esteem for it and our blame of injustice.
Two further points have relevance for Hume’s discussion of the utility of
the social virtues in these sections of EPM. The first concerns the role of
reasoning and reflection on experience, including history, in common life for
establishing and assessing the utility of actions and practices. The second
concerns Hume’s appeal to the energy and force of utility in commanding
moral esteem. Regarding the first, we saw Hume assert in Section 2 that we
often have in view public utility when we are determining the best course of
moral action, including reflection on accepted practices regarding specific
forms of benevolence such as charitable giving. The matter of establishing “the
true interests of mankind” becomes crucial, particularly when people begin
disputing the tendencies of some particular practice or policy. Acquiring
greater experience of the tendencies of actions on society can help to reveal
false appearances, allowing us to engage in “sounder reasoning” and gain
“juster notions of human affairs” (EPM 2.17). Hume provides examples of
practices such as giving alms and of persons such as liberal princes, where
a continuing regard for particular actions as meritorious depends on back-
ground conditions such as opportunities for work or economic conditions
across social strata. Direct charitable giving often relieves the burden of those
who do not have much, but if they rely solely on charity and fall into “idleness
and debauchery . . . we regard that species of charity rather as a weakness than
a virtue” (EPM 2.18). Likewise, the liberality of leaders may result in admired
magnificence, but when it benefits “prodigal” wastrels rather than hardwork-
ing men and women, we no longer praise such displays. In other examples,
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 159
private or public policies are revised in the light of reflection on history and
experience. Tyrannicide, perhaps one of the few options in ancient times for
getting rid of oppressive leaders, may be replaced in the modern age with more
formal measures for deposing a bad leader. As societies become more prosper-
ous, we find that the production and trade of luxury goods, in furthering arts
and industry, encourage civil refinement, sociability, and increased opportun-
ities for education and increasing the stock of knowledge. Thus reflection and
reasoning lead us to “adjust anew the boundaries of moral good and evil,” and
“regulate anew” our moral sentiments of praise or censure (EPM 2.17, 2.21).
Hume presents these cases to illustrate how collective reasoning and reflection
on experience or history can prompt us to adjust moral and political habits,
along with our sentiments.
While Hume no longer leans heavily on the principles of association, which
he had introduced in the Treatise as “gentle forces” analogous to physical
forces in nature, his experimental method in EPM still appeals to the notion of
force. We can begin to see the significance of this by reviewing some of the
points just made, and I will elaborate on them in light of the appeal to force or
energy. At the conclusion of Section 2, in seeking to establish a common
circumstance among the social virtues, Hume’s approach leads him to con-
tinue investigating the extent to which utility serves as a source of merit as he
turns to the virtues of justice. He concludes “that nothing can bestow more
merit” on someone than “an eminent degree” of benevolence, and that part of
its merit derived from that virtue’s “beneficial tendencies” or usefulness (EPM
2.22). Hume takes his argument thus far to have shown that utility has “a
command over our esteem and approbation” (EPM 2.23). In the concluding
paragraph of Section 3, he has argued that utility comprises “a considerable
part of the merit” of the virtues of benevolence, and is “the sole source of the
merit” ascribed to the virtues of justice (EPM 3.48). He explicitly connects this
circumstance of usefulness with force and energy. Reminding us of the
disorder that would result from the absence of justice and hence of the
necessity of public utility, he writes that we
have attained a knowledge of the force of that principle here insisted on . . ..
The necessity of justice to the support of society is the sole foundation of
that virtue; and since no moral excellence is more highly esteemed, we may
conclude, that this circumstance of usefulness has, in general, the strongest
energy, and most entire command over our sentiments. (EPM 3.48)4

4
In the Treatise, Hume made clear that the virtues elicit sentiments of approbation that have
qualitative differences (T 3.4.2). The terms we use for benevolent qualities – humane, friendly,
generous, and so on – “universally express the highest merit, which human nature is capable of
160 jacqueline taylor
Hume’s appeal to the force and energy of utility is not simply a resort to
figurative language. Rather, the force of utility in procuring our approval of
the social virtues will also explain our approval of other useful mental
qualities, namely those useful to oneself. This reasoning is consistent with
the experimental method: “It is entirely agreeable to the rules of philoso-
phy, and even of common reason; where any principle has been found to
have a great force and energy in one instance, to ascribe to it a like energy in
all similar instances. This indeed is Newton’s chief rule of philosophizing”
(EPM 3.48). Hume can now turn to consider why utility has such
a command over our esteem and approval.

8.2 Humanity and Our Praise of Utility

In addition to ascribing force to utility, as that aspect of mental qualities or
virtues (namely, their beneficial tendencies) commanding our esteem,
Hume also speaks of two principles of the mind, self-love and humanity,
as having energy or force. In Section 5, which examines why utility pleases,
the argument is, in part, about finding the source of our approval in
sympathy and humanity rather than self-love (the argument has an echo
in Section 9, where self-love may have force but lacks “a proper direction”
required for the foundation of morals [EPM 9.5]). Hume begins by
showing how in common life we praise the usefulness of various things,
such as ships and buildings, as well as the social virtues. Yet philosophers
seem reluctant to give utility a central role—perhaps, Hume hypothesizes,
because, except for the skeptics and selfish theorists, they have found it
difficult to account for the influence utility has. The public utility of the
social virtues is a source of their merit, and given that the utility of these
virtues lies in their promoting some beneficial end, for example others’
well-being or social order, that we find agreeable, the end “must please,
either from considerations of self-interest, or from more generous motives
and regards” (EPM 5.4). Regarding the case for self-love, Hume writes,
“Self-love is a principle in human nature of such extensive energy, and the
interest of each individual is, in general, so closely connected with that of
the community,” that a number of philosophers “fancied, that all our
concern for the public might be resolved into a concern for our own

attaining.” They elicit not simply our approbation, but also “good-will” and “favourable and
affectionate sentiments” (EPM 2.1, 2.5). Because of the “extensive utility” of justice and its absolute
necessity, “no moral excellence is more highly esteemed” (EPM 3.21, 3.48). The amiability of the
benevolent character engages our amiable sentiments, while we extend a more sober esteem to the
regard for justice.
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 161
happiness and preservation” (EPM 5.16). His response to the selfish theory
has two parts: first, both experience and reflection on our own judgments
show that we approve of meritorious characters and actions, such as those
in the past, that can have no bearing on our own interest or
happiness; second, if the usefulness of the social virtues “be not always
considered with a reference to self,” and we allow that we are not indiffer-
ent to the interests of others and society, then another, more social affec-
tion must account “in great part, for the origin of morality” (EPM 5.17).
A significant part of Hume’s aim in EPM is to show that, despite the force
of self-love, humanity is itself a principle with force, not only in exerting
a powerful influence on our moral sentiments, but also, at least sometimes,
in countering self-interest.
I first consider the main features of the argument in Section 5, where
Hume begins to connect the principle of humanity with morality. I will
then review how Hume makes the case for humanity as the foundation of
morality, and the case for the force of this principle. In EPM, Hume uses
a number of terms in referring to what he called sympathy in the Treatise.
These include the principle or sentiment of humanity, the benevolent
principle, fellow-feeling, social sympathy, and sympathy. As in the Treatise,
sympathy explains our interest in the emotions and situations of others,
including historical and fictional persons, persons distant from us, and our
capacity to communicate our emotions to one another, or as Hume
sometimes puts it, to experience in ourselves correspondent movements
with others’ pains or pleasures. Rather than appealing, as he did in the
Treatise, to an idea or impression of the self that facilitates our sympathy
with others by enlivening ideas of others’ emotions and converting them
into our own felt response, Hume observes that there is no passion to
which we are indifferent because we ourselves possess “the seeds and first
principles” of all the passions (EPM 5.30). In Appendix 2, in a sentence
reflecting that this discussion had previously been part of Section 2, Hume
distinguishes between two kinds of benevolence: general and particular.
Particular benevolence is founded on “some particular connexions” or
relationships that we have with others, and pertains to how we are motiv-
ated by benevolence when we occupy the various roles surveyed in Section
2 such as that of partner, parent, friend, or leader. General benevolence, in
contrast, is a “general sympathy” with others’ pains and pleasures. Hume
writes that the sentiment of “general benevolence, or humanity, or sym-
pathy, we shall have occasion frequently to treat of in the course of this
enquiry,” thus marking a contrast between the various benevolent motives
(see Section 8.1 in this chapter) that prompt us to act on others’ behalf and
162 jacqueline taylor
a general sympathetic concern (sometimes merely a “cool preference”) for
the happiness or misery of others (EPM App. 2.5 n.60).
Hume appeals to social sympathy to explain our approbation of the useful
as well as immediately agreeable qualities, and I take it that social sympathy
is the broader capacity for sympathy, considered as a capacity for commu-
nicating passions and sentiments. We should note, for example, that
Hume finds “popular sedition, party zeal” among the “less laudable effects
of this social sympathy in human nature” (EPM 5.35; see also 9.9 on
“shared” passions as in factions or panics). In contrast, I shall argue that
the principle of humanity is a particular form of that sympathy (when the
moral sentiments with their source in humanity are “just,” we might say
humanity is a more discerning or reflective form of sympathy). As I read
Sections 5, 6, and 9 of EPM, Hume gives a specific sense to the principle or
sentiment of humanity. When he introduces the term at 5.17 n.19 and 5.18
he equates it with sympathy or fellow-feeling as the capacity for commu-
nicating emotions. But as his argument proceeds, Hume uses the term
humanity to refer to a particular reason-informed and reflective form of
sympathy that informs our praise and blame of those mental qualities that
have useful or pernicious tendencies. That is, we do not find reference to
the principle or sentiment of humanity, as a source of approval or esteem,
in connection with the immediately agreeable mental qualities or various
personal advantages, such as wealth or strength (Section 6, Part II).
In the final part of Section 5 (5.39–47), Hume sets out an argument that
begins to establish humanity as the foundation of morality. We have
already surveyed the evidence for sympathy as part of our nature, and
established that sympathy and humanity give us an interest in our fellow
human beings (EPM 5.18–38). A person who lacks sympathy because of “a
cold insensibility, or narrow selfishness of temper” will also be “equally
indifferent” to virtue or vice (except insofar as these qualities affect him)
given that the social virtues and vices are those with beneficial or harmful
tendencies, respectively. In contrast, another’s “warm concern for the
interests of our species is attended with a delicate feeling of all moral
distinctions; a strong resentment of injury done to men; a lively approba-
tion of their welfare.” Most of us will lie somewhere on a continuum
between cold indifference and warm concern.5 Hume suggests that those at
the warmer end will show “a great superiority” in perceiving “distinctions
of moral good and evil,” although most of us “unavoidably feel some
propensity to the good of mankind, and make it an object of choice, if

5
Hanley (2011) stresses the significance of humanity and a “cool preference.”
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 163
every thing else be equal.” Hume indicates that the principles of humanity
have a role in our deliberation, choice, and action, but if they do not have
an influence there, “they must, at all times, have some authority over our
sentiments, and give us a general approbation of what is useful to society,
and blame of what is dangerous or pernicious.”6 Thus, the “reality” of the
existence of the moral sentiments “must be admitted, in every theory or
system” (EPM 5.39). While those who are naturally cold or selfish may be
indifferent to moral distinctions, an absolutely malicious person “must be
worse than indifferent” and prefer that we be vicious and harmful to one
another. Hume insightfully suggests that “unprovoked, disinterested mal-
ice” does not exist in human nature, but rather malice and cruelty stem
from other passions such as fear or resentment (EPM 5.40).
As in the Treatise, Hume acknowledges that in cases involving our own
interests, our sentiments will be more strongly felt. This is not necessarily
because self-interest has greater force, but rather because it is natural to feel
gratitude, good-will, or love, for example, as well as moral approbation
toward someone who benefits us or takes our side when we declaim against
another’s injustice toward us. Despite this complex of feelings and senti-
ment, judgment “corrects the inequalities of our sentiments” so that we
attend to the merit or demerit, just as it focuses our moral attention on “the
tendencies of actions and characters, not their real accidental consequences”
(EPM 5.41, 5.41 n.24). Hume mentions in the Treatise our moral conversa-
tions and social intercourse. In EPM, these conversations allow us to gain
familiarity with the “general preferences and distinctions” that “arise from
the general interests of the community,” and from this more general and
shared perspective we employ a moral discourse that contrasts with “the
language of self-love” and allows us to make ourselves “intelligible” to one
another (EPM 5.42, 9.6). In a significant departure from the argument of the
Treatise, it is this communication of our sentiments from a shared point of
view, rather than sympathy with those affected by someone’s character, that
“makes us form some general unalterable standard, by which we may
approve or disapprove of characters and manners,” a standard “founded
chiefly on general usefulness” (EPM 5.42, 5.42 n.25).7
Hume offers two final arguments in this section – one he characterizes as
a priori and the other as a posteriori. If we take what we know from

6
Hume’s use of the plural “principles” likely includes both benevolent motives and what we saw
referred to in the previous paragraph as general benevolence or the principle of humanity. On moral
deliberation and humanity see EPM App. 1.11–12.
7
See T 3.3.1.18 and 3.3.1.30 for details of how our sympathy with those affected by the tendencies of
character traits establishes the standard of virtue.
164 jacqueline taylor
experience and observation about the principles of human nature, which
includes the principle of humanity (or the “benevolent principle”), we can
a priori conclude that we cannot be absolutely indifferent to the happiness or
misery of humankind, and must think of beneficial tendencies as good, and
harmful ones as evil “without any farther regard or consideration.” We thus
find here “the faint rudiments, at least, or outlines, of a general distinction
between actions”; moreover, a concern for others increases depending on the
strength of someone’s humanity, her connection with those involved, or her
nearness to the case in time or place, and can convert a “cool approbation . . .
into the warmest sentiments of friendship and regard” (EPM 5.43). Our
capacity to sympathize with the beneficial tendencies someone’s character
has for others is sufficient for our finding that character praiseworthy
without recourse to some fact of an independent goodness or conformity
to a rule of right. In the a posteriori case, we “reverse these views and
reasonings” and consider that the merit of the social virtues derives from
the sentiments grounded in humanity. Observation and experience show us
that utility “is a source of praise and approbation; That it is constantly
appealed to in all moral decisions concerning the merit and demerit of
actions”; is the sole source of our approbation of justice and “inseparable
from” the social virtues of benevolence; and so “is a foundation of the chief
part of morals, which has a reference to mankind and our fellow-creatures”
(EPM 5.44). Our “general approbation” of the social virtues cannot derive
from self-interest, “but has an influence much more universal and extensive”;
these virtues affect our “benevolent principles” and elicit our approbation,
and indeed, “humanity and sympathy enter so deeply into all our senti-
ments, and have so powerful an influence, as may enable them to excite the
strongest censure and applause.” “The present theory,” Hume concludes, “is
the result of all these inferences,” each founded on our shared experience and
observation (EPM 5.45). Hume has not yet concluded that humanity is the
foundation of morality. He has stated that utility is a foundation of the chief
part of morals, and I take him to mean here that utility is a merit-conferring
feature of the social virtues, which through our humanity we find
praiseworthy.8 (In my conclusion [Section 8.5] I will return to the question
of what Hume means by “the chief part of morals.”)
In Section 6, Hume turns to examine those qualities that are either
beneficial or prejudicial to the person who possesses them. The case against

8
Utility is the sole merit-conferring feature of justice; the benevolent virtues also convey an immediate
agreeableness. Hume’s phrasing regarding utility and merit was not lost on early critics who read him
as making utility the foundation of morality; see Fieser (1999).
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 165
the selfish theory has greater purchase here, since experience shows that we
approve of useful qualities beneficial to the agent herself. Connecting her
happiness or well-being with her character diffuses “over our minds
a pleasing sentiment of sympathy and humanity” (EPM 6.3). If there
were beings with no concern for their fellow-creatures, they would be
completely indifferent to either others’ happiness or their misery. But
with a human being,
There is to him a plain foundation of preference, where every thing else is
equal; and however cool his choice may be, if his heart be selfish, or if the
persons interested be remote from him; there must still be a choice or
distinction between what is useful, and what is pernicious. Now this
distinction is the same in all its parts, with the moral distinction, whose
foundation has been so often, and so much in vain enquired after. The same
endowments of the mind, in every circumstance, are agreeable to the
sentiment of morals and to that of humanity; the same temper is susceptible
of high degrees of the one sentiment and of the other; and the same
alteration in the objects, by their nearer approach or connexions, enlivens
the one and the other. By all the rules of philosophy, therefore, we must
conclude, that these sentiments are originally the same; since, in each
particular, even the most minute, they are governed by the same laws, and
are moved by the same objects. (EPM 6.5)
That the sentiments of humanity are the moral sentiments establishes
humanity as the foundation of morality. The appeal to the rules of
philosophy leads Hume to draw an analogy with natural philosophy: the
scientist draws the inference that the same force of gravity keeps the moon
in its orbit and makes bodies fall to earth “because these effects are, upon
computation, found similar and equal.” Since useful mental qualities have
the same effects on the sentiments of humanity and morality, the moral
argument that they are the same principle must “bring as strong convic-
tion, in moral as in natural disquisitions” (EPM 6.6). The argument in the
first part of Section 9 affirms humanity as the “foundation of morals,”9
drawing a contrast between humanity and self-love, and emphasizing the
force that humanity and the moral sentiments have. Morality is possible for
us because we possess this principle or sentiment of humanity, and its
favoring of general usefulness and disfavoring of general harmfulness gives
us a clear distinction between humanity and self-love. This distinction
shows up in the different vocabularies of the language of self-love and that

9
Hume adds here “or of any general system of morals,” and his appeal to a general system reminds us
that our praise of the immediately agreeable qualities arises from a more immediate sympathy rather
than from humanity.
166 jacqueline taylor
of morality, with only the latter giving us the terms that “express those
universal sentiments of censure or approbation” (EPM 9.8).10

8.3 The Force of Humanity

Over the course of Sections 5, 6, and 9, Hume also builds the case for the
force of humanity. This is important for two reasons: humanity’s force gives
authority to our moral sentiments; and that same force can also control self-
love in our evaluation and deliberation. It is helpful to survey the various
statements about the force of humanity and sympathy, since they both show
the importance of this notion of force or energy for Hume’s argument, and
help us understand the implications of the argument for the authority of
humanity, as I have interpreted Hume’s use of the term. The first reference
to the force of humanity occurs when Hume introduces sympathy and
humanity (EPM 5.18). He asks, “Have we any difficulty to comprehend
the force of humanity and benevolence?” (EPM 5.18).11 Experience shows us
the important role sympathy has in connecting us and making us responsive
to others and their feelings and situations, engaging us with the characters of
fiction, and with events and persons in the news and history. Its force
connects us with one another on the level of emotion, sentiment, and
opinion, giving meaning and depth to our feelings.12 Given that our senti-
ments and beliefs embody our values, sympathy gives us important sources
of identification with one another; conversely, our antipathy when we find
ourselves unable to sympathize with another’s values is a source of division.13
We saw in Section 8.2 that the principle of humanity always exerts some
authority over our moral sentiments, with praise for the useful and blame for
the pernicious. What makes the usefulness of the social virtues praiseworthy
cannot derive from self-love, which naturally has a partial take on what or

10
On the importance of moral language in EPM, see King (1976).
11
Here the force of humanity contrasts with the sense of force relevant to sympathy in the Treatise. In
the earlier work, force was the work of imagination in converting an idea into an impression – that is,
a passion – because of the lively idea of self. In EPM, in contrast, “It is needless to push our researches
so far as to ask, why we have humanity or a fellow feeling with others. It is sufficient, that this is
experienced to be a principle in human nature” (EPM 5.17 n.18). Its force engages our concern, and
gives us a general preference for others’ happiness over their misery.
12
As Hume put it in the Treatise: “Whatever other 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).
13
Shared identity may not be a good thing, as Hume recognizes when he points out that sedition, zeal,
and blind obedience comprise some of the “less laudable effects of this social sympathy” (EPM 5.35;
see also EPM 9.9).
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 167
who is useful. Rather, the useful tendencies of character traits have “an
influence much more universal and extensive,” appealing to and engaging
the principle of humanity (EPM 5.45). To the skeptic who might suppose it
doubtful that we have a principle of humanity or concern for others, Hume
points to the numerous instances where we freely approve of what tends to
the interest of society, pointing to “the force of the benevolent principle”
since our approval signals our satisfaction with the end to which useful traits
tend (EPM 5.46). Hume observes, “it appears, as an additional confirmation,
that these principles of humanity and sympathy enter so deeply into all our
sentiments, and have so powerful an influence, as may enable them to excite
the strongest censure and applause” (EPM 5.45). We saw that Hume equates
the sentiments of praise and blame arising from humanity with the moral
distinctions of praiseworthy or blameworthy. Just as the natural philosopher
infers that there is one force of gravity given the similar effects observed, we
can infer from our praise and blame that humanity is the force that serves as
a source of our moral sentiments. Because the shared moral point of view and
moral language help us to articulate our expectations of one another, we find
that the “universal principles” of morality can control and limit “the par-
ticular sentiments of self-love” (EPM 9.8).
Hume draws a threefold distinction here regarding utility: our idea or
view of utility can be private, regulated by self-love, or social but partial as
we see in the case of factions, or social, public, and general and governed by
humanity. Acknowledging that we are not always selfish, but often join in
causes with others, removes another obstacle to accepting that the moral
sentiments, “which may appear, at first sight, somewhat small and deli-
cate,” are in fact “social and universal: They form, in a manner, the party of
human kind against vice or disorder, its common enemy.” While selfish
passions may be “originally stronger,” they can be “overpowered” by the
force of “those social and public principles” (EPM 9.9). Finally, our love of
fame is a part of our nature that gives “a great addition of force” to the
moral sentiments. Our “earnest pursuit of a character, a name, a reputation
in the world” requires us to regard ourselves as others do so that we
cultivate a “constant habit of surveying ourselves, as it were, in reflection,”
and apply the moral sentiments to our own character and conduct. The
cultivation of the sense of right and wrong “begets, in noble natures,
a certain reverence for themselves as well as others; which is the surest
guardian of every virtue” (EPM 9.10). Hume’s morality thus emphasizes
“the force of many sympathies” in forming the party of humankind, and
the capacity of our own moral sentiments to correspond with those of
others or elicit similar sentiments in them (EPM 9.11).
168 jacqueline taylor
8.4 Utility and Immediate Agreeableness: Commonality
and Differences
The moral sentiments deriving from the principle or sentiment of humanity
notably contrast with the moral sentiments that arise from sympathy with
immediately agreeable or disagreeable aspects of qualities, where Hume
describes the operation of sympathy as a kind of contagion (EPM 7.2,
7.21). We are struck, for example, with the immediately agreeable aspects
of someone’s greatness of mind, his “elevation of sentiment, disdain of
slavery” and “noble pride and spirit,” in a way that “excites our applause
and admiration” (EPM 7.4). While courage is useful, it also has for the
courageous person a “peculiar lustre, which it derives wholly from itself, and
from that noble elevation inseparable from it”; the artistic characterization of
the sublimity of courage “diffuses, by sympathy, a like sublimity of senti-
ment over every spectator” (EPM 7.11). Philosophical tranquility, particu-
larly among the ancients, has a “grandeur . . . which seizes the spectator, and
strikes him with admiration” (EPM 7.16). At the conclusion of Section 7,
Hume refers to “the several species of merit, that are valued for the immedi-
ate pleasure, which they communicate” to us, without regard to useful or
beneficial tendencies. To be sure: “This sentiment of approbation” is “simi-
lar to that other sentiment, which arises from views of a public or private
utility. The same social sympathy, we may observe, or fellow-feeling with
human happiness or misery, gives rise to both; and this analogy, in all the
parts of the present theory, may justly be regarded as a confirmation of it”
(EPM 7.29).14 Immediate agreeableness for oneself or for others forms the
other “species” of morality. The pleasures of the immediately agreeable
qualities help to support our “interested obligation” to virtue (EPM 9.14).
For the benevolent person, for example, “the immediate feeling” of her
kindness is for her “sweet, smooth, tender, and agreeable,” while the recipi-
ents and observers of her beneficence, to whom these feelings are communi-
cated, experience “the purest and most satisfactory enjoyment” (EPM 9.21,
7.19). Thus, our capacity for sympathy is the ultimate source of all the moral
sentiments, as well as nonmoral sentiments such as the esteem paid to the
wealthy or the admiration of physical strength or beauty (the poor or weak,
Hume suggests, are not blamed but pitied or contemned).

14
In Part II of Section 6, Hume argues “that every kind of esteem” that we pay to one another “will
have something similar in its origin” (EPM 6.23). That origin is our capacity for sympathy, and in
making the case for our “regard for the rich and powerful,” Hume emphasizes that self-love is here
“insufficient” (EPM 6.30). It is, rather, the wealthy person’s communicating his enjoyment to us
that through our sympathy with him elicits our regard.
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 169
The key difference between the moral sentiments deriving from utility
and humanity and those that arise in response to what has immediate
agreeableness turns on the essential role of reason for the former.15 Let me
emphasize this: for humanity to serve as the foundation of morality, it must
be the principle of humanity assisted by reason; to see this is to appreciate
Hume’s point “that reason and sentiment concur” with respect to this class
of moral distinctions and determinations (EPM 1.9).16 Hume signals this
early in Section 1 with an analogy between natural or artistic beauty and
moral beauty. Some responses to beauty are immediate: “some species of
beauty, especially the natural kinds, on their first appearance, command
our affection and approbation”; here reason and argument typically fail to
change our response from the one we naturally have. “But in many orders
of beauty, particularly those of the finer arts, it is necessary to employ much
reasoning to feel the proper sentiment; and a false relish may frequently be
corrected by argument and reflection.” The agreeable mental qualities that
immediately strike, dazzle, or charm us are like the natural beauties,
whereas the useful qualities are a form of moral beauty the assessment of
which “demands the assistance of our intellectual faculties, in order to give
it a suitable influence on the human mind” (EPM 1.9). Social sympathy
can arouse in us immediate emotional responses similar if not identical to
those in the persons with whom we sympathize: in common cause or
panics we kindle “in the common blaze” (EPM 9.9); we “melt . . . into
the same fondness and delicacy” with the benevolent person (EPM 7.19);
and as observers of the disagreeably irascible person, “we suffer by conta-
gion and sympathy” (EPM 7.21). Hume cautions against an unreflective
identification with some of the immediately agreeable qualities, such as
heroic courage, and against blindly participating in the zeal of factions.
With an immediate sympathy and admiration, we may fail to consider the
future consequences of someone’s martial temper or the zeal of the collect-
ive cause. In martial societies, in particular, the need to maintain a warlike
stance can extinguish humanity, suggesting that a shared sense of humanity
is a collective moral achievement, and also a fragile human good.
As I noted in Section 8.2, I take Hume to be using the term humanity
when it indicates the principle or sentiment of humanity, rather than

15
See also Chapter 7 in this volume.
16
In a recent article critical of my reading of Hume on humanity (in Taylor, 2013, 2015b), Pitson (2019)
argues that the reliance of humanity on reasoning, and on the need for judgment to correct the
inequalities of sentiment, implies that humanity cannot play the role of the foundation of morals.
Pitson misses Hume’s point that humanity and reason must ally if humanity is to discern accurately
and respond appropriately to its proper object.
170 jacqueline taylor
a benevolent motive, in a restricted sense. Despite a shared origin in social
sympathy, humanity differs, both in its object and its operation, from the
contagious and unreflective responses to the immediately agreeable or
disagreeable (aspects of) mental qualities. As a response to the useful or
harmful qualities of our characters that affect our own or others’ happiness
or misery, we come to regard ourselves as having a stake in making accurate
assessments about the tendencies of these qualities, hence Hume’s stress on
the importance of conversation, of reasoning and feeling together, and of
making ourselves intelligible to one another. Section 1 emphasizes this role
for reasoning: the need for precise distinctions, accurate comparisons and
analogies, the discerning and fixing of facts, and drawing “just conclu-
sions.” This reasoning paves the way in order to give humanity “a proper
discernment of its object” (EPM 1.9). Humanity and its sentiments of
praise and blame are not unreflective feelings. Really to prefer happiness
over harm requires that humanity is informed by reflection on experience
and reasoning about which tendencies of qualities, and under which
conditions, will produce happiness or harm and in what degree. We saw
the role for this kind of reasoning even with respect to the virtues of
benevolence, where we may need to adjust our conduct in order appropri-
ately to benefit others. According to Hume, careful reasoning is particu-
larly crucial in the case of justice.17 In addition to each person’s regard for
it, a large part of justice consists in various conventions and institutions,
including laws and courts, security and protection of police or military, and
political leadership, and since the advantage of justice lies in its continued
practice over time, an “accurate reason or judgment” about law or policy
requires the reasoned debates of legal theorists, as well as “the precedents of
history and public records” (EPM App. 1.2). Our moral judgments are not
conclusions or inferences from some set of facts, but rather a response to
those facts; our praise or blame consists in “an active feeling and sentiment”
given the evidence reason has set before us (EPM App. 1.11). While “reason
instructs us in the several tendencies of actions,” we need humanity to favor
and prefer “those which are useful and beneficial” (EPM App. 1.3).

8.5 Conclusion: Utility, Humanity, and the “Chief

Part of Morals”
In this chapter, I have reconstructed Hume’s argument to establish that
humanity has the force and authority to provide the foundation of

17
See Chapter 3 in this volume.
 Sympathy and the Sources of Moral Sentiment 171
morals.18 Humanity also has the force to counter self-love, and Hume’s
argument on this score seeks to remove self-love as a contender for the
source of our praise and blame. I contrasted the sentiments deriving from
humanity with those that stem from sympathy immediately or less reflect-
ively, and argued that the former moral sentiments require reasoning to
discern and distinguish the useful tendencies from the harmful with respect
to the qualities that comprise a person’s merit or demerit. I end with one
suggestion regarding Hume’s claim in Section 5 that utility comprises the
“chief part of morals.” According to the Oxford English Dictionary (online),
the primary meaning of “chief,” when used as an adjective particularly
during the time when Hume was writing, denotes “most important,”
“influential,” or “active.” The OED cites Samuel Johnson’s 1752 assertion
that “hope is the chief blessing of man,” and quotes Robert Boyle’s “not my
chief design” (1661) and Lord Macaulay’s description of “the man who
took the chief part in settling conditions.” “Chief” can refer to “main,” so
that Hume may mean to indicate that useful mental qualities comprise the
larger part of morals. But the OED’s prioritizing of chief as most important
is suggestive for Hume’s argument about the importance of utility, and of
humanity as a reason-informed source of our praise of utility. It is likewise
suggestive about the importance of justice, for which utility is the sole
origin and the sole foundation of that virtue’s merit. Our regard for justice,
Hume argues in Section 3, becomes habitual, so that it takes reflection to
recall the importance of justice for the support of society. That habit is
rewarded, in the modern age, with the blessings of liberties, and the
violation of it punished or decried if widespread and consonant with
corruption. We might withstand a few parasites in the form of sensible
knaves who simply wish to take advantage, but the rest of us do well to keep
alive our sentiment of humanity and its role for us in the recognition of the
importance of justice.19

18
Our moral language, which contrasts with that of self-love, reflects our recognition of our shared
humanity. Insofar as moral language includes the terms we use for the immediately agreeable
qualities, humanity serves as the foundation for all of morality despite the different species of
merit and different kinds of moral sentiment. I thank Esther Kroeker for pressing me on this matter.
19
I am grateful to Esther Kroeker and Margaret Watkins for very helpful comments.
 chapter 9

Virtue and Moral Psychology in the Enquiry

Concerning the Principles of Morals
Lorraine L. Besser

9.1 Introduction
Hume’s Treatise is well known for its rich, detailed discussion of moral
psychology, which precedes and informs its analysis of virtue. Within the
Treatise, Hume examines how people engage with each other on
a psychological level, and argues that virtue has its source in a subject’s
sentimental reactions to the character traits she finds in others. While in
the Treatise, Hume’s treatment of moral psychology is primary to his
consideration of virtue, in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals
(EPM), Hume’s focus shifts.1 Virtue takes centerstage within EPM, and
discussion of moral psychology follows alongside discussion of virtue but
not independent of it. Despite this shift in focus, the account of virtue
Hume advances in EPM seems continuous with the account of virtue
advanced in the Treatise. Hume thus seems to defend the same account of
virtue between the two works, but if the Treatise account depends upon
a moral psychology that seems to change between the two works, can the
accounts really be the same?
In this chapter, I examine the moral psychology of EPM in connection
with Hume’s analysis of virtue. In particular, I consider whether the
abbreviated discussions of moral psychology found within EPM can sus-
tain its conception of virtue. I’ll argue that certain aspects of Hume’s
analysis of virtue within EPM depend upon features of his moral psych-
ology, and in particular the more robust form of sympathy, that are found
within the Treatise.
As we begin to reflect on Hume’s analysis of virtue, it will help to keep in
mind that analyses of “virtue” involve both consideration of the discrete

1
Most notably, the structure of the Enquiries parallels the Treatise, with the significant omission of
Part II of the Treatise in which Hume develops detailed analyses of the passions and the psychological
mechanisms that support them prior to discussing virtue in Part III.

172
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 173
character traits that we approve of as virtues (such as justice and generosity)
and consideration of what, for Hume, it means to be a virtuous person on
a more holistic level. A virtuous person, of course, has and exhibits virtues.
But virtuous people also have a certain kind of regard toward virtue that
comes to define their agency. They have a distinctive outlook on their
relationships to others that is reflected within their character. Reflection on
virtue thus involves reflection on how these components – character,
agency, and virtues – work together within a virtuous person.
This chapter proceeds as follows. In Section 9.2, I review the Treatise
account of the virtuous person in an effort to understand what are, for
Hume, the defining features of the virtuous person. In Section 9.3, I argue
that this view of the virtuous person depends on the operations of sym-
pathy and that the pressing question becomes whether or not Hume’s view
of sympathy changes significantly between the Treatise and EPM. In
Section 9.4, I explore the differences between the EPM and Treatise
views of sympathy and then turn, in Section 9.5, to critically examine
whether or not EPM’s account of sympathy can sustain this view. In
Section 9.6, I argue that the account of sympathy developed in EPM
cannot explain we approve of qualities that are immediately agreeable to
ourselves and others, and Section 9.7 concludes with reflection on this
limitation.

9.2 Virtue within the Treatise

In the Treatise, Hume argues that the virtues are character traits that are
useful/agreeable to oneself and others. He draws a distinction in the
Treatise between the artificial virtues (including justice, fidelity, and chas-
tity) and the natural virtues (including generosity and friendship) that gets
somewhat complicated, but at their root, virtues are durable, stable traits
that please us: “virtue is distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain,
that any action, sentiment or character gives us by the mere view and
contemplation” when we reflect on those traits from a general point of view
(T 3.1.2.11). He offers a four-fold framework for understanding how it is
that virtues can please us; they please us in virtue of being useful or
immediately agreeable to ourselves and others. We “reap a pleasure from
the view of a character, which is naturally fitted to be useful to others, or to
the person himself, or which is agreeable to others, and to the person
himself” (T 3.3.1.30). Our approval of virtues arises as an immediate
response to such traits, or through reflections on the usual effects those
traits create.
174 lorraine l. besser
Because virtues are traits that others approve of, the virtues function to
connect its possessor to others. A virtuous person is recognized by others
who affirm and approve her possession of character traits that are useful or
agreeable to herself and others. On Hume’s analysis, this begets a cyclical
process in which the virtuous person begins to take pleasure in being
recognized by others, and to take pride in her possession of virtue.2 This
cycle helps to ensure she acts in ways that others approve of.3 In Besser
(2010), I describe this cycle as creating a desire for pride-in-virtue that
functions as a powerful motive for the virtuous person. Since possession of
the virtues allows a person to take pride in and to enjoy her character, this
pride amplifies her desire to be virtuous and serves as a sustaining motive to
virtue. As an indirect passion, pride does not, and cannot, serve as the only
motive toward virtue, but our desire for the pleasure of pride-in-virtue
amplifies and supplements our overall motivation to be virtuous.
Pride-in-virtue is a form of the extensive self-love Hume discusses in his
analysis of the artificial virtues, and specifically in his discussion of justice.
Here, he distinguishes between our original motives to the artificial virtues
and our moral motives. He argues that the moral motive arises subsequent
to the original motive and involves recognition of the overall importance of
justice. In the context of this discussion he appeals to a form of extensive
self-love that evolves through our interactions with others and increased
recognition of the importance of the rules of justice to the maintenance of
civil society and the well-being of its members. This suggests that the
person who morally commits to the rules of justice does so because acting
prosocially is itself part of her self-love. This is one instance of what Hume
thinks to be true of the virtues in general, and of how the virtuous person
sees the virtues: virtues generate the approval of others, and a virtuous
person takes pleasure in being so approved; this pleasure generates a form
of pride that motivates her to commit herself to the virtues.
In the Treatise, the structure and status of the virtues thus makes it the
case that the virtuous person takes pride in her character and experiences
a form of enjoyment not available to those without virtue. This gives rise to

2
See, for example, T 2.2.2.9, T 2.1.7.7, T 3.1.2.5, T 3.3.1.2. There is such a tight connection between
pride and virtue that Hume at one point suggests that virtue can be considered equivalent to the
“power of producing love or pride,” for in every case, “we must judge of the one by the other; and
may pronounce any quality of the mind virtuous, which causes love or pride” (T 3.3.1.3).
3
Hume argues that “nothing can be more laudable, than to have a value for ourselves, where we really
have qualities that are valuable. The utility and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of
virtue, as well as its agreeableness to others; and ’tis certain, that nothing is more useful to us in the
conduct of life, than a due degree of pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit and gives us
a confidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprizes” (T 3.3.2.8).
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 175
a picture of the motivational state of the virtuous person that is best
understood as a form of extensive self-love. Through possession of virtuous
traits, a virtuous person is able to take pride in her character; this is not her
sole motive to virtue, for the virtues must all have natural springs, but her
commitment to virtue is such that it can become a source of enjoyment
for her.

9.3 Sympathy within the Treatise: Robust

The analysis in Section 9.2 highlights the important role the approval of
others plays within the context of Hume’s theory of virtue; the approval of
others not only defines which traits are virtuous, but also comes to play
a larger and pivotal role in defining virtuous agency and the form of
motivation distinctive to the virtuous person. Within the Treatise, sym-
pathy plays an essential role in developing these connections. Let us now
consider exactly how it does so.
Hume describes sympathy within the Treatise as a principle of commu-
nication through which we come to experience the inclinations and senti-
ments of others (T 2.1.11.1). Throughout the Treatise, Hume emphasizes
that the sympathetic communication of another’s passions shapes and
enlivens how it is that we experience our own passions. Sympathy regulates
our passions so as to bring them into harmony with others; sympathy thus
has what we might helpfully understand as a normative effect.
The operations of sympathy are straightforward. Through our inter-
actions with others, we form an idea of their emotions. Sympathy then
converts this idea into an impression, such that we feel the passion as if
it were our own (T 2.1.11.3). The principles of association, and par-
ticularly resemblance, assist sympathy in its conversion: “The stronger
the relation [of resemblance] is betwixt ourselves and any object, the
more easily does the imagination make the transition, and convey to
the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we always form
the idea of our own person” (T 2.1.11.5).4 Sympathy depends upon an
initial resemblance that holds between all human minds, yet also
builds upon this resemblance to both strengthen and reinforce it.

4
Notice that the resemblance in question appears to be resemblance between the idea we have of our
self, and that we have of another, a point we see Hume emphasize again at T 2.1.11.8: “In sympathy
there is an evident conversion of an idea into an impression. This conversion arises from the relation
of objects to ourself. Ourself is always intimately present to us.” This dependence of sympathy on the
possession of an idea of self leads Selby-Bigge to question whether or not sympathy is compatible
with the “atomistic” psychology of EPM. See Selby-Bigge (1975); Vitz (2004) for discussion.
176 lorraine l. besser
Observing your struggles and the pain you experience, my initial act of
sympathy leads me to find some sort of resemblance between us – at
the very least, I know what pain feels like.5 When sympathy works to
convert the idea I have of your pain into an impression I experience,
and so feel as (my own) pain, it solidifies this resemblance, making me
feel more strongly connected to you.
With this framework in mind, let us consider some examples of how
sympathy shapes an individual’s experience of her own passions.
• Elizabeth is chatting with the other parents at a toddler playgroup when
her son gets bitten by another kid. She needs no more than to witness
the chagrin on her son’s face to feel his pain deeply, as if it were her own.
In fact, when she sees her son able to shake it off and resume playing,
while she still sits there, blood boiling in shock and anger, she realizes
she feels the pain more deeply than her son.
• While riding the chairlift, Mohammed sees a skier fall on an icy head-
wall and skid a good 20 feet down. All too familiar with the skier’s
terror, Mohammed jumps in his seat and tries to avert his eyes from the
skier in order to avoid feeling the terror. Unsuccessful, Mohammed
feels so panicky that he freezes on that same headwall, finding himself
unable to ski it.
• Julie opens up to Amy about her partner’s infidelity and the anger she is
experiencing toward him. Amy has been through a similar experience,
yet with much less anger. After her talk with Julie, Amy finds within
herself a new anger toward her former partner.
Hume’s analysis of sympathy shows itself easily in these examples. All are
contingent to some degree of resemblance. Elizabeth sees her son as an
extension of herself, and her sympathetic interaction with him reinforces
this. For all he knows, Mohammed has little in common with the skier (he
can’t even tell whether it is a male or female underneath the helmet,
facemask, and bulky layers) except that he is engaged in the same activity.
This sole point of resemblance is enough to activate a contagion-like
sympathy even against Mohammed’s efforts to avoid it by looking away.
And, while Julie and Amy have had a longstanding but casual friendship,
the revelation of deeper similarity between them creates a stronger degree
of resemblance than either thought existed beforehand. Examples like
5
The contingency of sympathy to this initial resemblance creates challenges for sympathy’s operations
in generating moral sentiments, for it means that we will sympathize more with those we feel closer to
than those far away. This is why we must learn to sympathize from a general point of view that
controls for our partialities. See Sayre-McCord (1994) for discussion.
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 177
these are what lead Hume to claim “’tis obvious, that nature has preserv’d
a great resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark
any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we
may not find a parallel in ourselves” (T 2.1.11.4).
In each of these examples, sympathy plays an important function in
shaping one’s emotional responses and in bringing one’s emotional
responses into harmony with others. Sympathetic interactions shape
one’s own experience of the passions, both generating further resemblances
between the parties and allowing the sympathizer to experience her pas-
sions in a subtle new light. Elizabeth’s sympathy with her son teaches her
the pleasures of being so closely connected to another being, but also
generates within her an uneasy anticipation of further pain and trauma
that she opens herself up to in virtue of seeing her son as an extension of
herself. Mohammed’s sympathy with the flailing skier literally causes him
to panic and so to create the same situation for himself that he experienced
vicariously while on the chairlift. Amy’s sympathetic exchange with Julie
teaches her the appropriate emotional reaction to her own experience of
infidelity and allows her to feel the proper anger toward that experience.
These effects are the kinds of things Hume has in mind when he writes
that sympathy is the animating force of all of our passions, without which
they would not have any force:
Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company, and every
pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions we may
be actuated by; pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust; the soul
or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would they have any
force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments of
others. (T 2.2.5.15)
Taking Hume as true to his word, let’s turn to consider the full power of
sympathy by exploring the potential sympathy has to shape not only our
passions, but also how we conceive of ourselves, and of our connections to
others.
We see this most clearly in Hume’s detailed analysis of pride, in the
context of which Hume first discusses sympathy.
No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and in its
consequences, than 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. This is not only conspicuous in
children, who implicitly embrace every opinion propos’d to them; but also
in men of the greatest judgment and understanding, who find it very
178 lorraine l. besser
difficult to follow their own reason or inclination, in opposition to that of
their friends and daily companions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the
great uniformity we may observe in the humours and turn of thinking of
those of the same nation; and ’tis much more probable, that this resem-
blance arises from sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and
climate, which, tho’ they continue invariably the same, are not able to
preserve the character of a nation the same for a century together. A good-
natur’d man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his
company; and even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their
countrymen and acquaintance. A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible
complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one
throws a sudden damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem, love, courage,
mirth and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from communication
than from my own natural temper and disposition. So remarkable
a phaenomenon merits our attention, and must be trac’d up to its first
principles. (T 2.1.11.2)
As an indirect passion, pride develops through a double relation of ideas
(both of the cause and the object of pride) and impressions (both of the
pleasing quality associated with the cause and the passion it resembles and
produces).6
To illustrate, consider Sebastian, a landscaper, who takes pride in his
work – say, a perfectly straight row of coordinated flowers. The idea he has
of the flowers gives rise to an impression of pleasure and leads him to think
of himself and how he is connected to his work; Sebastian thus forms an
idea of himself as the object of pride. Yet Hume is careful to emphasize that
the feelings of pleasure involved in pride must be “seconded” by others in
order for pride to be well formed. Just as important as the initial feelings of
pleasure one feels in thinking about a potential cause of pride are the
opinions of others, who Hume believes must “second” the pleasing quality
of that cause (T 2.1.11.1). The opinions of others serve as a secondary cause
to the original, and have “an equal influence on the affections” (T 2.1.11.1).
That the opinions of others are vital to the development of pride coheres
with how we normally think about pride: all kinds of things give us
pleasure, but this on its own doesn’t mean they are praiseworthy; for
Hume, whether or not something is praiseworthy depends on how others
respond to it. Sebastian finds pleasure in his landscaping work, yet if others
find it painful, his feelings of pleasure won’t be seconded, and so will
inhibit him from taking pride in his work. Hume’s emphasis on seconding
6
“That cause, which excites the passion, is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the
passion; the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to the sensation of the passion:
From this double relation of ideas and impressions, the passion is derived” (T 2.1.5.5).
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 179
serves as a regulating mechanism in which the opinions of others reinforce
the prideworthy quality of the object.7
Sympathy is vital to Hume’s explanation of how this seconding works,
for sympathy communicates the approval of others. If others reflect on my
potential cause of pride and feel pleasure, their pleasure reverberates and
strengthens the pleasure I feel, leading me to feel pride. Yet if others reflect
on my potential cause of pride and feel pain rather than pleasure, their pain
clashes with my pleasure and calls it into question, thereby interfering with
the production of pride.8 Given this role of sympathy, pride is a socially
dependent passion. I genuinely feel pride only from causes whose quality is
pleasing to myself and to others.
Pride serves as one clear example of social referencing in which our
sympathetic exchanges with others help realize and shape the direction of
our passions. One’s pleasure in one’s work becomes tainted when one feels
the pain of others’ disapproval. And while Hume spends the most time
making explicit this effect with respect to pride, by no means is the effect
limited to pride. Remember: “whatever other passions we may be actuated
by . . . the soul and animating force is sympathy” (T 2.2.5.15).
We’ve seen that within the Treatise, Hume maintains both that passions
require sympathetic exchanges in order to be fully realized and that those
sympathetic exchanges shape the direction of our passions. These claims
have an undeniable effect upon our agency and the ways in which we are
motivated. At a minimum, it means that the passions and consequent
motives that drive us are themselves socially informed. Taylor (2015b)
builds on this implication to argue that sympathy contributes to our social
identities. Sympathetic interactions, she argues, cultivate a “sociocultural
transmission of meanings and values” (Taylor, 2015b, pp. 39–40); these
shared values inform our sense of self.
Sympathy’s role in shaping our passions explains why our sense of self
reflects the kind of commonality Taylor emphasizes: when Sebastian feels
pride because others take pleasure in his work, this motivates him to keep
producing work that others will find pleasing; conversely, when one feels
embarrassed that one finds pleasure in a habit that others view with
disapproval, this motivates one to change the habit. Subsequent actions

7
For further discussion of how this works, see Besser (2010).
8
Hume’s distinction between a well-grounded pride and an “ill-grounded conceit” is instructive here
(e.g., T 3.3.2.10). On my reading, pride is well grounded when it stems from causes whose pleasing
quality is seconded by others. Conversely, pride is ill-grounded when it stems from causes whose
pleasing quality is not seconded by others.
180 lorraine l. besser
and decisions will be unavoidably informed by these sympathetic inter-
actions and the passions they have shaped.
By drawing on sympathy, Hume is able to explain and develop
a view of agency that is deeply prosocial without appealing to separate
motives such as benevolence or humanity to explain our interest in
others. Rather, informed by sympathy, self-love can explain why our
interactions with others are so important to us. Hume is thus able to
sustain the view of virtue he subsequently develops. Sympathy explains
why we approve of traits that are useful and agreeable to ourselves and
others. Likewise, sympathy plays a pivotal role in the development of
pride-in-virtue and subsequent enjoyment of character: pride depends
upon the quality of its causes generating a pleasure that others second;
given that others second the pleasing quality of virtue, pride-in-virtue
becomes a reliable and consistent source of pride. Given sympathy,
developing virtue becomes a form of self-love, broadly construed.

9.4 Sympathy in EPM: Social

Within the Treatise, sympathy functions to lessen the divisions between
individuals. It connects people to one another on a psychological level and
generates psychological interdependence. Our sympathetic connections
strengthen and direct our passions, shape our interests, and help define our
sense of self; in this way sympathy prompts individuals to develop an
extensive form of self-love that is inclusive of others. Given these influences,
sympathy shapes our agency, leading us to make choices that reflect the social
feedback we’ve internalized. While this internalization certainly has the
potential to operate in ways that have negative effects upon an individual
(such as through the internalization of oppressive stereotypes and values),
Hume seems optimistic that the social influences generated by sympathy will
be conducive to creating a strong sense of sociability and to sustaining virtue.
Within EPM, however, Hume devotes less explicit attention to sym-
pathy and to moral psychology more generally. While Hume spends plenty
of time in the Treatise detailing the exact mechanisms through which
sympathy operates, in EPM Hume refers to sympathy but rarely elaborates,
and mentions sympathy more often in conjunction with benevolence and
humanity than on its own, suggesting he envisions a more limited role for
sympathy within EPM. We see this difference illustrated in the first uses of
sympathy within the Treatise as compared to EPM.
In the Treatise, as we have seen, Hume first discusses sympathy in the
context of analyzing pride (T 2.1.11.2), where he describes the importance
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 181
of qualities of pride being seconded by others and introduces sympathy
with a mix of awe and drama. In EPM, Hume first discusses sympathy in
the context of discussing benevolence and motivating the appeal of ben-
evolence as something that engages us.
But I forget, that it is not my present business to recommend generosity and
benevolence, or to paint, in their true colours, all the genuine charms of the
social virtues. These, indeed, sufficiently engage every heart, on the first
apprehension of them; and it is difficult to abstain from some sally of
panegyric, as often as they occur in discourse or reasoning. But our object
here being more the speculative, than the practical part of morals, it will
suffice to remark, (what will readily, I believe, be allowed) that no qualities
are more entitled to the general good-will and approbation of mankind than
beneficence and humanity, friendship and gratitude, natural affection and
public spirit, or whatever proceeds from a tender sympathy with others, and
a generous concern for our kind and species. These, wherever they appear,
seem to transfuse themselves, in a manner, into each beholder, and to call
forth, in their own behalf, the same favourable and affectionate sentiments,
which they exert on all around. (EPM 2.5)
These initial invocations of “sympathy” set the tone for Hume’s treatment
of them in the respective works. And the differences are clear. Sympathy
within the Treatise is a principle of communication through which the
subject comes to feel the sentiments and inclinations of others – even
when, as the passage makes clear, those communicated feelings conflict
with one’s own, or cause the subject to feel pain. But sympathy within
EPM takes second place to the social virtues of benevolence and humanity,
which themselves proceed from a “tender sympathy with others.”
While it isn’t immediately obvious from this passage exactly what Hume
means by a “tender sympathy with others,” from the start we can see the
contrast between the sympathy of the Treatise, which is a cause of both
painful and pleasurable feelings and generates a wide range of motivation,
and the sympathy of EPM, which stimulates “tender” feelings and a desire
for the happiness of others. This trend continues throughout EPM, where
at least half of the twenty-two uses of “sympathy” occur in conjunction
with social virtues such as compassion, benevolence, and humanity or in
the context of one’s reaction to the happiness of others.9 At one point
Hume describes this form of sympathy as “social sympathy” (EPM 5.35).
Let us take “social sympathy” to refer to the form of sympathy that both
responds to the happiness of others and operates in conjunction with
9
EPM 2.5, 3.14, 5.20, 5.29, 5.34, 5.35, 5.41, 5.45, 5.1 n.18, 6.3, 6.1 n.26, 7.29, 9.12, App. 2 n.60 (twice),
App. 3.2.
182 lorraine l. besser
virtues directed toward the good of others (for example, benevolence and
humanity). Social sympathy is illustrated in the following passages:
• “Cordial affection, compassion, sympathy, were the only movements
with which the mind was yet acquainted” (EPM 3.14).
• “Bring this virtue nearer, by our acquaintance or connexion with the
persons, or even by an eloquent recital of the case; our hearts are
immediately caught, our sympathy enlivened, and our cool approba-
tion converted into the warmest sentiments of friendship and regard”
(EPM 5.43).
• “The ideas of happiness, joy, triumph, prosperity, are connected with
every circumstance of his character, and diffuse over our minds
a pleasing sentiment of sympathy and humanity” (EPM 6.3).
• “Others enter into the same humour, and catch the sentiment, by
a contagion or natural sympathy: And as we cannot forbear loving
whatever pleases, a kindly emotion arises towards the person, who
communicates so much satisfaction” (EPM 7.2).
Social sympathy bears a positive direction; it responds to the happiness of
others, is directed toward the happiness of others, and brings its subject
satisfaction in the form of warmth and pleasure.
Social sympathy certainly looks a whole lot like benevolence and
humanity, and we can see from these passages why others have main-
tained that, in EPM, sympathy collapses into benevolence and humanity.
For example, in his introduction to EPM, Selby-Bigge claims that within
EPM, “sympathy is another name for social feeling, humanity, benevo-
lence, natural philanthropy, rather than the name of the process by which
the social feeling has been constructed out of non-social or individual
feeling” (1975, p. xxvi).10 On this view, the sympathy of EPM is some-
thing more like a social feeling, as opposed to a principle of
communication.

10
Others have argued that this interpretation makes too big a break with the Treatise account of
sympathy, and that social sympathy maintains the cognitive mechanisms of sympathy within the
Treatise while tying this mechanism to the social virtues of benevolence and humanity. Baier (2010),
for example, reads humanity within EPM as derivative of sympathy. On this interpretation
humanity is a form of sympathetic concern for all human beings that carries an impartiality that
corrects the limitations of natural sympathy and benevolence. Debes (2007a, b) likewise turns to
humanity for evidence of sympathy, arguing that humanity “functionally requires sympathy as
a representational mechanism,” insofar as the disposition of humanity is activated only upon being
presented with an affective object (2007b, p. 320). And Vitz (2004) maintains that the mechanism of
sympathy is essential to the EPM treatment of benevolence, insofar as sympathy causes benevolent
motivation.
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 183
Others who do find evidence for the existence of sympathy qua principle
of communication within EPM find its scope to be limited. Vitz, for
example, argues that the mechanism of sympathy is reproduced within
EPM such that “the concept of sympathy is substantially unchanged from
the Treatise” (2004, p. 263), but goes on to note that its scope is limited.
Within the Treatise the “range of desires actuated by the principle of
sympathy is wider” than it is in EPM, and sympathy is the cause of good
or bad motives, whereas in EPM Hume discusses it primarily in conjunc-
tion with good motives (2004, pp. 271–72). However, Vitz maintains that
“it does not follow from the absence of an account of sympathy as the cause
of ill-will [in EPM] that Hume intends the principle of sympathy to be
a psychological mechanism that is solely inclined to benevolent desires”
(2004, p. 272). I worry that Vitz is mistaken in this conjecture, and that
Hume’s emphasis on social sympathy within EPM may entail that there
has been a shift, whether intentional or not, within EPM’s account of
sympathy.
Within the Treatise, sympathy allows us to enter into all sentiments of
another, be it the painful emotions of distress or the pleasurable emotions
of joy: “As in strings equally wound up, the motion of one communicates
itself to the rest; so all the affections readily pass from one person to another
and beget correspondent movements in every human creature” (T 3.3.1.7).
Sympathy allows us to receive by communication the inclinations and
sentiments of others, “however different from, or even contrary to our
own” (T 2.1.11.2):
A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible complacency and serenity into my
mind; as an angry or sorrowful one throws a sudden damp upon me.
Hatred, resentment, esteem, love, courage, mirth and melancholy; all
these passions I feel more from communication than from my own natural
temper. (T 2.1.11.2)
It is because sympathy enters into such a range of sentiments that we are so
impacted by the praise and blame of others, and consequently shaped by
the opinions of others:
Nothing is more natural than for us to embrace the opinions of others in this
particular; both from sympathy, which renders all their sentiments intim-
ately present to us; and from reasoning, which makes us regard their
judgment, as a kind or argument for what they affirm. (T 2.1.11.9)
To play this kind of role, sympathy must be activated whenever we are
presented with the lively sentiments of others; however, Vitz’s analysis of
184 lorraine l. besser
the mechanism of sympathy within EPM shows it be limited to responding
to impacts to a person’s distress and/or happiness, and causing benevolent
motivations.
Vitz’s argument is important insofar as it provides evidence for thinking
that Hume’s use of “sympathy” in EPM tracks a principle of communica-
tion consistent with Hume’s use of “sympathy” in the Treatise. But the
limited context in which sympathy operates in EPM prioritizes benevolent
motivation as the driving factor in how one responds and relates to others.
This stands in sharp contrast with the Treatise view in which it is one’s
sympathetic communication with others that drives how one responds and
relates to others.
Let’s turn now to consider Debes’ effort to establish the existence of
sympathy, as a principle of communication, within EPM. He argues that
sympathy activates our disposition to be benevolent, which is the sense of
humanity:
Sympathy provides the means by which we represent the passions and
interests of others, and by which our innate humanity is affected. The
sentiment of humanity, then, which actually engages us in the interests of
mankind and society, must be understood as arising from the original
disposition of humanity, via sympathy. It is only when the happiness of
others is represented to us by sympathy, that this natural disposition towards
benevolence raises a desire for their happiness and approval for what
promotes it. (Debes, 2007a, p. 35)
The role Debes attributes to sympathy in EPM is largely parallel to Vitz’s
analysis: both maintain that sympathy plays an important role in stimulat-
ing our desire for the happiness of others. While this is an important role,
because sympathy is stimulated only in response to the distress and/or
happiness of others, more work needs to be done to show that the robust
sympathy of the Treatise can be found in EPM. Debes is too quick to
maintain that “this implies that sympathy’s highlighted ethical role in the
Treatise can be understood to have undergone no essential change in the
EPM” (2007b, p. 320).11

11
In a subsequent paper, Debes (2007b) focuses on whether the theory of association that is so pivotal
to the Treatise view of sympathy is also found within EPM. The detailed Treatise account of
sympathy holds that our ideas of another’s passion become converted into an impression that we
ourselves feel upon being related to the idea we have of ourselves. While Debes admits there is “no
silver bullet in this matter” and seeks to “confirm the presumption of consistency”(2007b, pp.
325–26) already defended in Debes (2007a), his focus on the associative mechanism intrinsic to
sympathy helps to bring greater clarity to the question of whether the mechanism of sympathy (as
opposed to one aspect of its functional role) is consistent between the two works.
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 185
Based on Hume’s EPM analysis alone, sympathy is social and serves as
the source of benevolent motivation. While there are points at which
Hume alludes to the more robust sympathy of the Treatise (such as in his
discussion of poetry),12 where sympathy is treated consistently and with
purpose, it is social sympathy. That social sympathy plays an important
motivational role is clear – and I’ll say more about this in Section 9.5 – but
because its scope is limited, social sympathy lacks the normative effects of
sympathy within the Treatise. Let us turn now to consider how this
limitation impacts the EPM analysis of virtue.

9.5 EPM’s Account of the Virtuous Person

I’ve suggested that the primary difference between the accounts of sym-
pathy is that the EPM view of social sympathy lacks the normative effects
the sympathy of the Treatise has upon the virtuous person. Hume’s Treatise
account of sympathy suggests that sympathy is activated often, and that it
serves as a basic principle of communication between people, making it the
case that, at a minimum, we know when we are emotionally in tune with
others and when we stand at odds with others. This feedback prompts us to
find common ground and so regulates and shapes our experience of the
passions. But if the social sympathy of EPM is activated only in response to
the happiness or misery of others, then it feasibly lacks this regulating
effect. It does provide us with an account of prosocial motivation – which
is a major goal of EPM – but of a very different form than we find within
the Treatise.
Within EPM, social sympathy stimulates what seems to be a pure,
other-regarding concern for the happiness of others. Sympathy’s role in
this context is simply to alert us to the misery or happiness of others and
so to trigger our concern for them. We do feel pleasure when considering
the happiness of another (EPM 5.43, 6.3, 7.2), but, in an effort to
distance his view from one based in self-love, Hume defines this pleasure
in terms of sympathy and humanity and maintains that this pleasure
frames and supports the social virtues of benevolence and humanity,
which themselves serve as the primary motives toward prosocial behav-
ior. This delivers a promising account of what drives the virtuous person
and is consistent with Hume’s commitment in EPM to distance himself

12
Here, Hume writes that “All kinds of passion, even the most disagreeable, such as grief and anger, are
observed, when excited by poetry, to convey a satisfaction, from a mechanism of nature, not easy to
be explained” (EPM 7.26).
186 lorraine l. besser
from the “selfish schools” and to establish the existence of pure forms of
caring about others as evidenced in benevolence and humanity. But there is
indeed a shift here between EPM and the Treatise: in EPM sympathy
triggers our benevolence and humanity, which serve as the primary motives
of prosocial interaction; in the Treatise, sympathy creates a level of psycho-
logical interdependence in which one’s very happiness depends upon one’s
interactions with others, making it the case that extensive self-love serves as
a primary motive toward prosocial behavior.
This shift in motivational pictures seems to be a conscious one, which
Hume intends and of which he is fully aware. Yet the change in his view of
sympathy that underwrites the motivational shift impacts further features
of his understanding of the virtuous person, and it isn’t clear that he has
recognized the full implications of it. To develop this line of criticism,
I first turn to his EPM analysis of the virtues, and then to an analysis of
virtuous agency.

9.6 Virtues
As within the Treatise, in EPM Hume maintains the four-fold analysis of the
virtues: virtues are those traits that are useful/agreeable to ourselves and
others. In fact, we see in EPM an even greater commitment to this four-fold
analysis, for Hume chooses to devote particular sections to each category of
virtues. Section 5, “Why Utility Pleases,” explores why we praise qualities
that are useful to others; Section 6, “Of Qualities Useful to Ourselves,”
explores why we approve of qualities useful to ourselves; and Section 7, “Of
Qualities Immediately Agreeable to Others,” and Section 8, “Of Qualities
Immediately Agreeable to Ourselves,” tackle why it is that we feel an
immediate pleasure when we observe these qualities in ourselves and others.
Uniting Hume’s analysis of why we approve of the virtues is an appeal to
the sentiments of humanity and benevolence and an effort to denounce
self-love as the source of the virtues. Thus, for example, in his discussion of
qualities useful to ourselves, he argues that self-love can “never” prompt
a spectator’s esteem and approbation of them and suggests that sympathy
and humanity explain this esteem and approval, insofar as “the ideas of
happiness, joy, triumph, prosperity, are connected with every circumstance
of his character, and diffuse over our minds a pleasing sentiment of
sympathy and humanity” (EPM 6.3).13

13
Notice that “sympathy” in this passage clearly refers to social sympathy, activated by the idea of
happiness.
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 187
Hume’s emphasis on humanity and benevolence as driving our esteem
for the virtues explains nicely why we approve of those traits that are useful
to ourselves and others. Because those traits hold a direct relation to the
misery or happiness of ourselves and others, social sympathy becomes
activated, stimulates the sentiments of humanity and benevolence, and
so generates the pleasing sentiment we associate with moral approbation.
But Hume maintains that this process explains our approval of all of the
virtues. As I’ll now argue, it is not clear that it does; specifically, I will argue
that this view faces challenges in explaining our approval of qualities that
are immediately agreeable to ourselves and others.
In Section 7, Hume tries to make his case by emphasizing the similarities
between our approval of qualities useful to ourselves and others, and of
those we find immediately agreeable to others:
These are some instances of the several species of merit, that are valued for
the immediate pleasure, which they communicate to the person possessed of
them. No views of utility or of future beneficial consequences enter into this
sentiment of approbation; yet it is of a kind similar to that other sentiment,
which arises from views of a public or private utility. The same social
sympathy, we may observe, or fellow-feeling with human happiness or
misery, gives rise to both. (EPM 7.29)
Here Hume claims the process is the same, but doesn’t show how it works.
In Section 8, he undergoes detailed analysis of qualities immediately
agreeable to others. These are qualities that “conciliate affection, promote
esteem, and extremely enhance the merit of the person” (EPM 8.1). Yet, in
his analysis, Hume focuses more on showing this category of virtues to be
distinct from ones that are approved of insofar as they are useful than on
explaining the nature of our approval of them. Thus, for example, he
argues that we
approve of another, because of his wit, politeness, modesty, decency, or any
agreeable quality which he possess; although he be not of our acquaintance,
nor has ever given us any entertainment, by means of these accomplish-
ments. The idea, which we form of their effect on his acquaintance, has an
agreeable influence on our imagination, and gives us the sentiment of
approbation. (EPM 8.15)
While Hume hedges off further analysis of this particular instance of
approbation, it is safe to say he takes our sentiment of humanity to be
fundamental to it. His general observations of virtue and vice take humanity
to be their driving source. In describing humanity, for example, he contends
that: “This sentiment can be no other than a feeling for the happiness of
188 lorraine l. besser
mankind, and a resentment of their misery; since these are the different ends,
which virtue and vice have a tendency to promote” (EPM App. 1.3).
It isn’t clear that social sympathy can support and explain our approba-
tion of qualities immediately agreeable to ourselves or others. These
qualities are meant to solicit approval immediately, “abstracted from any
consideration of beneficial tendencies. Rather, they immediately enhance
the merit of the person, who regulates his behavior by them” (EPM 8.1).
While it is clear that sympathy of the Treatise can explain this approval, for
it is activated in response to all passions we are presented with, if we are
limited to social sympathy that is activated by the happiness and misery of
others, it is challenging to see how these traits would stimulate approval
immediately.14
To explain our approval of qualities that are “immediately agreeable,” it
seems we need to invoke the sympathy of the Treatise. And while we do see
Hume invoking hints of the sympathy of the Treatise as he tries to explain
this category in EPM, he doesn’t expand on them. In Section 7, for
example, Hume invokes the language of contagion frequently found
within the Treatise. He writes that qualities immediately agreeable to
ourselves have an “immediate sensation, to the person possessed of them,
[that] is agreeable: others enter into the same humour, and catch the
sentiment, by a contagion or natural sympathy. And as we cannot forbear
loving whatever pleases, a kindly emotion arises towards the person, who
communicates so much satisfaction” (EPM 7.2). It seems Hume needs
a more robust form of sympathy to explain our approval of immediately
agreeable qualities, yet we must acknowledge that this form of sympathy is
absent from EPM. Where Hume analyzes and makes an effort to explain
sympathy in EPM, it is social sympathy. It thus appears that Hume’s
endorsement of the four-fold category of the virtues depends upon
a view of sympathy that is carried over – perhaps unintentionally – from
the Treatise.15

14
There is a story we can tell about how these traits do end up contributing to the happiness and
misery of humankind, but Hume explicitly rejects appealing to this kind of story to explain their
approbation, maintaining instead that these qualities share the distinctive feature of immediate
agreeableness, a feature that cannot be explained by appeal to utility.
15
A similar question arises regarding the nature of those traits that we do find immediately agreeable,
especially to ourselves. Hume maintains that all such traits are virtues, and his expectation is that the
traits that are immediately agreeable will be positive ones. He highlights cheerfulness, restrained
pride, good manners, and wit among the immediately agreeable qualities. And while I don’t question
whether these traits are immediately agreeable, it nonetheless seems that individuals can find lots of
traits agreeable to themselves that would not be approved of from the perspective of humanity and
benevolence. Rather, these are traits that require the kind of social referencing that plays such an
important role in the Treatise, and that depend upon more than just social sympathy. Absent the
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 189
Keeping this possibility in mind, let us turn now to explore the shape
virtuous agency takes within EPM. We have seen that within the Treatise
conception of the virtuous person, pride-in-virtue and the effects of the
“enjoyment of character” serve as a form of motivation distinctive to the
virtuous person. The potential for the virtuous person to experience pride
in her character arises within the Treatise in light of her psychological
interdependence. The robust nature of sympathy within the Treatise makes
it the case that how we think of ourselves depends upon how others think
of us: we cannot take pride in our characters unless those characters are
approved of by others.
Prima facie, we should recognize that if sympathy is limited to the social
sympathy of EPM, which is prompted by the distress or happiness of others
and gives rise to other-regarding motivation, then the degree of psycho-
logical interdependence between people diminishes significantly, if not
completely. We can acknowledge that social sympathy allows one to
experience pleasure in response to the social virtues. But it becomes
difficult to see how a given person would feel the further effects of
a concern for her reputation and the impact her reputation has upon her
integrity and peace of mind if sympathy is limited to social sympathy.
Nonetheless, Hume puts forward this view in EPM:
By our continual and earnest pursuit of a character, a name, a reputation in
the world, we bring our own deportment and conduct frequently in review,
and consider how it is they appear to us, who approach and regard us. This
constant habit of surveying ourselves, as it were, keeps alive all the senti-
ments of right and wrong, and begets in noble natures, a certain reverence
for themselves as well as others, which is the surest guardian of every virtue.
(EPM 9.10)
It isn’t at all clear he has the resources within EPM to sustain this view.
This view depends upon a robust view of sympathy that generates psycho-
logical interdependence and makes it the case that a subject can feel pride
only with respect to those qualities that others approve of.
In his second Appendix, Hume tries to explain this phenomenon by
appealing to an original desire for fame and suggests that this works in
conjunction with the sentiments of humanity and benevolence. He writes
that “there are mental passions, by which we are impelled immediately to
seek particular objects, such as fame, or power, or vengeance, without any

normative effect that arises from sympathy of the Treatise, it is rash to assume that the traits we find
immediately agreeable (especially to ourselves) will be the ones that are also approvable from the
perspective of humanity and benevolence.
190 lorraine l. besser
regard to interest; and when these objects are attained, a pleasing enjoy-
ment ensues, as the consequence of our indulged affections” (EPM App.
2.12). He goes on to explain that a similar form of enjoyment derives from
benevolence: “we may feel a desire of another’s happiness or good, which
by means of that affection, becomes our own good, and is afterwards
pursued, from the combined motives of benevolence and self-
enjoyment” (EPM App. 2.13).
That we are motivated by a concern for the happiness of others, and that
we get something out of it, suggests a hybrid understanding of the virtues:
social sympathy leads us to approve of the virtues insofar as they promote
happiness, but because we have original instincts (such as fame), we also
end up taking enjoyment out of so doing. Here we see Hume trying to
acknowledge that self-love can support virtue, while nonetheless maintain-
ing that self-love is secondary to humanity and benevolence.
Perhaps this combination of views can support something like the
enjoyment-of-character view found in the Treatise. But there are differ-
ences between this hybrid view that we can piece together and Hume’s
explicit expression of the enjoyment-of-character view found in his
response to the sensible knave just quoted (EPM 9.10). The sensible
knave serves as a moral skeptic, questioning the point of consistently
following the rules of justice as opposed to treating them only as rules of
thumb. Hume responds to the knave by maintaining that, in failing to
follow the rules consistently, the knave sacrifices the enjoyment of
character. Enjoyment of character is something reserved for noble (that
is, virtuous) characters, who continually bring their conduct under
review, and consider how they look in the eyes of others. Can the hybrid
view explain this claim? I do not think it can The hybrid view can
explain why we can enjoy promoting another’s happiness or good; and
the stipulation that we have an original instinct toward fame can explain
why we seek out the opinions of others. But even taking these views
together, we fall far short of explaining why our “constant habit of
surveying ourselves” would in fact keep “alive all the sentiments of
right and wrong” and beget in virtuous people a “certain reverence for
themselves as well as others” (EPM 9.10). To explain all this, we need the
robust form of sympathy within the Treatise.

9.7 Conclusion
We have seen that despite Hume’s shift in focus from the robust view of
sympathy within the Treatise to the limited view of social sympathy within
 Virtue and Moral Psychology 191
EPM, his analysis of virtue within EPM seems to depend upon the Treatise
view of sympathy. His commitment to seeing qualities immediately agree-
able to ourselves and others as virtues, as well as his endorsement of the
enjoyment-of-character view, require more power of sympathy than Hume
grants it within EPM. Whether or not Hume realized the impact of his
differential treatment of sympathy within the Treatise and EPM, the views
of virtue that carry over between the two works require the robust sym-
pathy of the Treatise.
This conclusion invites renewed reflection on the relationship between
the Treatise and EPM. Abramson (2001) takes the definitive distinction
between the Treatise and EPM to be that within EPM, Hume’s philosoph-
ical motivations shift from being the anatomist to the painter. On
Abramson’s reading, sympathy itself doesn’t change between the works;
it is just that many of the technical details of sympathy are bypassed within
EPM in virtue of Hume’s new rhetorical goals. My analysis is compatible
with this interpretation, yet also challenges whether or not Hume can pull
off the switch so seamlessly. Without the technical details of sympathy
found within the Treatise, the views of virtue within EPM are mysterious
and, perhaps, unsustainable. I think this entails that EPM needs to be read
in conjunction with the Treatise; however, this suggestion stands in tension
with Hume’s ambition to distance himself from the reliance on self-love
found within the Treatise.
 chapter 10

Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients

Aaron Garrett

10.1 Introduction
In Sections 10.2 and 10.3 of this chapter I will focus on a relatively narrow
issue, the role of Cicero in Hume’s Enquiry Concerning the Principles of
Morals (EPM), which I will argue reflects fundamental commitments of
the work. In the concluding section (10.4) I will turn to a far broader issue,
Hume’s discussion of rights, and through it return to two pivotal themes –
human diversity and the ancients and the moderns – discussed in earlier
sections of the chapter.

10.2 Auditorem non adiutorem

Hume refers to Cicero by name just once in the Treatise, but fifteen times
in EPM. These are by far the most explicit set of references to Cicero
anywhere in his corpus. In fact, it is as far as I can tell the most references to
any named author in any one of his philosophical works. So deep is this
engagement with Cicero in EPM that James Moore has suggested (2002,
p. 384) that the work is a virtual rewriting of De Officiis.1 Hume’s

1
Moore (2002) has argued for Hume’s drawing on Cicero’s De Officiis in EPM to speak to an audience
enamored with Cicero. He has also argued that Hume’s engagement with Cicero bears on his relation
with Hutcheson. Both of these points seem to me correct. Moore argues that Hume sought to present
a new version of Cicero’s De Officiis in EPM in response to events connected with Hume’s being
passed over for the Edinburgh moral philosophy chair and to accusations of Epicureanism made
against him (Moore, 2002, p. 383). According to Moore, Hume’s conflicts with Hutcheson, both
philosophical conflicts over fundamental issues in moral philosophy and practical conflicts over
Hutcheson’s role in promoting William Cleghorn and not Hume to the Edinburgh chair, prompted
Hume to suggest that the sense of humanity offered the best way of interpreting Cicero’s honestum
such that it would justify the role of utility in our moral judgments. Consequently, the shared
admiration of Hume and Hutcheson for Cicero led Hume to retheorize Cicero in a way that gave
Hume the upper hand in their disagreements, in this case by preserving the integral role of utility in
morality. Unfortunately, Hume only uses the word “honestum” once in EPM but not in the context
of Cicero. It comes up in a Latin translation of a passage concerning the community of wives and
children from Plato’s Republic (EPM 4 n.15). If this was his goal, it seems likely he would have
mentioned the well-known term in a related context. Consequently, despite my agreement with

192
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 193
quotations from Cicero expand, though, far beyond De Officiis and even
beyond Cicero’s philosophical works.
I will try to make sense of this discrepancy between how often Hume
refers to Cicero in EPM and in his other works through considering
a problem that had become more pressing for Hume after the publication
of the Treatise: How does one present a moral philosophy that reflects the
breadth and diversity of virtues and vices to an audience who have
restricted and stubborn beliefs about what count as virtues and vices?
I will suggest that this problem demanded rethinking the form, and in
connection with the form some content, of arguments he had made in the
Treatise. Many of the philosophers and learned men and women in
Hume’s audience greatly admired Cicero, and more generally Roman
(and Greek) authors, as did Hume. Hume’s solution to the problem was
to present the material of the Treatise in such a way that it would help his
audience to adopt the openminded attitude toward it that they identified
with Cicero and the idealized ancient world as presented to them through
Cicero’s writings.
It is important to distinguish between Cicero’s philosophical prefer-
ences – that is, for Stoicism or the New Academy – and his general attitude
toward philosophical discussion. Hume’s and Cicero’s considered philo-
sophical preferences diverged; for example, Hume had little admiration for
the Stoics,2 and Cicero little admiration for the Epicureans, although they
both admired Academic Skepticism. Moore argues that the defense of
Academic Skepticism was at the core of Hume’s alliance with Cicero,
both as against Hutcheson’s Stoicism and charges of Epicureanism by
John Balguy and others (Moore, 2002, p. 383).3 But I wish to suggest
that what Hume drew from Cicero was not a doctrinal test or commitment
to a school.4 In fact, it was the opposite of a doctrinal test. It was an ideal of
openness to divergent or opposed philosophical views as opposed to
rejecting them out of hand because of being tethered to a particular system.
This is perhaps best exemplified by the character Cicero’s statement as the
argument begins in De Natura Deorum: “I said ‘Don’t think of me as
Cotta’s assistant (adiutorem), but as a listener (auditorem), and indeed

much else, this central claim of Moore’s argument seems to me underdetermined by the evidence.
Nothing in my argument, though, hangs on Moore being wrong about this goal of EPM. For an
extended discussion of the importance of the sense of humanity in EPM, see Taylor (2015b).
2
For an interpretation of Hume as a Ciceronian Eclectic Stoic, and an excellent discussion of Hume’s
and Johnson’s relationship to Cicero, see Potkay (2000), Chapter 4.
3
See also the extensive discussion in Stuart-Buttle (2019), Chapter 5.
4
Although if it is allowed that Academic Skepticism or Eclecticism is a kind of “anti-school,” and the
latter description certainly appears to be, then this is less of a problem.
194 aaron garrett
impartial, judging freely, under no arbitrary restrictions to uphold any
particular position’” (Cicero, 2014, I.7[17]). Cicero is asking the reader to
adopt the attitude of the character Cicero toward philosophical argument
and toward the spokespersons for three philosophical schools. I will refer to
this principle and standpoint as auditorem non adiutorem.
Why was this principle so important to Hume in his representing of
philosophical arguments from the Treatise, Book 3 in EPM? Hume’s
motivation for this engagement with Cicero can be seen in the remark-
able Section 11 of the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (EHU),
“Of a Particular Providence and of a Future State.”5 Section 11 includes an
extensive philosophical speech given by a modern skeptic on an epistemic
issue concerning which many Christians have strong religious beliefs: our
knowledge of providence and the future state. These strong religious
beliefs lead them to disregard out of hand a position like Epicurus’, which
ought to be evaluated philosophically, even if it is ultimately found
lacking. The modern skeptic adopts the voice of Epicurus to exhibit the
far greater tolerance of challenging philosophical positions in the ancient
world than in the modern world and to draw the reader into this open-
minded attitude in thinking through the arguments. In other words, the
modern world, and religious beliefs, are particularly threatening to audi-
torem non adiutorem in a way that the ancient philosophical schools
were not.
The rhetorical structure of EHU, Section 11, a modern philosopher
putting on the toga in order to suggest a fundamental difference between
the ancient and modern approaches to philosophy, is shared by “A
Dialogue,” which concludes EPM. This form, a philosophical speech
reported by a narrator, is also employed by Cicero in De Natura Deorum
and in many of Cicero’s other philosophical writings.6 Cicero was critical

5
The original title of the section was “Of the Practical Consequences of Natural Religion” (Hume,
1999, p. 186).
6
Hume cites two of Lucian’s dialogues in EHU, Section 11 – the Symposium and the Eunuch – so
Lucian’s dialogues might appear to be a model. But Lucian’s dialogues are nothing like EHU,
Section 11. They are written in dramatic form, do not contain extended philosophical speeches, and
are comic satires (this last aspect may be a partial background model for “A Dialogue”). There is little
evidence for Platonic dialogues as Hume’s model, although perhaps the Apology is in the background
as well. This kind of structure can be found in two of Cicero’s works cited in EPM. De Oratore begins
with a letter to Cicero’s brother, which provides a place-setting preface for the dialogue, which Cicero
then relates as a discussion taking place in a prior, better time. De Natura Deorum is similarly structured.
Cicero’s De Finibus and De Officiis are both letters, to his friend Brutus and to his son respectively. I do not
mean to suggest that Hume might not also have drawn on other authors, in particular Shaftesbury, for
a model. I am only suggesting that Cicero is likely an important model, and particularly in EPM given the
quantity of references. For modern models see Box (1990), Chapter 4.
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 195
of Epicureans, so adopting the voice of Epicurus (as opposed to the voice of
Cicero) might seem at odds with Cicero.
This is a problem for Moore’s interpretation (2002, p. 380) insofar as Hume
adopted the voice of Epicurus after being passed over for the Chair of Moral
Philosophy at Edinburgh, which Moore argues prompted Hume’s engage-
ment with Cicero in order to disassociate himself from Epicureanism. It is
worth noting that Cicero’s criticism was as much of the dogmatic submission
of Epicureans to Epicurus’ authority, and the dogmatic temper of Epicureans
in general, as of Epicurean doctrine or Epicurus (although he criticized
Epicurus extensively as well in his philosophical works). Dogmatism was of
course antithetical to the kind of open discussion Cicero was trying to
cultivate, independent of doctrinal differences.7 But as I have suggested,
Hume’s point was that even Epicurus was tolerated in Athens and his philo-
sophical positions taken seriously. In the ancient world, unlike the modern
world, even Epicurus was applauded when his speeches were true.
Hume himself exemplified this attitude when discussing EPM in a letter
he wrote to James Balfour, who had succeeded William Cleghorn as the
occupant of the Chair of Moral Philosophy that Hume had sought eight
years previously (Sher, 1990, pp. 109–12). Balfour published an attack on
EPM, A Delineation of the Nature and Obligation of Morality, which included
copious references to Cicero (Balfour, 1753), that prompted Hume to send
Balfour, whom he had never met, a letter that disputed a number of the
characterizations of EPM. Hume wrote: “Our connection with each other,
as men of letters, is greater than our difference as adhering to different sects
or systems. Let us revive the happy times, when Atticus and Cassius the
Epicureans, Cicero the Academic, and Brutus the Stoic, could, all of them,
live in unreserved friendship together, and were insensible to all those
distinctions, except so far as they furnished agreeable matter to discourse
and conversation” (L I, 172–73). In addition to espousing the Ciceronian
principle I have just been discussing, Hume is also offering Cicero’s cohort –
De Natura Deorum and a number of other of Cicero’s works were dedicated
to Brutus, and Cassius and Atticus were also two of his closest friends and
correspondents – as the model for philosophical discussion.

10.3 The Goals of EPM

James Harris (2015, pp. 250–65) has suggested two important differences
between the Treatise and EPM. First, there is a greater focus of purpose in

7
Thanks to Hannah Culik-Baird for clarifying this distinction for me.
196 aaron garrett
the later work. Many of the changes between the Treatise, Book 3 and EPM
reflect this greater focus: the diminished role of sympathy8 and the receding
of the distinction between artificial and natural that did so much work in
the earlier piece. Harris also suggests that the problem of human diversity,
spurred by Hume’s critical admiration of Montesquieu’s Spirit of the Laws,
is front and center in EPM in a way it is not in the Treatise (although it is
there as well). Does the variety of human beings and ethical practices
undermine the unity of moral philosophy, and how do we account for
this variety? And, once we recognize human diversity, what does this do for
our moral picture? Hume’s answer – the system of utility and agreeableness
that unites geographically, chronologically, and culturally diverse moral
practices – gives much of the focus to EPM.
The issue of moral diversity arose for Hume, like it did for Locke and
Hutcheson, because of shared empiricist commitments.9 But there was
a tension between the acknowledgment of diversity and arguments for
moral unity in Locke and Hutcheson. Although Locke drew on travel
writings throughout EHU and acknowledged the diversity of moral laws
and norms in his famous discussion there of the three laws,10 he assumed
that the moral core that united divergences in civil law and opinion or
custom was natural religion, by which he understood demonstrative truths
consistent with revealed Christian religion. Hutcheson’s moral philosophy
drew extensively on Locke’s empiricist theory of knowledge, and
Hutcheson was very aware of evidence of moral diversity, but he built his
explanation around one moral property – benevolence – which was also the
core of his natural religion (see particularly Hutcheson, 2008, p. 198;
II.7.12) and ignored or inadequately dealt with those aspects of morality
not explicable in terms of benevolence. Consequently, both Locke and
Hutcheson “explained” the diversity of morality by restricting the content
of true morality to what they thought to be consistent with Christian
natural religion and chalking up the rest to deviant customs and practices.
Hume, writing after Montesquieu’s exhibition and multicausal explan-
ation of the great historical and geographical diversity of mores in Spirit of
the Laws, could not just assume a unifying natural religion and explain

8
See Abramson (2001), Vitz (2004), and Debes (2007a) for different takes on this. See also Taylor
(2015b).
9
That is, the empiricist commitment to take note of and explain the evident fact of human
geographical and historical differences. On Hutcheson, Locke, and diversity see Carey (2006).
On the background see Garrett (2006).
10
“Laws that Men generally refer their Actions to, to judge of their Rectitude, or Obliquity . . .. 1. The
Divine Law. 2. The Civil Law. 3. The Law of Opinion or Reputation” (Locke, 1979, II.28 §7).
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 197
unwanted variance as deviance, even if he had been so inclined.11 He also
could not do this because of his own understanding of the flaws of the
foundations of natural religion, as argued for in the contemporaneous
Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. I will return to the issue of
human diversity in the concluding section (10.4).
I will suggest a third important difference between EPM and the Treatise
that is closely connected with this response to diversity in Locke and
Hutcheson. In EPM, and in other works written in the later 1740s, Hume
has a pressing awareness of the stubbornness of prejudices about the content
of morality and the consequent difficulty of revising the philosopher’s beliefs
about what counted as virtues and vices. When confronted with diversity,
philosophers whom Hume greatly admired, like Locke and Hutcheson, fell
back on default but mostly unjustified beliefs about moral unity that drew
on a further underlay of religious beliefs regarding what counted as moral in
response. Hume was of course aware of this in the Treatise: a central theme of
the work is the resistance of belief to correction, and Hume probably gives
one of the most important accounts of the revision of belief of any philoso-
pher. Furthermore, he still had a great deal of optimism about the relative
openness of his fellow philosophers; for example, he wanted to publish the
Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion in the same period, although he was
dissuaded (see Harris, 2015, p. 409). But as aware as Hume was in principle,
he seems to have realized that a new approach was warranted in practice, in
particular in cases where morality overlapped with religion in ways wherein
the substance of what counted as moral, and most importantly what unified
what counted as moral, was in fact religious.12
The difference can be seen in the comparison of two passages from the
Treatise and EPM. Hume wrote in the Treatise:
There is a sentiment of esteem and approbation, which may be excited, in
some degree, by any faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition;

11
On Hume as part of, and responding to, Locke’s and Hutcheson’s legacy of moral empiricism see
Garrett and Heydt (2015).
12
Perhaps the events of 1745 – Hume’s denial of an appointment at Edinburgh and the Jacobite
rebellion – in conjunction with the lack of reception of the Treatise made him more aware that
religious beliefs overlapped with philosophy and politics in both the philosophical and the vulgar in
ways that could lead to unhappy outcomes or outright disaster (Moore, 2002). This would have been
even more evident at his family home in the far more provincial milieu of Chirnside, where he wrote
EPM, the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, and a number of pivotal essays and where he
submerged himself in the rather different attitude toward philosophy he found in the ancient world.
For a judicious discussion of the Edinburgh Affair see R. Emerson (1994). On Hume’s irritation,
which resulted in the anonymously published Bellman’s Petition, see R. L. Emerson (1997). For
a profound discussion of the importance of Cicero for Hume’s separating of morality and theology
in all arenas see Stuart-Buttle (2019).
198 aaron garrett
and to account for this sentiment is the business of Philosophers. It belongs to
Grammarians to examine what qualities are entitled to the denomination of
virtue; nor will they find, upon trial, that this is so easy a task, as at first sight
they may be apt to imagine. (T 3.3.3.4)
Hume seems to mean by this that what belongs under “virtue” is a question
of surveying our words for what is agreeable and useful. Hume does not say
what the difficulty is, but it seems he has in mind the wide extension of the
agreeable and the useful.
Appendix 4 begins with a parallel sentence: “Nothing is more usual than for
philosophers to encroach upon the province of grammarians; and to engage in
disputes of words, while they imagine that they are handling controversies of
the deepest importance and concern” (EPM 4.1). I will suggest, though, that
Hume’s worry is subtly different in EPM. Philosophers have attempted to
decide what terms ought to stand for virtues and vices and the difficulty –
I will suggest – is due to the ways that religious systems govern the choice of
terms for virtues and vices. Hume had also been aware of this tendency in the
Treatise: “we find, that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by
a strict adherence to a system, enter into the same way of thinking; and that
the antient moralists in particular made no scruple of placing prudence at the
head of the cardinal virtues” (T 3.3.4.4). But in the Treatise he presents himself
as in good modern company – all modern moralists who are not perverted by
system and agree with the ancients that prudence is a virtue – whereas in EPM
the focus moves away from the moderns and to Cicero and the ancient
moralists, suggesting that the modern tendency to pervert by system was
deeper than he had thought. In EPM the passage from the Treatise becomes
“the same Cicero, in imitation of all the ancient moralists, when he reasons as
a philosopher, enlarges very much his ideas of virtue, and comprehends every
laudable quality or endowment of the mind, under that honourable appella-
tion” (EPM 4.11). In other words, Cicero is now our good company.
Hume saw Cicero as offering the proper standpoint for good philosoph-
ical inquiry. And he saw the esteem Cicero was held in by a wide range of
moral philosophers, even by those perverted by system (both Locke’s Essay
and Hutcheson’s Inquiries have epigrams from Cicero on their title pages),
as a means to get his contemporaries to reconsider the breadth of what
counts as virtues and vices, and to consequently reconsider what they
understood to unify and restrict moral theory.13 Although these are guiding
questions in the main body of EPM, they are particularly important in

13
See Stuart-Buttle (2019) for a discussion of the breadth of the context of Cicero-interpretation, of
which Locke and Hutcheson are only a part.
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 199
Appendix 4 (there are five explicit references to Cicero just in Appendix 4,
which is five times the explicit references to Cicero in the Treatise) and “A
Dialogue.”14

10.3.1 Classical Citations

Appendix 4 was the first part of Section 6, “Of Qualities Useful to
Ourselves,” until 1764, when it was moved. Section 6 is the heart of the
overarching argument of EPM. Consequently, what later became
Appendix 4 was far more central to the main body of EPM in Hume’s
original conception of EPM and in the 1753, 1758, and 1760 editions of his
Essays and Treatises. It initiated the second half of EPM; that is, those parts
of EPM that mostly drew on T 3.3.
Having just shown that utility pleases in a manner that is not reducible
to only self-love, and having discussed qualities useful to others in the
previous three chapters, culminating in the claim that “it appears to be
matter of fact, that the circumstance of utility, in all subjects, is a source of
praise and approbation” (EPM 5.44),15 Hume then sets out the qualities
useful and agreeable to ourselves and others in three successive chapters.
These chapters conclude with Hume’s illustration through the example of
Cleanthes that these qualities are sufficiently morally approved of such that
if a stranger possesses them, we, the reader, will allow our daughter to enter
into the artificial bond of marriage with him (EPM 9.1.2). This provides an
answer to a fundamental question of Hume’s theory – how we are able to
consistently move from the natural sentiments of the family into the
conventions and customs of larger society in a way that is not just motiv-
ated by simple self-interest.
In the section “Of Natural Abilities” in the Treatise (T 3.3.4) and in the
section following it, “Some Farther Reflexions Concerning the Natural
Virtues,” Hume argued that although “NO distinction is more usual in all
systems of ethics, than that betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues;
where the former are plac’d on the same footing with bodily endowments,
and are suppos’d to have no merit or moral worth annex’d to them,” the
14
“A Dialogue” was published along with and after the main body of EPM from 1751 on. I take “A
Dialogue” to be part of EPM in the sense that it was meant to be read along with, and after, the rest
of the work, just as the Appendixes were.
15
The quote continues: “That it is constantly appealed to in all moral decisions concerning the merit
and demerit of actions: That it is the sole source of that high regard paid to justice, fidelity, honour,
allegiance, and chastity: That it is inseparable from all the other social virtues, humanity, generosity,
charity, affability, lenity, mercy, and moderation: And, in a word, that it is a foundation of the chief
part of morals, which has a reference to mankind and our fellow-creatures.”
200 aaron garrett
distinction was poorly founded in human nature. The goal of the sections
was to undermine the distinction made by many and notably by
Hutcheson (2008, 3.10, p. 128). To do this Hume provided a genealogical
explanation of the erroneous distinction (T 3.3.4.4), which he stressed
persists despite being at odds with our common moral practices because
“legislators, and divines, and moralists” seek to alter conduct and so focus
on voluntary actions insofar as they can be controlled by sanctions. And he
provided a positive explanation: that both natural abilities and moral
virtues were moral insofar as both sorts of qualities could be explained in
terms of usefulness and agreeableness to self and to others (T 3.3.4.5–14).
Hume made three observations concerning the underlying commitment
to moral virtue being distinctively voluntary, a commitment he held to
buttress the erroneous assumption of a distinction in kind between moral
virtues and natural abilities. First, “many of those qualities, which all
moralists, especially the antients, comprehend under the title of moral
virtues, are equally involuntary and necessary”; that is, the distinction
seems spurious when one takes a sufficiently wide view. Second, there is
no compelling reason why virtues and vices must be voluntary; and third, it
doesn’t follow that what is voluntary is free, which seems an underlying
premise of those who hold the distinction (T 3.3.4.3).
The goal of undermining the distinction persisted in Section 6 (and
Appendix 4) of EPM, as well as some of the exact wording from the
Treatise.16 As in the Treatise, Hume tried to show that the qualities useful
to ourselves were far more extensive and diverse than the moral qualities
constrained by commonly held Christian duties (EPM App. 4.21). But,
unlike in the parallel passages in the Treatise, Appendix 4 and “A Dialogue”
(which has no analog in the Treatise) include many more references to
ancient literature. These are both far more extensive and far more precise
than the standard examples that a moderately learned person without
extensive classical learning would know mentioned in the parallel sections
of the Treatise.
In fact, Appendix 4 is mostly a list of classical examples underscoring the
main thesis of the chapter from which it was relocated.17 There is an
16
Beauchamp lists five passages from T 3.3.4 that appear verbatim or slightly altered in EPM (Hume,
1998, pp. lviii–lxii). This is the largest quantity of passages from any section of the Treatise in EPM.
17
It became Appendix 3 in 1764 and Appendix 4 in 1777 when material from the main body of the text
was made into Appendix 2, “Of Self Love.” Oddly, Beauchamp, in his excellent critical edition of
EPM, does not see the 1764 edition of EPM as having given rise to anything other than “modest and
relatively insignificant” changes, despite Hume’s correspondence suggesting that he intended to
make notable changes (Hume, 1998, p. xxii). Beauchamp also asserts that Appendix 4 had previously
been “Pt. I of Section 4 of EPM” (Hume, 1998, p. xlviii) when it was Part I of Section 6.
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 201
important reference to Sallust in the Treatise (3.3.3.4) which frames the
amiable and awful virtues in terms of Caesar and Cato and reappears in
Appendix 4.6. But in Appendix 4 there are at least eleven further examples
from antiquity. Chapter 7, which originally followed what became
Appendix 4, also has many classical examples. This is all the more striking
insofar as these examples are packaged together with a number of nearly
verbatim passages from the Treatise.
Hume used the new examples to make the same point about there not
being a difference in kind between moral virtues and natural abilities that
he made in the Treatise. But in EPM Hume goes further and identifies the
ancient moralists as his “best models” (EPM App. 4.11) for moral virtues
and vices. Consequently, ancient literature, and the ancient moralists, have
a central role in EPM in undermining the restrictions on bodily, mental,
and other virtues by those who assume they are at odds with, irrelevant to,
or insufficiently “moral” to suffice as moral virtues. Why?
The proximate cause of the greater density of references to ancient
philosophy in the works of the late 1740s and early 1750s was the massive
reading project in classical literature Hume undertook between 1749 and
1751. Hume had improved his Greek a few years earlier and he read many
Greek and Roman works during an extended retreat at the family home at
Ninewells (Baumstark, 2010). The diversity and depth of his reading can be
seen in the myriad erudite references and discussions in the lengthy essay
“Of the Populousness of Nations” and in the greater range of classical
quotes in Hume’s writings of the late 1740s and early 1750s.
This was the same period in which Cicero became central in Hume’s
work. As mentioned, Hume adopted the voice of Epicurus in EHU,
Section 11 and he also took the voice of the Ciceronian Academic Skeptic
in the concluding section of EHU. As also mentioned, Cicero’s De Natura
Deorum provided a framework within which to present contentious reli-
gious arguments in the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion which was,
as noted before, written in the same period as EPM.18

18
Even the famous concluding sentence of the Dialogues is a paraphrase of the concluding sentence of
its Ciceronian model.“Haec cum essent dicta, ita discessimus ut Velleio Cottae disputatio verior,
mihi Balbi ad veritatis similitudinem videretur esse propensior” (Cicero, 2014, III.95); “Cleanthes
and Philo pursued not this conversation much farther; and as nothing ever made greater impression
on me, than all the reasonings of that day; so, I confess, that, upon a serious review of the whole,
I cannot but think, that Philo’s principles are more probable than Demea’s; but that those of
Cleanthes approach still nearer to the truth” (D 12.34). Much of the discussion of Cicero’s influence
on Hume has focused on the Dialogues. See Battersby (1979); Fosl (1994); Holden (2010); Willis
(2016). For the breadth of Cicero’s influence see Jones (1982), pp. 29–41 and Stuart-Buttle (2019).
202 aaron garrett
But Hume admired Cicero long before the mid-1740s. Hume cited
Cicero approvingly in his earliest surviving letter, although at age sixteen
he thought himself more likely to take Virgil as a model for life than Cicero
because of his temper and the pastoral life at Ninewells. In the “Letter to
a Physician,” he described the malaise that overtook him when he
attempted to put the rigorous moral teachings he read in “Cicero, Seneca
& Plutarch” into practice in his solitude without the balance of the sort of
active life that Cicero recommended.
Notably, in his first surviving letter to Francis Hutcheson of 1737, Hume
pressed the breadth of virtues and duties against Hutcheson’s reduction of
all moral virtue to benevolence via a pointed comparison between Cicero’s
De Officiis and Richard Allestree’s Whole Duty of Man:19
Whether the natural Abilitys be Virtues is a Dispute of Words . . .. Were
Benevolence the only Virtue no Characters cou’d be mixt, but wou’d
depend entirely on their Degree of Benevolence. Upon the whole I desire
to take my Catalogue of Virtues from Cicero’s Offices, not from the Whole
Duty of Man. I had, indeed, the former Book in my Eye in all my
Reasonings. (L I, 13)
Hume is suggesting that Hutcheson is much closer to Allestree, whom
Hume thinks a clear object of disdain, than Cicero, whom Hutcheson
greatly admired. The comment is all the more cutting because a quote from
Cicero’s “Offices” (I.4) provides the epigram for Hutcheson’s Inquiry.
Hume is asserting that he is the true Ciceronian in his refusal to reduce
virtue to one master moral property.
This letter reappeared, paraphrased without the explicit criticisms of
Hutcheson, in a note to Appendix 4 – which he entitled “Of Some Verbal
Disputes” (in an echo of the phrase “Dispute of Words” in the letter) – for
the 1764 edition of EPM: “I suppose, if Cicero were now alive, it would be
found difficult to fetter his moral sentiments by narrow systems; or
persuade him, that no qualities were to be admitted as virtues, or acknow-
ledged to be a part of personal merit, but what were recommended by The
Whole Duty of Man” (EPM App. 4 n.72).
Yet, despite the long standing of the sentiment expressed in the letter to
Hutcheson, Hume’s one explicit reference to Cicero in the Treatise is
a quote from De Finibus (T 1.3.8 n.21) that is repeated at EHU 5 n.9 and
underscores the associative power of places. As mentioned at the outset of
this chapter, Cicero is invoked by name fifteen times in EPM (once as

19
On Allestree see McIntyre (2014).
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 203
“Tully” in A Dialogue). Mention is not necessarily a mark of endorsement
for Hume, but many of the references to Cicero in EPM are strongly
approving.20 Why this shift? And why does the comment to Hutcheson
finally appear in EPM? The answer to this is connected with the great
quantity of quotations from ancient writings in EPM.
The passage to which Hume appended the footnote with the paraphrase
of the letter to Hutcheson includes the previously mentioned reference to
the ancients as the “best models”:
But the same Cicero, in imitation of all the ancient moralists, when he
reasons as a philosopher, enlarges very much his ideas of virtue, and
comprehends every laudable quality or endowment of the mind, under
that honourable appellation. This leads to the third reflection, which we
proposed to make, to wit, that the ancient moralists, the best models, made
no material distinction among the different species of mental endowments
and defects, but treated all alike under the appellation of virtues and vices,
and made them indiscriminately the object of their moral reasonings. The
prudence explained in Cicero’s Offices [71], is that sagacity, which leads to
the discovery of truth, and preserves us from error and mistake.
Magnanimity, temperance, decency, are there also at large discoursed of.
And as that eloquent moralist followed the common received division of the
four cardinal virtues, our social duties form but one head, in the general
distribution of his subject [72]. (EPM App. 4.11)
Hume is clearly arguing that Cicero presented the moral virtues that his
Christian audience admired as of the same kind as epistemic virtues and
other mental endowments. The parallel passage in the Treatise concludes
with the comparison between grammarians and philosophers discussed at
the start of Section 10.3 and is followed by philosophical observations. The
EPM passage is followed by supporting examples and quotes Aristotle,
Epictetus, Psalms, Euripides, and then Plutarch – a comprehensive list of
ancient authorities. The strategies are wholly different. Why?
Henriette van der Blom has argued that in his philosophical works,
Cicero presented himself as “the person who understands the doctrines of
the various philosophical schools best,” as the ideal knowledgeable inter-
locutor. She concludes that he set “himself as a model for emulation – in
a way not unlike his exemplary role as guide and interpreter of history –
throughout his philosophical works, complementing the other aspects of
Cicero’s exemplarity” (i.e., in politics, oratory, law, etc.) (van der Blom,
2010, pp. 307–08). In Appendix 4, Hume is doing precisely what van der

20
See also Beauchamp in the introduction to the EPM: Hume (1998), p. xxii.
204 aaron garrett
Blom describes in Cicero, by employing Cicero’s favored device of quoting
past authors to exhibit that “all ancient moralists” shared this view and thus
to present himself as the knowledgeable authority able to identify the
proper extension of virtue. Cicero’s refusal “to fetter his moral sentiments
by narrow systems” (EPM App. 4.16) is supported by the examples. And
Cicero’s, and Hume’s position through Cicero, is presented as authorita-
tive through guiding this survey in (what was until 1764) the first part of
Chapter 6 of EPM and Chapter 7. Finally, through Cicero and the ancients
Hume can speak to an audience enamored of Cicero, who might not have
listened to Hume’s more direct arguments for his position.
Hume was not the only person to use Cicero in this way; in fact, it was
a relatively established genre. Bayle, Hume’s modern model for auditorem
non adiutorem, used Cicero in a similar fashion. As Mara van der Lugt
notes, Bayle used Cotta, Balbus, and Velleius – the discussants in De
Natura Deorum – in a number of articles to stand for their respective
schools, whereas Cicero stands in for Bayle’s own viewpoint (Van der Lugt,
2016, pp. 59–61). And Bayle presented himself as authoritative, like Hume
and Cicero, through the massive quantity of classical learning in the
Dictionnaire.
Furthermore, Anthony Collins presented Cicero as an anti-religious
“Free-Thinker” untethered to system in his Discourse of Free-Thinking
(1713) (Rivers, 2005, 1, pp. 29–30). Collins saw himself as countering the
many who cited Cicero the Stoic against free-thinking from “both the
Pulpit and the Press” (Collins, 1713, p. 137). Collins drew on John Toland’s
plan for an edition of Cicero (Toland, 1712), published the previous year,
which stressed the dialogue-form as offering a series of positions for the
reader to freely engage with, in opposition to identifying Cicero with
Stoicism (and priestcraft (East, 2014). This led to widespread opposition
to Collins from pulpit and press – Richard Bentley, Benjamin Hoadley,
and Jonathan Swift included – which stretched all the way to 1770 and
Hume’s most loathed critic, James Beattie (Rivers, 2005, 1, pp. 29–30).
Hume may have read Collins on free-thinking (Russell, 2008, p. 79), or he
may have taken the general strategy from Bayle.
Peter Loptson has argued that Hume is for the most part disdainful of
ancient philosophy, although to a lesser degree in his ethics and philosophy
of religion than elsewhere. His admiration for Cicero, though, appears to
be strong enough that it is a problem for Loptson’s argument. Loptson
suggests that we ought to understand Hume’s admiration of Cicero to be
restricted to painterly rhetoric as opposed to modern anatomical philoso-
phy (Loptson, 2012, p. 768). This is underscored by a number of passages
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 205
from Hume, for example a letter to Kames where Hume comments on the
looseness of Cicero’s Orations (although here Hume is not criticizing
Cicero’s philosophy, and the criticisms are primarily factual). Loptson
concludes that Hume’s affinity with Cicero was primarily one of presenta-
tion, not content. Cicero was the means to provide a painterly dress to
anatomical observations. It should be clear that I view Hume as having a far
more eclectic relation to philosophy in the 1740s, whether ancient or
modern, in EPM, although I think this holds to some extent for all of
his philosophical writings.21 Hume was both an Academic Skeptic and
a Newtonian; what mattered was the truth of the positions, not whether
they were ancient or modern.
Loptson suggests that Hume’s positive references to Cicero and ancient
philosophy ought to be understood as an attempt to make the anatomy of
the Treatise more painterly. Painterly implies, for Loptson, that the
changes are inessential and involve advocacy as opposed to description.
What I am describing is different – an awareness of audience. Also, it is not
clear Hume can maintain that presentation is distinct from content such
that presentation might be mere window-dressing: Hume normally uses
the distinction to describe two approaches to moral philosophy. That form
or eloquence and content are not easily separable is consistent with core
features of Hume’s epistemology (Cruz-Tleugabulova, 2012).
In fact, Hume seems to be responding in the eloquence of EPM to
a Ciceronian distinction. Cicero begins De Officiis with a distinction
between forensic or legal oratory and “quieter debating” (Cicero, 2015a,
p. 10) (by which he means philosophical discussion) in an invitation to his
son Marcus to read his philosophical writings. The problem is how to gain
a hearing to “quieter debating.” In The Ideal Orator – a work Hume quotes
very approvingly in EPM (EPM 4.11 n.72) – Cicero argued that the ideal
orator must have philosophical knowledge in order for their oratory to be
effective. Philosophical knowledge is necessary for the orator to convince
his audience, but it is insufficient. Appropriate eloquence is necessary as
well, but eloquence grounded in and derived from true philosophy. Cicero
worried that his audience assumed that Greeks were superior philosophers
and Romans superior rhetoricians, making it difficult to gain a hearing for

21
Although Hume says negative things about ancient philosophy in the Treatise, he often uses this as
a means to say critical things about modern philosophy. This is not to suggest that he is secretly
advocating ancient metaphysics, but rather that Hume was perfectly happy to criticize both ancient
and modern philosophy, as “A Treatise” I.4.3 and I.4.4 make clear. This dialectic is mostly absent
from EHU along with critical remarks about ancient philosophy, with the important exception of
EHU 12 n.35 – which is far too complex a passage to read as “ancients bad, moderns good.”
206 aaron garrett
his philosophy. For Hume, the problem concerned how to gain a hearing
for his own philosophy from an audience who had basic assumptions about
how moral philosophy and religion fit together.

10.3.2 Diversity and Artificial Lives

So far I have argued that in EPM Hume marshals Cicero and the
Ciceronian presentation of ancient philosophy and literature to undermine
the stubborn beliefs of his readers concerning virtues and vices and prevent
them from trying to advocate for sects before giving a proper hearing:
auditorem non adiutorem. Cicero is ideal because of the standing he was
given by all sorts of Christian philosophers who believed his views to be in
harmony with theirs. But what, really, is so bad about their views? In
particular, what is so bad about marking a difference in kind between
natural abilities and moral virtues, and why do they need correction?
The difficulties come into focus in the comparison between two kinds of
artificial lives in the final section of the final part of EPM, “A Dialogue.” “A
Dialogue” is a very complicated piece. I will focus only on what Hume has
to say about these two types of lives and how it bears on Cicero and the
ancients, since “A Dialogue” is treated more fully elsewhere in this volume.
The main speaker in the first section of “A Dialogue,” Palamades,22
notes that in “ancient times” philosophy regulated “men’s ordinary behav-
iour and deportment” and “being the sole principle, by which a man could
elevate himself above his fellows, it acquired a mighty ascendant over
many, and produced great singularities of maxims and of conduct”
(EPM D 53). But “at present, when philosophy has lost the allurement of
novelty, it has no such extensive influence; but seems to confine itself

22
Palamedes was a hero of the Trojan Wars, unmentioned in the Iliad and the Odyssey and reputed to
have invented dice (and perhaps written language). When Odysseus tried to avoid the Trojan
expedition by feigning madness, Palamedes tricked him into revealing he was sane. Odysseus
eventually took revenge and murdered him (for more on Palamedes see Woodford, 1994). The
tricking of Odysseus is mentioned in Cicero’s De Officiis and many other works accessible to Hume,
including Pope’s Odyssey. In addition, in note EE to the article “Euripides,” Bayle discusses how
Euripides’ lost tragedy “Palamedes” was taken to allude to the death of Socrates (Bayle argues that
this can’t be true because of the chronology, and that Diogenes Laertius who reports it is wrong
(Bayle, 1740, 2, p. 433)). Among the Scots, George Turnbull mentions “Palamedes, who places it in
being able to call every thing into doubt, and to make either side of any question appear equally
probable by his eloquence” (2003, p. 35). It is surprising, given that Hume seemed to want his
audience to be taken in by his trick, that he had a reasonably widely known Greek character telling
the tall tale. Even if Hume’s audience did not know who Palamedes was, they would probably think
him to be Greek even if the other names in the story lacked Greek resonance. Perhaps he liked the
idea of the ultimate Greek trickster, who tricked Odysseus, tricking his audience into questioning
the actions of famous Greeks (and Romans).
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 207
mostly to speculations in the closet; in the same manner, as the ancient
religion was limited to sacrifices in the temple.” The place of philosophy “is
now supplied by the modern religion” (EPM D 53).
In other words, Hume suggests that the motivationally inert role of
ancient religion has now been supplanted by modern philosophy, which,
like ancient religion, has no influence on common life. The morally active
place of ancient philosophy has been supplanted by modern religion,
which does influence common life. Modern religion fixes what counts as
duties and virtues, how these duties and virtues are to be understood, and
how they are fulfilled. This poses a problem, since the moral norms and
goals that modern religion sets are comprehensive and exacting. And since
they give rise to action, they are more powerful than inert moral philoso-
phy. Modern religion “inspects our whole conduct, and prescribes an
universal rule to our actions, to our words, to our very thoughts and
inclinations; a rule so much the more austere, as it is guarded by infinite,
though distant, rewards and punishments; and no infraction of it can ever
be concealed or disguised” (EPM D 53). The results conflict with the
virtues of common, sociable life.
Hume explores this conflict via two examples – one ancient and one
modern. Both Diogenes the Cynic and Pascal led what Hume calls artifi-
cial lives (EPM D 52) – lives governed by rigid norms that are partly or
wholly at odds with the useful and agreeable qualities exemplified by the
character of Cleanthes in the concluding chapter of the main body of
EPM. Both were men “of parts and genius” and had inclinations that
might have given rise to a natural life of sociable virtue (EPM 9.1–2).
The moral qualities of character that these two artificial lives give rise to,
though, are opposite. Diogenes endeavored “to render himself an inde-
pendent being as much as possible, and to confine all his wants and desires
and pleasures within himself and his own mind,” while Pascal sought “to
keep a perpetual sense of his dependence before his eyes, and never to
forget his numberless wants and infirmities.” The consequence was that the
“ancient supported himself by magnanimity, ostentation, pride, and the
idea of his own superiority above his fellow-creatures” whereas “the mod-
ern made constant profession of humility and abasement, of the contempt
and hatred of himself; and endeavoured to attain these supposed virtues, as
far as they are attainable.”
In this passage (EPM D 52–57), Hume adroitly suggests opposed general
tendencies of ancient and modern moral philosophy from these patho-
logical cases. Ancient moral philosophy offers rules that claim to provide
a degree of independence from the world via restricting desires and gives
208 aaron garrett
rise, even in this pathological artificial form, to qualities of character –
magnanimity and pride – that are not entirely blameworthy and in fact are
in nonpathological cases praiseworthy. Modern moral philosophy, insofar
as it has religiously proscribed duties at its core that derive from depend-
ence on an unsatisfiable superior power, gives rise to the blameworthy
qualities of humility and abasement. The two moral pathologies also give
rise to different ways of relating to others. Diogenes still “thought it his
duty to love his friends” even if in order to “rail at them, and . . . scold
them.” In other words, Diogenes’ regimen for independence did not
manage to undermine the basic sociable sentiments and desires of common
life. Pascal, on the other hand, “endeavoured to be absolutely indifferent
towards his nearest relations, and to love and speak well of his enemies.”
Lastly, Diogenes criticized superstition, albeit obnoxiously, whereas
Pascal’s artificial life was directed by “the most ridiculous superstitions”
(EPM D 55).
The example just discussed makes clear that Pascal’s modern life is worse
than Diogenes’ ancient life, both morally and prudentially. One life gives
rise to only vices and antisocial behavior at odds with common life, which
is not prudent, and the other to some virtues and a measure of social life.
Indeed, I wish to suggest that it is worse in kind, not degree. This is not
because of the content of modern philosophy and its role in the Pascalian
life, but because of the centrality of religious beliefs in Pascal’s ethics: the
distance of God, dependence and subordination, the idea that morality is
between the individual and God, and fundamental human frailty. These
are of course all features Pascal shared with Calvinists. Had Hume wished
to play up the Catholic aspects of the example to his Protestant audience,
he would have stressed ritual and superstition: the monkish virtues. But the
description of the Jansenist Pascal sounds instead like something out of
Weber’s Protestant Ethic. What is Hume suggesting?
When a moral philosopher fails to enlarge their ideas of virtue, their
explanations will respond to the wrong explanandum and their theory will
be partial or false. As noted, Hume initially thought this problem to be
a mere matter for grammarians but came to see that it was a deeply rooted
prejudice reinforced by modern philosophers. This demanded novel tactics
since it involves disabusing moral agents of their strong beliefs concerning
the restrictive shape and appropriate contents of moral virtue. With the
example of Pascal, Hume is showing just how disastrously this modern
mistake can go off the rails, unlike ancient philosophy which can only
compromise utility and agreeableness so far as it is still connected to the
norms of sociable life.
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 209
This is the point of Hume’s underscoring Pascal’s obsession “to keep
a perpetual sense of his dependence before his eyes, and never to forget his
numberless wants and infirmities.” Pascal’s condition is the consequence of
a moral system in which only voluntarily controllable “moral virtues”
count at all (although this is not the sole reason they become so
pathological.23 Pascal multiplied that which he should be able to control
were he not so sinful and abject, resulting in a continual affirmation of his
viciousness, and as a consequence pain and misery. The desire for moral
control resulted in the rejection of sociability – he “endeavoured to be
absolutely indifferent towards his nearest relations, and to love and speak
well of his enemies” – in attempting to subordinate his ordinary (and
morally praiseworthy from a Ciceronian perspective!) sociable passions,
love of family and friends and hatred of enemies, to a false account of the
virtues.
Pascal is thus a warning as to the potential disaster of maintaining
a distinction in kind between moral virtues and natural abilities where
none is present in common life as reflected by the unanimous opinion of
the ancient philosophers. I do not think that Hume was suggesting that
Hutcheson or Samuel Clarke or any of the many others who restricted
virtue to moral virtues were going to end up like Pascal. Benevolence as the
sole principle of morality might rule out epistemic virtues as being virtues
proper, as well as natural abilities, but it does not conflict with agreeable-
ness, or in most cases with utility. Hume rather wished to suggest that there
was a continuity between Pascal and far more amiable moralists, even those
who thought of themselves as wholly onboard with the Ciceronian pro-
gram. Because they got the explanandum of morality wrong, they were of
the same kind as Pascal, which was a consequence of the modern perverting
of moral philosophy by religion. Although ancient moral philosophers

23
Thomas Pink has pointed out to me that Pascal’s condition cannot be worse than Diogenes due to
the fact that Pascal’s set of desirable virtues are voluntary because Diogenes’ account also restricts
virtue to those virtues that involve self-control. It seems to have to do, instead, with the content of
the virtues and how they are discharged. The Cynic believes that they should live a life according to
nature, and consequently that it is good to control themself in such a way that they can walk around
covered in mud. This is a pathological but satisfiable standard; Diogenes knows when he is virtuous
and consequently he can take pride in it. But Pascal can never be sure of his possession of the virtues
because the religious norms connected with the virtues he aspires to are such that there is no clear
mark that he has satisfied them. In fact, believing one has satisfied them generates pride, which is the
opposite of the humility that the virtue is supposed to generate. So they are unsatisfiable.
Furthermore, because God is always watching, the pursuit of virtue invades the whole life – they
are impossibly exacting. Finally, because the core virtues involve exclusive and personal dependence
on God, they exclude relations with others, unlike the core virtues of the Cynics which allowed them
to happily form sects. Thus Pascalian virtues are unsociable in their nature.
210 aaron garrett
often provided bad philosophical explanations of this explanandum, they
did not tend toward this sort of antisociable and miserable fanaticism.
The discussion of artificial lives in “A Dialogue” is thus a support to the
Ciceronianism I have outlined in the main body of the work. This essay
opened with the question: “How does one present a moral philosophy that
reflects the breadth and diversity of virtues and vices to an audience who
have restricted and stubborn beliefs about what count as virtues and vices?”
EPM sought to draw readers in to Hume’s position through identification
with those they admired – Cicero and the ancients – and pushed them
away via what hopefully horrified them – Pascal. This is a central function
of Hume’s new engagement with the ancients in EPM. And in a way, it is
an eloquent and engaging attempt to gain proper hearing from his audi-
ence to the remark to Hutcheson about the Whole Duty of Man, which in
EPM is now a footnote to a long list of supporting quotes from the
ancients.
I have not discussed the centerpiece of “A Dialogue”: Palamedes’ pres-
entation of the bizarre moral practices of Fourli and then the revelation
that these bizarre practices were the practices of the ancients whom the
reader assumedly admired. What this example underlines is that despite the
problem of moral diversity, which is not just a problem involving people
we view as obviously different from us (as held by Locke and Hutcheson)
but even a problem for those we view as our best company and the source of
our moral philosophy and moral practices, the system of utility and
agreeableness is a sufficient explanation of persistent uniformities that
overcome this problem.
This drives home what I take to be Hume’s considered eclectic position –
in the Ciceronian sense. Just as Cicero claimed that the differences between
the Greeks and Romans were overstated by those who wished to claim that
only the Greeks excelled at philosophy, so too the differences between the
ancients and the moderns were overstated by those who misguidedly
believed their own positions were the true wisdom of the ancients but
were in fact committed to beliefs that fundamentally conflicted with them.
The ancients had idiosyncratic practices, and so do we. Brutus and Cassius
were Cicero’s friends and correspondents as well as Caesar’s assassins. We
have religious superstitions and make undermotivated distinctions of kind
between natural abilities and moral virtues. Instead of taking sides with the
ancients against the moderns or the moderns against the ancients, we
should give good philosophical arguments a proper hearing where we
find them untethered to system. The point, as in the example of
Epicurus in EHU 11, is acknowledging valid arguments, whatever the
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 211
source – auditorem non adiutorem – and consequently the dichotomy of
either ancients or moderns is rejected by an eclectic philosopher just as
Cicero rejected Greeks or Romans.24
In EPM Hume drew out the consequences of his recognition of the
centrality of the problem of modern religion for moral philosophy for the
way in which he should present his arguments. This resulted in an even
more central role in his arguments to the undermining of the distinction of
kind between natural abilities and moral virtues and new arguments for the
negative consequences of this distinction in “A Dialogue.” It also resulted
in a new approach to presentation that marshaled Cicero and the ancients
for the breaking down of sectarian philosophical borders that stopped his
arguments from being properly listened to by his intended audience. In
EPM he attempted to present in argument the sentiment he expressed to
Balfour in the letter quoted in Section 10.2 – that philosophy should be an
amiable enterprise between friends with divergent philosophical view-
points and from different schools, and no viewpoint should be rejected
out of hand or undermine such philosophical friendship: “auditorem non
adiutorem.” In this, Cicero was his exemplar, his spokesman (in some
cases), and a means to draw his audience to adopt this viewpoint.

10.3.3 Modern Rights

Natural law was one of the central ways of approaching moral and political
philosophy in the early modern period, and through Grotius in particular,
Cicero’s influence can be found everywhere (Straumann, 2015). Cicero’s
De Officiis was viewed as a template for thinking about duties, rights, and
obligations which provided a set of core commitments that could be mined
and expanded by modern philosophers (Tuck, 1988). As James Moore, who
I invoked at the beginning of this essay, has convincingly argued, the
theory of rights is at the core of what Cicero meant for early modern
British philosophers (Moore, 2002).
Hume has relatively little to say about rights in the Treatise compared to
Hobbes, Locke, Pufendorf, and many others. Cicero is not invoked in this
context. But some of the problems he was responding to by utilizing
Cicero’s persona to suggest auditorem non adiutorem – in particular
moral diversity and the relation between religion and morality – are part

24
And, consequently, I think Loptson’s view (2012) that Hume is siding with moderns against the
ancients is incomplete
212 aaron garrett
and parcel of the theory of rights. And what Hume does have to say is
notable and important.25
Drawing on a longstanding distinction between perfect and imperfect
duties, where perfect duties are those that can be compelled and imperfect
duties are duties of humanity,26 Hume suggests that “property, and right,
and obligation,” like a light switch which is either on or off, “admit not of
degrees” (T 3.2.6.8). One either has them in full or not at all. Unlike
Grotius and Pufendorf and like Hobbes (putting aside the complicated
issue of Hobbesian natural right), Hume takes this to be a mark that rights
are artificial, like justice, and deriving what existence they have from it. The
mark of their artificiality is that natural virtue and vice admit of degrees.
Hume concludes this discussion as follows: “If you assent, therefore, to this
last proposition, and assert, that justice and injustice are not susceptible of
degrees, you in effect assert, that they are not naturally either vicious or
virtuous; since vice and virtue, moral good and evil, and indeed all natural
qualities, run insensibly into each other, and are, on many occasions,
undistinguishable” (T 3.2.6.7).
Rights are, consequently, wholly artificial grants and guarantees, social
conventions that exist solely to serve stability and utility. Hume does not
define rights, but it is reasonable to assume that he understands them in
these passages primarily as exclusive use of property and takes them to not
admit of degrees because property does not admit of degrees. Unlike
Hobbes, Hume also provides a diagnosis of why we think of rights as
natural and not artificial that is connected to one of his central goals in the
Treatise. Although half-rights make little sense conceptually, since rights,
obligations, and property all have their origins in the imagination and are
intertwined with the virtues and vices of common life, we cannot help but
think of them in terms of degree when we apply them in practice. This
intertwining of the circumstances of common life and the artifices of
justice is central to Hume’s explanation of our motivation to perform
and approve of artificial obligations and to recognize artificial rights.
Hume also discusses the rights of princes both in the Treatise and EPM.
Hume’s main point is that duties, rights, and obligations are more strin-
gent in society than between princes since they are far more useful in the
former than the latter. If a prince decides to take a territory even though
another prince has a recognized right to it, the disaster will likely be far less

25
For a far more extensive discussion of the relation between the Treatise and EPM see Haakonssen
(1981), ch. 1.
26
The distinction is important in Grotius and, particularly, Pufendorf. See Seidler (2015), 3.5.
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 213
than if everyone in their principality decides to disregard recognized rights.
Justice and regard to it is the necessary condition of society, and if
disregarded, “disorder, confusion, the war of all against all” follow. “But
nations can subsist without intercourse” with one another and conse-
quently between princes. Consequently “the moral obligation holds pro-
portion with the usefulness” (Hume, 1998, 4.3), and the obligation, though
perfect within a state, is less so between states and princes. This suggests
that the exceptionlessness of rights, that they do not come in degrees, is due
not only to their artificial nature in connection with property but also to
the paramount utility of their stringent observation.
So far the discussion of rights in EPM is scanter than in the Treatise, as
one would expect given the respective lengths of the two works, but
consistent with it. There is a pivotal passage that has no parallel, though,
and suggests a fundamental addition by Hume. EPM 3.1 ends with
a remarkable discussion of rights – remarkable both in regard to its content
and in relation to Hume’s corpus.
Hume begins:
Suppose, that several distinct societies maintain a kind of intercourse for
mutual convenience and advantage, the boundaries of justice still grow
larger, in proportion to the largeness of men’s views, and the force of their
mutual connexions. History, experience, reason sufficiently instruct us in
this natural progress of human sentiments, and in the gradual enlargement
of our regards to justice, in proportion as we become acquainted with the
extensive utility of that virtue. (EPM 3.21)
The word “progress” appears throughout the Treatise but it generally means
change or regular movement from one to another. For example, the expres-
sion “progress of sentiments” describes how sentiments change in a lawlike
way as detailed by the science of human nature. However, in the passage just
quoted, the natural progress of human sentiments is connected with the
historical enlargement of justice. Hume suggests that justice enlarges when
those who view themselves as subject to justice come to see that it is also
useful to include others as within the ken of justice who they have failed to so
regard. He further suggests that this is the consequence of the progress of
sentiments, in this case those served by utility.
In Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences, which appeared in
1742, Hume also uses the word “progress” in tandem with discussions
of political, scientific, and artistic improvement. In a much-discussed
footnote to “Of National Characters,” Hume argues that people of
African descent are incapable of arts and sciences, which he seems to
214 aaron garrett
connect to the irregularity of their sentiments (Garrett and Sebastiani,
2017). Consequently, Hume seems to hold that those capable of
regular and ordered sentiments can progress when driven by interest
in a manner that results in improvement, and in the moral case an
expansion of viewpoint as to who ought to be morally considered.
The passage just quoted continues:
Were there a species of creatures, intermingled with men, which, though
rational, were possessed of such inferior strength, both of body and mind,
that they were incapable of all resistance, and could never, upon the
highest provocation, make us feel the effects of their resentment; the
necessary consequence, I think, is, that we should be bound, by the
laws of humanity, to give gentle usage to these creatures, but should
not, properly speaking, lie under any restraint of justice with regard to
them, nor could they possess any right or property, exclusive of such
arbitrary lords. Our intercourse with them could not be called society,
which supposes a degree of equality; but absolute command on the one
side, and servile obedience on the other. Whatever we covet, they must
instantly resign: Our permission is the only tenure, by which they hold
their possessions: Our compassion and kindness the only check, by which
they curb our lawless will: And as no inconvenience ever results from the
exercise of a power, so firmly established in nature, the restraints of justice
and property, being totally useless, would never have place in so unequal
a confederacy.
This is plainly the situation of men, with regard to animals; and how far
these may be said to possess reason, I leave it to others to determine.
(EPM 3.19)
Hume distinguishes our natural moral obligations to animals, that we are
“bound by the laws of humanity,” from the artifices of rights in a way that
makes clear the fundamental importance of the latter. In the language of
natural law, we have only imperfect duties since there is no guarantee of
our performance of our natural obligations beyond whatever morally
motivates us in the absence of any sort of interested motives (Magri,
1996). In the case of justice and other perfect duties, sanctions attached
to laws guarantee performance when a moral motivation is absent, as well
as a wide array of social sanctions. But, in the absence of any utility to
create and enforce sanctions, there are no actual rights. Consequently,
animals have no exclusionary or exclusive rights – we can take what is theirs
with impunity even if it is inhumane. They also have no actual rights
against us giving rise to restraints of justice if we treat them inhumanely; all
they have are our kind motivations. They have no means to make their
resentments felt.
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 215
This passage is notable for at least two reasons. First, Hume places injury
as a central arena governed by rights, whereas the discussion in the Treatise
is almost exclusively in terms of property rights. In 1751 Hume’s friend
Henry Home, better known as Lord Kames, published Essays on the
Principles of Morality and Natural Religion, where he criticized Hume’s
discussion of justice in the Treatise for being too focused on property and
not recognizing the importance of moral injury. Kames also suggested that
not just man but all creatures possessing the “hoarding quality, are endued
with the sense or feeling of property,” and consequently that our sense of
the injustice of violating a right to property was prior to the establishment
of conventions for utility (Home, 1751, ch. 7). EPM was printed in
July 1751. Hume noted to Michael Ramsey at the end of June that he had
read “our friend Harry’s” criticisms (L I, 162) but EPM was no doubt sent
to the publisher and complete by then. But, given Hume and Kames’
closeness in this period, it is likely that Hume was aware of these criticisms
before he read them in print. If so, it is plausible to view this paragraph as
Hume’s response – accepting injury but denying that rights to property or
against injurers exist in any full-blooded sense in the absence of conven-
tions because of the basic difference between our moral sense of right and
wrong and rights, which corrects our moral irregularities in the service of
utility.
This is the second important point. Hume views rights as existing in
a meaningful sense only when they can be guaranteed or enforced.27
When force lies entirely with one party then only if the utility of their
enforcement of granting rights to the powerless for the powerful is
recognized will rights then be secured. Since the confederacy of humans
and animals is useless to humans insofar as they can take what they want
from animals whenever they wish, rights for animals are also useless to the
humans who would enforce them and, if useless, nonexistent.28
A consequence of this difference in kind between humans and animals
was that some humans thought, by analogy, this held between humans
who might only differ in degree of present force.

27
In “Of Some Remarkable Customs,” which is contemporary with EPM, Hume notes concerning
the pressing of seamen into service that “sailors, who are alone affected by it, find no body to support
them, in claiming the rights and privileges, which the law grants, without distinction, to all English
subjects” (E, 375). In other words, these rights are abrogated for the purpose of utility and cease to be
backed.
28
This was the default position, but not universally held. Both Frances Hutcheson and Thomas Reid
thought community with domesticated animals to be useful and to warrant defeasible rights. See
Garrett (2007).
216 aaron garrett
The great superiority of civilized Europeans above barbarous Indians,
tempted us to imagine ourselves on the same footing with regard to them,
and made us throw off all restraints of justice, and even of humanity, in our
treatment of them. In many nations, the female sex are reduced to like
slavery, and are rendered incapable of all property, in opposition to their
lordly masters. But though the males, when united, have, in all countries,
bodily force sufficient to maintain this severe tyranny; yet such are the
insinuation, address, and charms of their fair companions, that women
are commonly able to break the confederacy, and share with the other sex
in all the rights and privileges of society. (EPM 3.19)
Hume is here suggesting that unlike with animals, confederacy with all
human beings, whether we recognize it or not, is utile. In other words, if
the difference between humans results in inhumane conduct, that is both
a violation of our moral obligations and of rights. But if neither “barbarous
Indians” nor European women can extract rights from European men and
make their resentment felt, how can this possibly be the case? Putting aside
Hume’s questionable claim that women share “in all the rights and privil-
eges of society,” Hume seems to suggest that Indians and women ought to
have rights insofar as “the gradual enlargement of our regards to justice, in
proportion as we become acquainted with the extensive utility of that
virtue,” warrants the recognition of their utility. The “sense of humanity”
is Hume’s way of presenting the force of this imperfect duty, which, as
Moore suggested, has a strongly Ciceronian flavor. It is better to trade both
goods and sympathetic feelings than to engage in war or domestic tyranny,
a point also made by Montesquieu both in his condemnation of the
seraglio in the Persian Letters and in the Spirit of the Laws.29
There are at least two directions in which this points.30 The first is to
Bentham (Rosen, 2003, ch. 3), in his criticisms of natural rights as
nonsense on stilts and his hardnosed arguments that rights only exist
insofar as they are backed (Schofield, 2003). The second is to Adam
Smith’s Kames-influenced spectatorial theory of rights developed in his
Lectures on Jurisprudence – that rights involve the moral approval of
impartial spectators (Haakonssen, 1981). Neither is clearly argued for in
this passage. The most that can be said is that as European men enlarge
their views, they come to see that there is utility in recognizing a far wider
range of people as capable of a far wider range of virtues and vices than
they presently do.

29
For an important alternative discussion stressing the motivation of partiality and a sense of common
interest over self-interest in re justice, see Taylor (2015b), pp. 175–79.
30
For the continuing contemporary engagement with Hume on these issues see Hope (2010).
 Hume, Cicero, and the Ancients 217
10.4 Conclusion
This is, I suggest, connected with Hume’s answer to the problem of
diversity and the quarrel between the ancients and moderns, and to the
principle of auditorem non adiutorem. Regarding diversity in “A
Dialogue,” Hume stresses that all human beings are unified by a few
basic sentiments and interests. The greatest variation in moral sentiments
is due to the restriction of commerce of men and women (EPM D 43).
The ideal is free commerce without jealousy and gallantry (EPM D 48),
which gives rise to the best customs (Roman and English), whereas
separation, gallantry, and jealousy give rise to the worst (Italian and
Spanish of the previous generation). Hume’s considered view seems to
be that as the artifices – in the sense of artificial lives – propped up by
useless conventions break down, the virtues and vices esteemed will be
both more diverse and more agreed upon than in societies not so open.
This is not an argument for the equality of men and women, or
Europeans and barbarous Indians (and certainly not humans and ani-
mals). Instead Hume seems to hold that the idiosyncrasies that give rise to
exclusive and useless beliefs both about the vices and virtues can be
ultimately broken down by the enlargement of who and what is useful
and whom one socializes with.
Second, note that Hume’s juxtaposition is between present
Englishmen and Romans, Italians, and Spanish of the prior generation.
The changes Hume is describing are not the consequence of a larger
motor of history, but rather can take place in different times and
places. This does not exclude that there might be a larger progressive
history; Hume is just not arguing for it. Instead Hume seems to be
influenced by the kind of stadial history found in Kames, Smith, his
friend John Millar, and Montesquieu, which stresses that stages can be
found in any time and place and can be distinguished along a wide
variety of axes. The distinction between the ancients and the moderns
is one – but only one – way of periodizing human societies, conven-
tions, and achievements.
Finally, one can see the normative import of the Ciceronian auditorem
non adiutorem principle in EPM (EPM 3.19). Hume stresses “the gradual
enlargement of our regards to justice” and this happens both because of
the agency of those who ought to be included – “women are commonly
able to break the confederacy” through the “insinuation, address, and
charms of their fair companions” – and the European men who are open
to taking their virtues and utility seriously. In other words, the
218 aaron garrett
enlargement of regard to justice involves putting aside prejudices con-
cerning who should be counted and who should be taken seriously
(Taylor, 2015b, pp. 178–79), although unlike Cicero, the utile and the
honestum are most harmonized when the latter follows and is undergirded
by the former.31

31
Thanks to Hannah Culik-Baird, Peter Fosl, Ryan Hanley, James Harris, Esther Kroeker, Thomas
Pink, Benjamin Straumann, and the participants in the Brown University History of Philosophy
Roundtable for extremely helpful comments. Thanks to Tim Stuart-Buttle for sharing the manu-
script of his forthcoming book with me, which is now the standard work on the importance of
Cicero for early modern British philosophers in general, and Hume in particular.
 chapter 11

Hume on Religion in the Enquiry Concerning

the Principles of Morals
Esther Engels Kroeker

Hume’s Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (EPM) is first and

foremost a work about morality, not about religion, and we find in this
book no section title that mentions religion. It is evident, however, that
Hume presents his thoughts about religion throughout this book. The topic
of religion, in fact, is mentioned so often that it seems to be an important one
for Hume, or at least one about which he wishes to make a point. In order to
understand Hume’s claims concerning religion in EPM, we will try to
discover whether Hume has anyone in mind when he is speaking about
religion, as well as what forms of religion he is criticizing, and whose, and
to draw out a more general conclusion about Hume’s aim in EPM.
In the following, I suggest that Hume’s EPM is a plea to turn away from
some forms of religion and of religious philosophy and to embrace his own
moral and nonreligious philosophy. Hume writes in a way that, at first glance,
does not have any implication for the views of his more moderate Protestant
readers in England and Scotland. Indeed, the forms of religion Hume
explicitly criticizes are those of the enthusiasts, fanatics, or superstitious people
also scorned by Anglicans and Presbyterians. But despite appearances, I will
argue that Hume also, and more importantly, targets the everyday Protestant
person of his day as well as the moderate intellectual Protestant circles of
England and Scotland, and he writes in a way that mimics prominent
Protestant texts. Understanding this target will help us discover that
Hume’s EPM is his attempt to replace dominant Protestant texts on duty
and merit with his own moral philosophy. In fact, I show, EPM is Hume’s
own secular – but religiously styled – credo on duty and virtue.

11.1 Superstition and Enthusiasm in EPM: An Explicit

but Secondary Target
In EPM, Hume sets out to show that the qualities of mind that we
approve of, and that are thus virtuous, are those that are found agreeable
219
220 esther engels kroeker
and useful, either to the person who displays the virtue or to others. This
conclusion, Hume holds, follows from his method of analyzing the
various mental qualities, habits, and sentiments that form personal
merit, and that hence give rise to esteem and affection, or to hatred
and contempt.
Hume systematically offers examples and counter-examples of persons
who are humane, beneficent, or virtuous in other ways in order to bring to
light the traits that give rise to merit or demerit and the qualities such traits
have in common, and to include his reader in his method of observation.
What we find with regard to these examples is that from the earliest
sections of EPM Hume describes religious persons and their practices as
illustrations of what we do not esteem. The religious such and such is in fact
Hume’s prime example of what is neither useful nor agreeable, but rather
useless, disagreeable, frivolous, burdensome, or even pernicious. And the
persons or groups of persons who fit the description of useless and dis-
agreeable are most often taken from those that fall in the categories Hume
calls “superstition” and “enthusiasm.”
We find Hume’s most extensive comments on religion in Section 9,
“Conclusion.” Here, Hume concludes EPM by writing that his system is
evident, simple, and obvious. The reason why his theory, “so simple and
obvious . . . has so long escaped the most elaborate examination,” he writes,
is that some “systems and hypotheses have perverted our natural under-
standing” and kept us from seeing what is clearly evident from observation
and experience (EPM 9.1). In everyday life, Hume points out, the convic-
tion that what is virtuous is what is agreeable or useful is implicitly
maintained and accepted in “every intercourse of business or pleasure, in
every discourse and conversation . . . except in the schools.” Hence apart
from what is taught in “the schools” and absent theories that have obscured
what is evident from observation and experience, human beings all tend to
approve of what is useful and agreeable, Hume concludes.
We might wonder to whom Hume is referring when he speaks, in
Section 9, of “systems and hypotheses” that have so perverted the under-
standing. His answer is quick to come. After painting the picture of
Cleanthes, exemplifying the adorable moral character of the perfect son-
in-law, Hume concludes in Section 9.3:
And as every quality, which is useful or agreeable to ourselves or others, is, in
common life, allowed to be a part of personal merit; so no other will ever be
received, where men judge of things by their natural, unprejudiced reason,
without the delusive glosses of superstition and false religion. (EPM 9.3)
 Hume on Religion 221
The culprit, therefore, for corrupting our understanding and keeping us
from recognizing the obviousness of his account is, according to him,
superstition and false religion.
Hume then goes on to describe the ideal virtues of superstition and
false religion, which he calls the “monkish virtues.” He writes:
Celibacy, fasting, penance, mortification, self-denial, humility, silence,
solitude and the whole train of monkish virtues . . . are every where
rejected by men of sense . . .. We observe . . . they . . . stupefy the
understanding and harden the heart, obscure the fancy and sour the
temper. We justly, therefore, transfer them to the opposite column, and
place them in the catalogue of vices; nor has any superstition force
sufficient, among men of the world, to pervert entirely these natural
sentiments. A gloomy, hair-brained enthusiast, after his death, may have
a place in the calendar, but will scarcely ever be admitted, when alive, into
intimacy and society, expect by those who are as delirious and dismal as
himself. (EPM 9.3)
The so-called virtues such as celibacy, fasting, penance, mortification,
silence, and solitude are clearly those Hume associates with monks, priests,
and devotees who place emphasis on the sacred character of rituals and on
the great power of priests. These are the kind of virtues that are esteemed by
superstitious persons, according to Hume. But he also includes in this
passage the “hair-brained” or crazy enthusiast, who, he writes here, is
delirious and dismal. Hence, Hume’s explicit target in EPM is superstition
and enthusiasm, two types of what he calls “false religions” that are – at
least at first glance – responsible for keeping his theory from being obvious.
Hume’s disapproving comments on superstition and enthusiasm are not
restricted to his conclusion. In Section 2, Hume already voices his disap-
proval of superstition when he points out that the “monk and inquisitor” is
enraged “when we treat his order as useless or pernicious to mankind” (EPM
2.11). And in Section 3 Hume deplores the principles of the Levellers, who, he
writes, were religious fanatics found in England during the civil wars and
who promoted ideas of perfect equality of property (EPM 3.24). Despite
their superficial appearance of plausibility, a little common sense shows,
Hume argues, that their principles are impracticable and extremely perni-
cious to human society (EPM 3.26). Hume places the Levellers in the group
of enthusiasts and he concludes that we must reject appearances and search
for those rules that are, on the whole, most useful and beneficial, and that:
Vulgar sense and slight experience are sufficient for this purpose; where men
give not way to too selfish avidity, or too extensive enthusiasm. (EPM 3.27)
222 esther engels kroeker
For Hume, both superstition and enthusiasm pervert the understand-
ing, harden the heart, render their adepts gloomy and sour, and are
contrary to common sense and slight experience. The laws, he continues,
that do not terminate in the interest and happiness of human society, such
as those of the vulgar superstitious, are neither useful nor agreeable, and
rather appear whimsical and unnatural (EPM 3.35). The practices of the
superstitious vulgar who consider, for instance, certain foods as forbidden
and others as sacred are irrational, Hume writes. That egg is permitted here
but not there, or that a profane building may become holy by the murmur
of certain words, are superstitious beliefs and behaviors, Hume writes, that
are a folly (EPM 3.36–37). Superstitious rules, Hume therefore concludes,
are frivolous, useless, and burdensome (EPM 3.38).
Religious practices and principles are not only useless and hurtful, but,
Hume points out in Section 5, they are also unnatural. He writes here that
morality is grounded in human nature and natural sentiments of approval,
and hence is not completely relative to one’s education. Still, education
may have a great influence. Hume writes:
this principle, indeed, of precept and education, must so far be owned to
have a powerful influence, that it may frequently increase or diminish,
beyond their natural standard, the sentiments of approbation or dislike;
and may even, in particular instances, create, without any natural principle,
a new sentiment of this kind; as is evident in all superstitious practices and
observances. (EPM 5.3)
Hence, despite its influence, education, just as superstition, often creates
new and unnatural sentiments that often turn out to be contrary to those
natural sentiments of approval for what is useful and agreeable.
In light of the passages just listed that reveal Hume’s criticism of
enthusiasm and superstition, it may seem, at first glance, that these groups
are Hume’s main target in EPM. However, several elements cast doubt on
such a conclusion. First of all, Hume certainly associates the Levellers with
the enthusiasts, but he mostly seems to think of them as a political rather
than a religious group. He therefore goes on to describe them as “political
fanatics” more than religious enthusiasts (EPM 3.24), revealing that he is
addressing a political problem more than a religious one.
Second, Hume’s description of enthusiasm in EPM is rather superficial,
and in fact contradictory to his official views concerning this group. He
describes them here as gloomy and hair-brained. In his other writings,
however, although he believes that the enthusiasts get carried away into
grand schemes and objectives (thinking they have God on their side), he
 Hume on Religion 223
definitely does not think of them as gloomy. The enthusiast character, he
writes in “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm,” arises from pride and confi-
dence, and is found in bold and ambitious tempers (SE, E, 74).
Third, apart from the Levellers, we have few indications in EPM of
specific enthusiastic or superstitious persons Hume could have in mind.
Dario Perinetti argues that Hume’s ideas in the Treatise and in his essay
on superstition and enthusiasm were fueled by controversies and debates
as well as by Hume’s own readings while he was in Rheims and La Flèche,
the French Jesuit College, during the 1730s (Perinetti, 2018). The Treatise
and the essay are, indeed, written with specific enthusiasts and supersti-
tious persons in mind – groups Hume specifically mentions – but at the
later time of the writing of EPM, however, apart from Hume’s careful
discussion of the superstitious morality of Blaise Pascal (EPM D), Hume
makes fewer explicit references to real-life superstitious and enthusiastic
religious devotees than he does in some of his other writings. The many
explicit references Hume offers in his essay “Of Superstition and
Enthusiasm,” for instance, are to enthusiasts such as the Jansenists, and
to superstitious persons such as the Jesuits (clearly reminiscent of his time
in France). In the History of England Hume is also specific in a way that
differs completely from EPM. Volume I of the History, for instance, is
extremely precise in describing the superstition of the Germans, the
Saxons, the Druids, the monks, and the various catholic precepts.
Hume repeatedly shows here how the monks, priests, and sovereign
pontiffs acted most often in vicious manners, in order to achieve their
own power, instead of in light of virtue (see, for instance, H 1.8, 311).
Therefore, we find fewer specific descriptions and criticisms of particular
superstitious and enthusiast groups (as Hume understands them) in EPM
than in his other works.
Finally, it is not evident that Hume seeks primarily to criticize the
superstitious and the enthusiasts at home or in France, since, in reality, it
is very likely that his readers both on the continent and in England and
Scotland were men of letters and philosophers who would have agreed with
Hume about the dangers of superstition and enthusiasm.1 That supersti-
tion and enthusiasm is dangerous for human society, that it is contrary to
true religion, and that it invents new species of virtue (as Hume also argues
in his Natural History of Religion) is not a topic that is original to Hume’s
writings. If we focus on the British context we notice, for instance, that

1
Voltaire, for example, criticizes superstition in his entry on this topic in his Dictionnaire Philosophique
(Voltaire, 1965); he does not speak, however, of enthusiasm in the context of religion but rather of art.
224 esther engels kroeker
such ideas were part of well-known texts of Hume’s day and earlier.2 The
English playwright and politician Sir Robert Howard, for instance, writes
in his History of Religion of the grave dangers of the masters of superstition –
the priests and the Church of Rome – who are responsible, in their quest
for power, for the errors of the vulgar (Howard, 1694). And John
Trenchard, a journalist and radical Whig, describes in his Natural
History of Superstition (Trenchard, 1709) the excesses of enthusiasm and
how they are based in natural psychological processes rather than in
imagined supernatural interventions. The author of the Anglican devo-
tional The Whole Duty of Man, to which we turn later in this chapter, also
describes the dangers of those enthusiasts who think they are led by the
Spirit to act outside of the church order (The Whole Duty of Man XIV.8).3
And the Westminster Confession of Faith, which we also examine in the
following sections, is clear in its rejection of superstition and of monkish
virtues, when it says, for instance, that “monastical vows of perpetual single
life, professed poverty, and regular obedience, are so far from being degrees
of higher perfection, that they are superstitious and sinful snares”
(Westminster Confession of Faith XXII.7).4 In England and Scotland, at
least, various intellectuals including Anglicans and Presbyterians hence
openly rejected what they considered to be the excesses of enthusiasm as
well as the idolatrous practices of superstition.
It is a rather uncontroversial fact that most men of letters and educated
families in England and Scotland – those most susceptible to reading
Hume’s works – were associated in some way with Anglican and
Presbyterian branches of the church. If most of Hume’s readers, therefore,
would have agreed with Hume’s criticisms of superstition and enthusiasm
in EPM, it would be legitimate to conclude that Hume’s remarks on
religion are only useful to understand the generic enthusiast and supersti-
tious person he already described in his other works, that his objections
lack originality, that they lack precision, and that he is preaching to the
choir. Perhaps this is the case. However, it is plausible, I believe, to
recognize that Hume’s primary aim was not to denounce enthusiasm and
superstition, but rather to denounce the view of most of his main reader-
ship in England and Scotland: philosophers, theologians, and both learned
and common Protestants of his time.

2
Thomas Hobbes, Henry More, and John Locke, for instance, criticize enthusiasm as either hypo-
critical, as based in melancholy, or dubious for epistemological reasons (Shaftesbury, on the other
hand, is more favorable to enthusiasm – see Knox [1950] for more information).
3
All references to The Whole Duty of Man are to Allestree (1659).
4
Reference to the Westminster Confession of Faith are to Westminster Assembly of Divines (1937).
 Hume on Religion 225
Before turning to Hume’s more implicit but, I believe, primary target,
we might wonder why Hume chose to reject enthusiasm and superstition
in an explicit manner. Several such explanations may exist, but one likely
reason is that Hume wanted to bring, perhaps among others, his Anglican
and Presbyterian readers on board with him. Criticizing enthusiasm and
superstition would be welcomed by many orthodox or moderate Christians
of his day. As we will see, The Whole Duty of Man was one of the most-read
texts in Anglican families, and all Presbyterians would learn passages of the
Westminster Confession of Faith by heart. It is not far-fetched, therefore, to
imagine that Hume’s readers in England and Scotland would be reassured
by his criticisms of superstition and enthusiasm, and would be favorably
inclined toward Hume’s account, while thereby allowing Hume to reach
his primary target – which is to criticize them – in an indirect but no less
forceful manner.

11.2 Hume’s Primary Target: Philosophers and Theologians

Several passages from EPM suggest that Hume’s comments about religious
systems and hypotheses are criticisms, primarily, and contrary to appear-
ances, of intellectuals, philosophers, and men of letters who are religiously
inclined, or who have included religious ethical theories in their philo-
sophical accounts.
Returning to Section 9, we find that after deploring the monkish virtues,
Hume is puzzled once more by those who question his theory, by confess-
ing that he cannot understand why it could be doubted that the qualities
we esteem are inseparable from humanity and are approved in virtue of
being agreeable or useful (EPM 9.13). And in Part II of Section 9 Hume
once again returns to the topic of who is responsible for keeping a theory
such as his from being universally recognized.
His task here is to show not only that humans approve of virtue but also
that the practice of every duty leads to happiness and welfare, and that he has
advanced principles, which not only, it is hoped, will stand the test of
reasoning and enquiry, but may contribute to the amendment of men’s
lives, and their improvement in morality and social virtue. (EPM 9.14)
Hume admits that the truth of a philosophical proposition does not depend
on its usefulness, but, still, if it is pernicious to society, no one will live
according to it, and it will be detested. Hume claims that his own descrip-
tions, on the other hand, reveal virtue in all her “genuine and most engaging
charms, and make us approach her with ease, familiarity and affection”
226 esther engels kroeker
(EPM 9.15). And now Hume points out that those who have hidden and
clothed virtue in a dismal dress are “many divines, and some philosophers”
(EPM 9.15). Hume suggests that they have clothed virtue with “useless
austerities and rigours, suffering and self-denial” (EPM 9.15). Contrary to
the false virtue and duty of the divines and some philosophers, Hume
concludes, true virtue (agreeable and useful traits) asks merely for “just
calculation, and a steady preference of the greater happiness.” “If any austere
pretenders approach her,” Hume writes, “she . . . rejects them as hypocrites
and deceivers” or ranks them as her least favorite votaries (EPM 9.15).
Hume’s target here is those divines and philosophers who embrace religious
and philosophical systems that have clothed virtue in austerity and rigor.
In Appendix 4 Hume is even clearer about the group he is criticizing:
those philosophers and men of letters who have mixed philosophy with
theology. Hume explains here why modern philosophers (overridingly, it
seems) are so different in their moral enquiries from the ancients. Here is
what he explains:
In later times, philosophy of all kinds, especially ethics, have been more
closely united with theology than ever they were observed to be among the
Heathens; and as this latter science admits of no terms of composition, but
bends every branch of knowledge to its own purpose, without much regard
to the phaenomena of nature, or to the unbiassed sentiments of the mind,
hence reasoning, and even language, have been warped from their natural
course, and distinctions have been endeavoured to be established, where
the difference of the objects was, in a manner, imperceptible. (EPM
App. 4.21)
Hume goes on to argue that such philosophers, or rather “divines under
that disguise,” tend to think of virtues as those qualities over which we have
some voluntary control rather than qualities such as involuntary natural
tempers. Hume even concludes EPM by pointing out that the “philosoph-
ical enthusiast” departs “from the maxims of common reason” and can give
no reason for what pleases and displeases them (EPM D 57; italics added).
Such philosophers, those who have united ethics too closely with theology,
fail to recognize the evidence offered by observation and hence hide virtue
under a garment of gloom, and warp the understanding by clouding our
vision of what a little sense and observation will reveal about the nature and
foundation of virtue. These religious philosophers, therefore, seem to be
those most responsible in Hume’s estimation for keeping the account he
presents from being widely recognized in intellectual circles.
Therefore, despite appearances, several important passages in EPM
would hit closer to home, and would touch those religious readers of
 Hume on Religion 227
Hume’s circle and audience who think of themselves as religious but
neither superstitious nor enthusiast: those philosophers, Hume writes,
who have mixed philosophy with theology.
This reproach would indeed have a great effect on most of Hume’s
readers, and especially in England and Scotland. Hume, no doubt, expected
much of his readership to be from the English-speaking world. After all, he
wrote in English, his publisher was Scottish, and he expected his books to be
distributed first in England and Scotland. Moreover, the Enlightenment
period in Scotland was led by philosophers who were strongly influenced by
theology. Most philosophers of his time in the British and Scottish context
thought of philosophy in general, and moral theory or ethics in particular, as
compatible with religious doctrines. Moreover, many readers (philosophers,
theologians, or other men of letters) in Hume’s English and Scottish context
were educators, either in schools or in the church. And Hume seems to
include educators in the group he criticizes (EPM 5.3). Now, if Hume really
has these readers – most of Hume’s philosophical connections in England
and Scotland – in mind, and if these philosophers, for Hume, are those who
misrepresent virtue and warp the understanding, then we have found
Hume’s target, and his attack is not only innovative for his immediate
context, but also rather vehement.
What we must now consider is whether there is anything more specific
about the theology – which, for Hume, has been mixed with ethics and
philosophy – to which he reacts. In order to do so, it is useful to turn to two
texts that are representative of Protestant theology in his day, which I already
mentioned earlier: The Whole Duty of Man and the Westminster Confession of
Faith. In the next section I will distill from these works some of their central
claims, which reveal that Hume has these texts in mind when he is criticizing
philosophers who have mixed philosophy with theology, as well as the
theology of most of his English and Scottish readers. I am not arguing that
such a group is Hume’s only target, since perhaps Hume also has in mind
theologians and religiously inclined men of letters on the continent (such as
Blaise Pascal), and he certainly has in mind nonreligious philosophers (such
as Hobbes), but I want to offer evidence that Hume is writing with, among
his primary aims, his English and Scottish religious audience in mind.

11.3 EPM and Dominant Protestant Texts

The two religious texts to which Hume seems to allude in EPM are, first,
a devotional called The Practice of Christian Graces. Or The Whole Duty of
Man Laid Down in a Plain and Familiar Way for the Use of All, but especially
228 esther engels kroeker
the Meanest Reader: Divided into XVII chapters, one whereof being read every
lord’s day – to which we will refer as The Whole Duty of Man (WDM). This
text was published anonymously in 1658 or 1659, but most likely written
earlier, and is usually attributed to Richard Allestree. It was adopted as one
of the central texts of Anglican devotional literature. This devotional,
according to several scholars, was the “dominant book of religious instruc-
tion throughout the eighteenth century” (Stranks, 1961, p. 125 and Alblas,
1991, p. 92). The second text is the well-known Westminster Confession of
Faith, which we will turn to later.
We know Hume has WDM in mind when writing EPM because he
mentions this book in one of the footnotes, where he writes:
I suppose, if Cicero were now alive, it would be found difficult to fetter his
moral sentiments by narrow systems; or persuade him, that no qualities were
to be admitted as virtues, or acknowledged to be a part of personal merit, but
what were recommended by The Whole Duty of Man. (EPM 4.11 n.72)
We learn here that Cicero, according to Hume, would have found the list
of virtues of WDM too restrictive, and its system too narrow.
Despite what Tom Beauchamp writes in the notes to his edition of
EPM, WDM was not a Calvinist book (EPM Annotations to App. 4,
p. 248) but was rather reflective of seventeenth-century Anglican theology.5
Since Hume explicitly mentions this book, it is therefore imperative to
examine its theology. Moreover, it is important to consider this text
because several philosophers have recently argued that it is the target of
Hume’s Treatise. Anders Kraal, for instance, writes in 2013 that Hume’s
target in the Treatise is not Scottish Calvinism, or Christian theology in
general (as Paul Russell argues), but “rather, the theological system of the
most formidable ecclesiastical power in Britain in Hume’s day: the
Anglican Church” (Kraal, 2013, pp. 171–72), a system reflected in WDM.
Similarly, Alison McIntyre argues that Hume is aiming at WDM when he
seeks to undermine views he attributes to “the vulgar systems of ethicks” in
the Treatise (McIntyre, 2014, p. 143). Our task, therefore, is to examine
whether Hume might still be seeking to undermine the views of this
devotional in EPM.
The author of WDM writes in its preface that the book is to be a short
and plain direction to the very meanest reader to behave themselves in this
world, that they may be happy forever in the next. The point of the
devotional is to show us, the meanest reader, the whole will of God, and

5
Anglican theology is generally tied to Arminian rather than to Calvinist theology.
 Hume on Religion 229
to show every Christian the duties they owe to God, to themselves, and to
others.
Hume was familiar with this work, since we know from his deathbed
interview by Boswell that he read it when he was young, and he confesses
he had found it to be a strange book (Boswell, 1971, p. 11). The fact that he
read it when he was a boy, however, means he probably did not have the
details of the book in mind anymore when writing EPM. He might
nonetheless have retained some general ideas about it, or impressions of
its overall content. And the language borrowed from WDM in EPM does
seem to suggest that the devotional had made a strong impression on
Hume, and that some passages were still at the front of his mind.
Moreover, it is likely he read over the list of duties mentioned in WDM
as he was composing EPM since he writes that Cicero would have found
this list too narrow.
There is much to say about the parallels between WDM and EPM, and
it is tempting to think that Hume considers the list of duties of WDM as
austere and rigid at the time of writing EPM. After all, WDM mentions
fasting, meekness, and humility, and these are part of what Hume calls the
“monkish virtues.” To be honest, however, a closer look at Allestree’s
description of each duty attenuates the real differences and opposition
between his views and Hume’s views. A more complete analysis of
Allestree’s understanding of these virtues would take us beyond the scope
of this chapter, but I will simply state here that Hume would in fact agree
with many of the details of WDM.6 Still, Hume does reject some of its
central claims and methodology, and I will limit my account here to
a pertinent aspect of WDM to which Hume clearly responds in EPM.
Hume’s primary objection here is that WDM failed to include, in its list of
duties and virtues, natural tempers and character traits such as those
included by the ancients, including wit, good sense, and genius (EPM
App. 4.6).
We have evidence that Hume understood the list of duties and virtues
from WDM as too limited from the footnote mentioned earlier (EPM 4.11
n.72), and he also makes this point explicit in the section to which this
footnote refers, Appendix 4. As James Fieser and Aaron Garrett explain in
their chapters, Hume, in Appendix 4, argues that those qualities that are
the object of love or esteem are not only the social virtues of courage,
patience, and self-command, but also include those qualities that in the

6
For a more detailed examination of these virtues and of those specific elements from WDM that
Hume in fact endorses, see Kroeker (2020).
230 esther engels kroeker
English language we call “talents,” and over which we do not necessarily
have much voluntary control, such as intellectual endowments including,
for instance, prudence, penetration, discernment, and discretion (EPM
App. 4.2). Similarly, Hume continues, foolishness, infirmities, and mean-
ness are qualities we find odious, and qualities such as wit, eloquence,
address, taste, and abilities are objects of vanity (EPM App. 4.3–5). Natural
endowments, Hume concludes, are entitled “to the denomination of
virtues” (EPM App. 4.6), and we should follow the example of Aristotle,
Cicero, and “all ancient moralists” when they enlarge their ideas of virtue
to include every laudable quality and endowment of the mind (EPM App.
4.11). It is in this context that Hume writes, in the footnote, that it would
have been difficult for Cicero to limit his list of virtues to narrow systems
and to lists of personal merit such as “what were recommended by The
Whole Duty of Man” (EPM App. 4.11 n.72).
The objection Hume raises against WDM in fact assumes a correct
understanding of its characterization of virtue and duty. Contrary to the
Westminster Confession of Faith, the theology of the Anglican devotional is
more Arminian than Calvinist and hence places more importance on the
person’s freedom, effort, and responsibility to perform various duties.
Although we are often limited, and although some of our actions will
depend on God’s help, we must “pay obedience” to God and voluntarily
place ourselves in situations that will give us control over ourselves (WDM
II.2). Even humility is, according to Allestree, a duty, whereby we submit
our will to God’s will and wisdom by obedience or patience (WDM
II.3–10). Moreover, the author of WDM writes that humans are often
proud of the goods of nature, such as beauty, strength, wit, and the like,
but, he continues,
the being proud of any of these is a huge folly . . . [for] suppose we be not out
in judging, yet what is there in any of these natural endowments, which is
worth the being proud. There being scarce any of them, which some
creature or other hath not in a greater degree than man. How much does
the whiteness of the Lilly, and the redness of the Rose exceed the white, and
red of the fairest face? what a multitude of creatures is there, that farr surpass
man in strength and sweetness? . . .. It is therefore surely great unreason-
ableness for us to think highly of our selves, for such things as are common
to us with beasts and plants . . .. [Moreover,] if they were as excellent as we
fancy them, yet they are not at all durable, they are impaired and lost by
sundry means; a phrensy will destroy the rarest wit, a sickness decay the
freshest beauty, the greatest strength, or however old age will be sure to do
all. And therefore to be proud of them is again a folly in this respect. But
lastly, whatever they are, we gave them not to our selves. No man can think
 Hume on Religion 231
he did any thing towards the procuring his natural beauty or wit, and so can
with no reason value himself for them. (WDM VI.9)
The emphasis in WDM, overall, is on the agent’s act of will to obey and the
agent’s ability to obey, and the list of duties and virtues one must perform
or cultivate are within the domain of the voluntary. When Hume indicates
that his account, contrary to the account of WDM, will be inclusive of
natural tempers, his characterization of the views of the Christian devo-
tional is therefore accurate.
Let us now turn to the Westminster Confession of Faith (WCF). Kraal
(2013) argues that the Treatise is an explicit criticism of WDM, but not of
WCF. This might be true about Hume’s aims in the Treatise. However, his
aim in EPM seems to be to criticize not only WDM but also central aspects
of the Presbyterian confession.
WCF was produced by the Westminster Assembly, called by the Long
Parliament in 1643, as an attempt to unify the Church of England and the
Presbyterian Church of Scotland, to pacify tensions between Charles I and
his increasing Puritan Parliament, and to reform the Thirty-Nine Articles of
the Church of England. After the civil wars and restoration of Charles II,
WCF, which is an expression of classical Reformed, broadly Calvinistic
theology, lost its official status in England, but remained influential both in
England and Scotland, and was adopted as a representation of the faith,
worship, and government of the national Scottish Presbyterian Church.
Again, much could be said about the details of WCF, and about the
many aspects Hume would reject, such as its emphasis on special revelation
to know morality (chapter 1) and on morality as expressive of God’s will
(WCF 19.VI). However, in line with Hume’s reaction to WDM, in EPM
we find little discussion of the details of WCF, and EPM does not reveal
a close attention to its theology. Specific passages of EPM, however, reveal
that Hume reacts to some of its central claims. The first question of WCF’s
Shorter Catechism is: “What is the chief end of man?” And the answer
offered is the following: “Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy
him forever.” This line is a well-known one among Presbyterians from any
time and place, and was a common expression in Hume’s day. So perhaps
Hume has this well-known phrase in mind when he offers his most
extended criticism of religion in EPM, and writes in Part II of Section 9
that virtue
talks not of useless austerities and rigours, suffering and self-denial. She
declares, that her sole purpose is, to make her votaries and all mankind,
during every instant of their existence, if possible, cheerful and happy; nor
232 esther engels kroeker
does she ever willingly part with any pleasure but in hopes of ample
compensation in some other period of their lives. The sole trouble, which
she demands, is that of just calculation, and a steady preference of the greater
happiness. (EPM 9.15, italics added)
It is difficult not to notice that Hume speaks here of the “sole” purpose of
virtue, and of the “sole” trouble it requires, reminding us of the Shorter
Catechism’s first question about the chief purpose of man. The sole purpose
of virtue, and of a correct system of morals, for Hume, is people’s cheer-
fulness and happiness, and not God’s glory. Hence virtue demands noth-
ing too difficult or too demanding such as those duties that, WCF explains,
are impossible to achieve without divine help. Indeed, WCF does place
great emphasis on the need for God’s assistance, given the total depravity of
human nature.
Undeniably, WCF’s insistence on the total depravity of man, and on the
necessity of God’s grace for the production of any good work, is central to
its theology, and it is a claim that Hume rejects in EPM as well as in his
other writings. According to WCF, “all the motions” of our corrupted
nature “are truly and properly sin” (3.V). Without God’s help it is impos-
sible to be virtuous or to obey God’s will. The Spirit, we read in WCF,
effectually persuades the redeemed to believe and to obey (8.VIII, 13.I, and
16.I). Hume, in EPM, strongly reacts against the tendency of divines to see
human beings as deprived and completely corrupt, and who think that
duty is impossible without God’s help. Hume’s EPM is, to the contrary,
a defense of the claim that we do know what is virtuous by our natural
sentiments, and that virtue, if we take off the dismal dress with which the
divines have clothed her, is cheerful, and accessible without supernatural
intervention.7
Several pieces of evidence from Hume’s life and from his other
writings also offer good reasons for thinking that WCF was never far
from Hume’s thoughts. For one, Hume was brought up in the Church
of Scotland. According to James Harris, Hume “would have known
every chapter of The Confession of Faith” and he “would doubtless have
had to learn by heart” passages of its Larger and Shorter Catechisms (2015,
p. 48). Furthermore, we know Hume often had the first question of the
catechisms in mind from a letter he wrote to Hutcheson in 1739, where
he objects to the notion that all human beings are fitted for some end
determined by God. The notion of a final cause of human nature is for

7
Such a view from EPM echoes what Hume says in NHR (p. 65), and in his essay “Of the Dignity and
Meanness of Human Nature.”
 Hume on Religion 233
Hume “pretty uncertain & unphilosophical.” He writes: “For pray, what
is the end of man? Is he created for happiness or for virtue? For this life
or the next? For himself or his maker?” (L I, 33; also quoted in Harris,
2015, p. 53). The allusion to WCF here concerning the end of man is
hard to miss. Hume therefore clearly rejected this central aspect of WCF,
and we have no good reason to think he changed his mind on this point
by the time of EPM. In fact, EPM is a clear rejection of WCF’s view of
human nature as completely corrupted and it also seeks to argue that the
sole purpose of virtue liberated from austerity and the rigors of theology
is people’s own happiness, not God’s, and to be happy in this life,
regardless of the next.

11.4 The Religious Style of EPM

The Anglican and Presbyterian of Hume’s day would be unperturbed by
many criticisms Hume raises in EPM against false religion, superstition,
and enthusiasm. After all, they would have a better knowledge of their own
texts than Hume, and would be quick to point out that most of the duties
listed in their texts are not as gloomy as Hume might think, and that many
so-called monkish virtues are in fact missing from their favorite theological
literature. Mortification, penance, and passive suffering are not ideals
encouraged in mainline Protestant circles. Moreover, Hume’s explicit
mention of superstition and enthusiasm would have the effect of
bringing most Anglicans and Presbyterians on board with him.
Indeed, both texts mentioned here deplore the attitudes and views of
the superstitious, and also of the enthusiast who rejects the order of the
church and thinks that he may act alone, with the help of the Spirit,
and outside of the guidelines, order, and ordinances of the official
church (WDM XIV.8; WCF XXII.7). And a quick reading of EPM
might lead most of us to conclude that Hume, here, is mostly criticiz-
ing superstition and enthusiasm, without, admittedly, offering us any-
thing new or important concerning their views.
My suggestion, however, has been that the superstitious and the enthu-
siast are not Hume’s main target in EPM. His criticism, albeit implicit, is
nonetheless forceful, and is rather aimed to crush the moral systems of his
Anglican and Presbyterian readers. We have already observed that Hume is
certainly thinking about the theological texts of these groups when writing
EPM. But I want to present a last piece of evidence, which is more
conclusive with regard both to the rejection of WDM and WCF, and
which shows that Hume mimics the style of these religious texts.
234 esther engels kroeker
If Hume has in mind the Shorter Catechism, which is easier to read and
remember than the whole WCF, and if he recalls not the details of the
theological texts but their overall aim and purpose, then I believe Hume
would keep in mind the literary style of these works. The authors of both
religious works importantly write about the foundation of duty and the
motivation to duty, and subsequently list a whole series of duties and
virtues that one should follow, or that are expressive of God’s will. This is
in fact the particular way Hume proceeds in his EPM. Hume’s style here is
not that of the anatomist’s scalpel of the Treatise, taking apart and analyz-
ing each psychological process involved in passions and in the formation of
moral evaluations and beliefs. His style in EPM is also different from the
form he adopts in the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, where,
reminiscent of Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods, he brings to life
representatives of the main theological views he is interested in and states
through the mouth of his characters positions he might favor or reject. And
the presentation in EPM is not the genre of an anthropologist or
a historian, which he adopts in his Natural History of Religion and his
History of England. The style of EPM, I believe, is precisely the style of the
religious texts of his time. Hume here is writing in the style of a confession,
a devotional, or even a credo. In this sense, Hume’s style in EPM could be
called “religious” if we think of “religious” as describing the writings of
WDM and WCF.
Hume’s style in EPM is strong evidence that both theological writings
were part of his principal target. All three texts (EPM and the two
Protestant texts) offer general comments about their system, methodology,
and aims. But the bulk of the text involves discussion of particular duties.
The catechisms offer a careful analysis of each of the ten commandments,
illuminating key terms, the meaning of the rules, and the reason for which
they were given. WDM goes over the list of duties, carefully explaining the
source, meaning, and purpose of each duty. Similarly, in EPM Hume
offers a general account of the foundation of morality together with
a discussion of particular duties.
The discussion of particular duties together with an account of the
origin of merit is found in all sections, but the middle sections of EPM
focus especially on the descriptions of particular virtues. It is interesting to
notice that Hume offers little or no mention of religion while describing
each virtue in the middle Sections 6, 7, and 8 of EPM. However, the fact
that this section of the text is part of Hume’s main criticism is evident from
the style, but also from the examples of virtues that Hume discusses here.
We find in Section 6 already a list of virtues that is much more expansive
 Hume on Religion 235
than those found in the religious texts: discretion, caution, enterprise, good
sense, prudence, perseverance, forethought, and, Hume writes, “a thou-
sand more of the same kind,” which points to the fact that the list is much
more inclusive than the religious lists. And in Sections 7 and 8 the virtues
Hume discusses such as cheerfulness, greatness of mind, philosophical
tranquility, delicacy of taste, decency, and cleanliness are the kinds of
virtues that are absent from the religious texts. On the whole, these virtues
are involuntary – hence illustrations of Hume’s main criticism of WDM –
and they are common life attitudes that show not the depravity of man but
rather the natural virtue of man – contrary to WCF’s overall view of
human nature. Hume need not mention religion in this section to make
his point. His style and list of virtues is evidence enough: he adopts the way
of writing of the religious texts zooming in on particular virtues, and he
replaces the list of virtues and duties described in WCF and WDM with his
own list.
The fact that Hume mimics not only the style but also the aims of
the religious texts is also evident from the way Hume describes the
systems of religion that have clouded our understanding. He writes, in
Section 9:
What hopes can we ever have of engaging mankind to a practice, which we
confess full of austerity and rigour? Or what theory of morals can ever serve
any useful purpose, unless it can show, by a particular detail, that all the
duties, which it recommends, are also the true interest of each individual?
(EPM 9.16, italics added)
We have already noticed that it is highly plausible that Hume thinks of
the morality of WCF as austere, and as covering morality with a dismal
dress. But his reference to systems that recommend “all the duties” also
gives us a strong hint that the system he rejects here is the system of
WDM, which has attempted but failed to offer an overview of all the
duties of man.
Moreover, Hume reveals ambivalent sentiments toward WDM, openly
criticizing it as too narrow, but also seemingly envious and approving of its
contents by adopting and reappropriating some of its language. The author
of WDM points out that living out the duties will make us happy in the
next life, but he also repeatedly writes that performing all the duties
mentioned in his book will “tend to making the soul Happy; which is
the end of our Care” (Preface 30). Moreover, he writes, the benefits of
Christ, which we receive by performing our whole duty, “will make the
soul happy” in this life (I.1). Such duty, he continues, will bring us “to good
236 esther engels kroeker
lives” and to the “good things he hath promised” (I.23 and 24).8 Hume
could not fail to approve of this end of our whole duty – good life and
happiness – and he actually adopts this end in EPM, but offers his own
secularized (nonreligious) means for reaching it. Furthermore, and import-
antly, the author of WDM writes explicitly that humans often sin even
though “there is nothing either of pleasure, or profit to invite” them to such
behavior (I.49). Humans, the author notices, sin even though they reap
from it neither pleasure nor utility. In later passages, and in a similar vein,
the author writes that duties, such as prayer, are “very pleasant” and that
the nearer we draw to God, “the happier we are” (V.17). He also writes that
Christian duties are important so that we “may live cheerfully and
comfortably in this world” (XIV.25); they are “reasonable but also . . .
pleasant [duties]” (XVI, on love of enemies); and “there is in the
practice of Christian duties a great deal of present pleasure” (XVII.20)
and hence “all I can add is to beseech and entreat the reader to put
himself into this so pleasant and gainful course” (XVII.22, italics
added). It is difficult, therefore, not to notice the insistence in
WDM on the fact that virtue is both useful and agreeable, a fact it
would be hard to imagine Hume forgot.
Finally, Hume is not original in his usage of the clothing metaphor since
it is one we find – at this point not surprisingly – in WDM as well. Allestree
writes, for instance, that
These and all other spiritual graces our Souls must be clothed with when we
come to this Feast, for this is that wedding garment, without which whoso-
ever comes, is like to have the entertainment, mentioned in the parable, of
him who came to the marriage without a wedding garment, Mat. 22. 13.
(III.20)
Hume therefore adopts not only WDM’s insistence on pleasure and
usefulness, but also its language of seeing the virtues as garments. It is no
wonder, therefore, that when he mentions the garment with which the
divines have clothed virtue in Section 9 and that the divines have offered
a list of all the duties, he thereafter concludes that there is no hope we will
actually practice such duties. His point is that despite WDM’s insistence
on interest and pleasure, a more inclusive and accurate account, such as his
own, actually meets those ends. And the way he offers his own, in his eyes,
true account is by borrowing the language and style of the religious texts he
seeks to replace. His way of adopting the style and expressions of the

8
I also make this point in Kroeker (2020).
 Hume on Religion 237
religious manuals might be semiconscious, or slight persiflage, of course,
but Hume might also use it to render EPM more influential.
By presenting his moral philosophy, which includes his own list of
virtues, Hume’s aim is to persuade his readers to give up the theological
texts that have offered a limited and pernicious list of duties, and to
embrace Hume’s own text as the list of virtues that recognize her real
foundation – human nature and natural human reactions – and her real
use – human happiness and cheerfulness. We discover this aim when
Hume deplores the primacy and influential role of the religious texts in
the very last lines of EPM. He laments that in his day,
philosophy has lost the allurement of novelty, it has not such extensive
influence; but seems to confine itself mostly to speculations in the closet; in
the same manner, as the ancient religion was limited to sacrifices in the
temple. Its place is now supplied by the modern religion, which inspects our
whole conduct, and prescribes an universal rule to our actions, to our words,
to our very thoughts and inclinations; a rule so much the more austere, as it
is guarded by infinite, though distant, rewards and punishments.
(EPM D 53)
What Hume deplores, therefore, is the importance philosophers, theolo-
gians, and lay religious persons accorded to religious guides to duty. Contrary
to the ancients, philosophers of Hume’s day relied on lists of duties and
observations about the foundation and origins of morality, which, for Hume,
were contrary to observation, to natural human sentiments, and hence to
Hume’s own moral theory. What Hume aims to do in EPM, therefore, is to
use the style of the religious texts – a popular and effective style – to push
religion back into the closet and to bring philosophy, his philosophy, out
into the open. Hume’s point is that philosophy and common sense are better
guides to virtue than the Protestant texts of his time. Hence, even if Hume
undoubtedly denounces enthusiasm and superstition, his primary target is to
supplant the religious and influential texts of his day with his own philoso-
phy, using their religious style – perhaps in hopes of being as influential as
they were.9

9
I thank the participants in the October 2018 workshop held at William & Mary for helpful
discussion, especially Ryan Hanley, Willem Lemmens, and Richard McCarty for more detailed
comments and suggestions.
 chapter 12

Moral Disagreement
Lorne Falkenstein

Hume’s contemporary critic, James Balfour, charged that “in the dia-
logue subjoined to his [Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals
(EPM), Hume] . . . represents virtue . . . as the casual and uncertain effect
of the capricious humours, and customs of mankind” (Balfour, 1753,
p. 127). Balfour wrote that Hume “would seem to deduce the following
conclusion, p. 237, that fashion, vogue, custom, and law were the chief
foundation of all moral determinations” (1753, pp. 127–28). According to
this conclusion, “whatever any general set of men, or even any individual
person, may think fit to do, however criminal in itself, must yet be
deemed a virtue; because it is immediately agreeable to those who practice
it” (1753, pp. 130–31). Even Hume could not live up to this consequence.
“Our author himself, not very consistent in his opinions, would seem to
make an exception of certain virtues, and to suppose them so founded in
the nature of things, as all nations must agree to them. These . . . in
p. 238” (1753, p. 132).
Balfour neglected to point out that, on the purportedly inconsistent
pages 237 and 238 (of the 1751 edition of EPM), different characters are
speaking: Palamedes and the dialogue’s narrator. Hume took issue with
this misrepresentation.
I must only complain of you a little for ascribing to me the sentiments which
I have put into the mouth of the Sceptic in the Dialogue. I have surely
endeavoured to refute the Sceptic with all the force of which I am master;
and my refutation must be allowed sincere, because drawn from the capital
principles of my system. But you impute to me both the sentiments of the
Sceptic and the sentiments of his antagonist, which I can never admit of. In
every Dialogue, no more than one person can be supposed to represent the
author. (L I, 81 [March 15, 1753], 173)
Balfour was unimpressed. His accusations are retained in the second
edition of 1763 (pp. 149–55). The dialogue form can be used to insinuate

238
 Moral Disagreement 239
opinions under a shield of plausible deniability, and Balfour had been
careful to ground Palamedes’ tenets in one of the principles of Hume’s
system: the principle that immediate agreeability is one of four alternative
grounds of moral approval. But Hume’s protest must have been sincere.
His letter was a private communication, and this is the only one of many
criticisms he took issue with.
In contemporary terms, Balfour charged Hume with moral relativism,
and Hume denied that charge. But neither Hume nor Balfour used the
term “relativism.” Hume described himself as endeavoring to refute
a skeptic. Balfour later insisted that “moral relations are founded in the
essential difference betwixt happiness and misery; as this is unalterable in
the nature of things, so must these be also” (1763, p. 154). This leaves a gap
between Palamedes and Balfour that can be filled by various ways of
responding to Palamedes’ “skepticism” without accepting an unalterable
foundation for moral judgments.
This chapter situates Hume’s position on moral judgment between
moral skepticism and moral absolutism. The label “relativism” is largely
avoided in favor of identifying what moral disagreements Hume had to
countenance.1
This chapter proceeds by steps from the extremes. The first section
shows why Hume could not have accepted Balfour’s moral absolutism.
The second shows why he did not accept Palamedes’ moral skepticism.
The third considers how Hume integrated the fact of moral disagreement
with his rejection of moral skepticism. The fourth concludes that Hume’s
account of moral judgment cannot rule out moral disagreements that none
of the parties to the dispute can agree to tolerate. The fifth closes the
chapter.

12.1 Against Moral Absolutism

Hume opened EPM by making room for alternatives between moral
skepticism and moral absolutism. He denied that any “human creature”
could be a moral skeptic. No one can avoid considering human characters
and actions to be good or bad, and anyone who claims otherwise cannot be

1
Most recent commentators deny that Hume was a relativist. Earlier commentators were divided on
the question. See Abramson (1999); Cohen (2000), p. 118; Berry (2007); Costelloe (2007), pp. 87–94;
Bohlin (2013); Collier (2013). For earlier commentators, see Abramson (1999, p. 184 n.1) and Berry
(2007, n.2 and n.17). For some reservations see Cohon (2008, pp. 243–54). Work by more recent
commentators oddly neglects M. F. Cohen, who argues that Hume wanted to deny relativism, but
that his case for doing so is “hopeless” (1990, pp. 316, 334–37).
240 lorne falkenstein
taken seriously (EPM 1.2). It is a more serious question whether these
considerations are judgments that must be “the same” for “every rational
intelligent being” or whether they are “immediate feelings” founded on the
constitution of “the human species” (EPM 1.3). Hume declared that the
answer depends on what leads people to consider a person to have merit or
virtue. We should determine what mental attributes, habits, sentiments, or
capacities are admired or reviled. Then we should consider if there is
anything these qualities share. Having arrived at definitions of virtue and
vice at the end of this empirical inquiry, we will be able to say what roles
reason and sentiment play in our moral judgments (EPM 1.10).2 Since
reason is the same for every rational being, but sentiments can vary,
a position on whether morals must be the same for all beings may arise
from the investigation (EPM App. 1.21).
EPM 2–8 is an empirical investigation of human moral attitudes,
undertaken in the best way Hume knew: with appeals to introspection
and common understanding, sometimes as codified in the ordinary mean-
ings of words, and with evidence drawn from classical and recent histories,
geographies, and other literary sources.3 Hume took the evidence to
establish that human beings feel an instinctive concern for the welfare of
other human beings. They accordingly approve of whatever qualities of
character are useful for or agreeable to self or others.4 Appendix 1 opens
with the declaration that if this “foregoing hypothesis” is received, it will be
easy to resolve the original question of how far reason and sentiment enter
into moral judgments (EPM App. 1.1).

2
EPM 1.10 was significantly revised in the fifth edition of 1764. Earlier editions stressed the importance
of not beginning with exact definitions of virtue and vice. Later editions stressed that the empirical
approach can be trusted to yield clear results because our sense of these matters is so quick and
universal that anyone’s sentiments are a sure guide.
3
M. F. Cohen, citing Locke’s comment that anyone who is “but moderately conversant in the History
of Mankind, and has look’d abroad beyond the Smoak of their own Chimneys [will not believe there
are innate practical principles]” (Locke 1979, I.1 § 2), objects that “the great diversity of human moral
conviction” must have been obvious to Hume and was acknowledged by him in numerous contexts
(1990, p. 333). Granting this, Hume wanted to see if there is anything common to all these diverse
convictions. Berry (2007, pp. 537–39) writes that “Thanks to Hume’s non-contextualism, ‘man’ is
a fit subject for a science because his behaviour necessarily exhibits certain uniformities.” However,
the science has to be done first to determine whether there are any such uniformities. If there are, they
are established as general rules based on induction, not necessities.
4
In Hume’s earlier Treatise this conclusion was not drawn from a broad-ranging literary survey but
instead from a speculative account of the workings of the mind involving sympathy. See Taylor
(2015b) for objections to the longstanding view (e.g., MacIntyre, 1965, p. 15) that the Treatise adopts
the better or more interesting approach. When the author of EPM spoke of some small degree of
benevolence, he was not simply using other words for what the author of the Treatise had called
“extensive sympathy” (cf. Abramson, 1999, p. 173). He was abandoning an attempt to derive the
phenomenon from psychological principles, and instead appealing to observation.
 Moral Disagreement 241
In somewhat more detail, EPM 2.1 observes that we all approve of
benevolence, and asks why we hold it in high esteem. Hume presented
inductive evidence to prove that “a part, at least of its merit” arises from its
utility (EPM 2.8 and 22). We retract our approval for benevolent actions
when convinced of their disutility, and approve of selfish actions when
convinced of their utility (EPM 2.17–21).
EPM 3 opens by asserting that utility is more than just a “part” of the
reason why we approve of justice. “Reflections on the beneficial quality of
this virtue are the sole foundation of its merit” (EPM 3.1). In circumstances
where it would have no utility, such as those of total abundance or dire
scarcity, just acts would not be approved of, and would not even be
recognized as such. EPM 4 argues that national allegiance, chastity,
secrecy, and constancy in friendships are also valued solely for their utility.
But EPM 5 takes an abrupt turn. “But, useful?” Hume asked. “For what?
For some body’s interest, surely. Whose interest then?” (EPM 5.15). Over
a long course of argument and induction from cases, Hume established
that the interest is that of human society in general, including human
societies in remote ages and places. The evidence that our moral approval is
based on what is useful for such an extensive community is coupled with an
explanation of why it is so based: because we are naturally benevolent.
While its utility may be “a part” of the reason why we value benevolence,
benevolence is the main reason why we value utility. Our benevolence may
not be strong enough to lead us to lift a finger to relieve the misery of
someone in distress, but it is strong enough to make us give a cool
preference to those who do (EPM 9.4, 5.39) and choose, for instance, to
walk on the hard flint and pavement rather than tread on the gouty toes of
someone with whom we have no quarrel (EPM 5.39). Natural benevolence
is the foundational principle uncovered by Hume’s investigation of the
causes of moral judgment. Granting that this much is evident from
induction, any further inquiry need not detain us.
’Tis needless to push our researches so far as to ask, why we have humanity
or a fellow-feeling with others. ’Tis sufficient, that this is experienced to be
a principle in human nature. We must stop somewhere in our examination
of causes; and there are, in every science, some general principles, beyond
which we cannot hope to find any principle more general. (EPM 5.17 n)
Hume’s examination culminates by considering an a priori and an
a posteriori line of inquiry (EPM 5.43–46). The a posteriori line uses
human moral judgments as evidence for the conclusion that human beings
feel a degree of benevolence or concern for the welfare of others. The
242 lorne falkenstein
a priori line takes this conclusion as a principle for predicting how human
beings will make moral judgments and sees the predictions confirmed “in
numberless instances.” There are exceptions: rage, self-interest, party loy-
alties, and other biases. Attaching the exceptions to the rule, people will not
be indifferent to the fate of others, when the exceptional circumstances do
not arise. They will agree that what promotes others’ well-being is good
and what causes them misery is evil. Hume considered its foundation in
the two lines of inquiry to be powerful evidence in favor of his principle.
Having developed a theory concerning what leads us to consider
a person to have virtue, Hume went on over EPM 6–8 to “bring
a farther confirmation of the present theory, by showing the rise of other
sentiments of esteem and regard from the same or like principles” (EPM
5.47). What ensues is like the search for a covering law: a higher-order
regularity of which the given regularity is an instance. This confirms the
proposed regularity by establishing that it is a species of what happens more
generally. Hume claimed that we feel the same or similar approval for
bodily endowments, like physical beauty (EPM 6.23–24), that we do for
virtuous qualities of character, and the same or like approval for advantages
that we have done nothing to cultivate, like wealth and nobility of birth
(EPM 6.29–35), that we do for virtues we have worked to acquire. This
makes them equally virtuous. In all editions of EPM, impotence and
barrenness are declared to be vices (EPM 6.27), and in the first edition
a footnote draws the corollary that being a “good woman’s man” must be
a virtue. Even cleanliness makes the list of virtues (EPM 8.13), a choice that
scandalized some of Hume’s contemporaries almost as much as what he
said about good women’s men (Balfour, 1753, pp. 117–18). Hume’s first
response was to declare the dispute to be merely verbal. He later relegated
these observations to an appendix (EPM App. 4).
At a more substantive level, EPM 6 provides evidence that we admire
people for possessing any of a large catalog of advantages that have no social
utility but are good for the individual themselves. Since these advantages in
others are of little or no use to me, my approval of them cannot be
grounded on self-interest. It must arise from a disinterested approval of
whatever is good for another person. This confirms the theory that we do
feel disinterested concern for the welfare of others. Further evidence is
found in two other classes of phenomena, examined in EPM 7 and 8
respectively: our approval of qualities that have no utility but are merely
agreeable, either to the person themselves or to those in their community.
This confirms that utility is not the sole foundation of morals and that
what is useful is so only because it is useful for the happiness of others. It
 Moral Disagreement 243
further confirms that concern for the well-being of others must be what lies
at the foundation of our approval.
In sum, Hume declared that we are disposed to approve of whatever
qualities are useful or agreeable either to other persons themselves or to
society (EPM 9.1). The source of this four-fold criterion is the same: our
humanity (EPM 9.8). This is a sentiment we are constituted to feel. We
could have been made differently.
Hume’s enterprise in almost all of EPM is descriptive, not prescriptive.5
Consistently with what was said in earlier editions of EPM 1.10, he did not
begin “with exact definitions of virtue and vice” and seek to apply them to
prescribe what activities are right or wrong. The bulk of EPM is devoted
to a study of the moral judgments that people do make, and an induction to
a theory that explains why they make them. The concluding section continues
in the same vein. It opens with a response to the charge that such an obvious
theory should have been offered before now (EPM 9.1–3: it has always been
implicitly and commonly accepted, except by those whose natural under-
standing has been corrupted by systems and hypotheses). There follows an
account of why our moral judgments are not tied to any other sentiment than
humanity (EPM 9.4–13). The latter discussion gives two further reasons why
we so highly approve of what gratifies this sentiment. First, no other feeling is
so widely shared, and feelings of all sorts are amplified when shared by others
(EPM 9.9). Second, one of our deepest needs, the need to be well thought of
by others,6 drives us to bring not only our opinions but also our actions into
line with what is approved of by others (EPM 9.10).7 Even these points are

5
In saying this I side with Mackie (1980), pp. 5–6, 76; Darwall (1995b), p. 61; Cohen (2000), p. 111; and
Kelahan (in this volume) on the contentious issue of whether Hume was a moralist or only a moral
psychologist. The opposed view, that Hume set out to do normative ethics as well as moral
psychology, is endorsed by all the other Hume scholars mentioned in this chapter. For discussion,
see Cohon (2008), pp. 239–41 and 243. In siding with the minority, I do not mean to deny that Hume
made moral judgments or expressed moral preferences. His condemnation of moral skepticism at the
outset of EPM makes it clear that he did not think that any human being could sincerely refrain from
doing so. But he was not particularly interested in justifying his moral judgments. It is not that he
considered that this is something that cannot be done or is not worth doing. It was just not his
project.
6
At DP 2.10 Hume expanded the account of pride he had given in the Treatise by noting we do not
trust our own opinion of ourselves, knowing it to be partial. Our pride therefore drives us to seek the
approval of others, and in most people obtaining this approval becomes one of the principal concerns
in life.
7
Cohon (2008, p. 240) cites the central portion of EPM 9.10–11 as evidence of Hume’s waffling “from
mere psychological description to endorsement.” There is waffling. But it seems to be between
accounting for what causes moral belief and accounting for what impels us to act in conformity with
that belief. M. F. Cohen (1990, p. 318) charges that reducing moral judgment to “merely reporting,
expressing, or projecting a feeling” is tantamount to maintaining that there is no such thing as moral
obligation. Hume was sensitive to the distinction. EPM 9.10–11 attempts to explain how others’
244 lorne falkenstein
only made to explain why we approve of what we call “virtue.” It is only in
the second part of EPM 9 that Hume turned to discuss what he tellingly
called “our interested obligation” to be virtuous (EPM 9.14). Strikingly, after
all the work he had done up to this point, he considered it an open question
whether the moral opinions he had so painstakingly cataloged, compared, and
sought to reduce to a common root are ones that “contribute to the amend-
ment of men’s lives, and their improvement in morality and social virtue.”
A scant eleven paragraphs are devoted to arguing that they are, for two
reasons: because experience shows that following them is more likely to
improve an individual’s circumstances in life than disobeying them, and
because doing so is likely to make us feel better about ourselves, particularly
given an original propensity to benevolence. A self-interested pragmatism is
the only ultimate inducement (not reason, foundation, or justification) that
EPM offers for morality. In large part, however, it is not interested in the
question of why one should be moral.
The moral psychology presented over EPM 2–8 is applied in EPM App.
1 to resolve the original question concerning the respective roles of reason
and sentiment in moral judgment. The implications for the related ques-
tion of whether moral laws have an absolute foundation are clear.
One way to determine whether someone is a moral absolutist is to ask how
they would answer the question of the Euthyphro: is the good good because it
is loved by the gods, or do the gods love it because it is good?8 Are moral rules
posited for human beings by Gods who stand above those rules, or is there an
absolute standard of right and wrong that even the Gods acknowledge?
Judging by his answer to this question, Hume was not a moral absolutist.
Thus the distinct boundaries and offices of reason and of taste are easily
ascertained. The former conveys the knowledge of truth and falsehood: The
latter gives the sentiment of beauty and deformity, vice and virtue . . .. The
standard of the one, being founded on the nature of things, is eternal and
inflexible, even by the will of the supreme Being: The standard of the other,
arising from the internal frame and constitution of animals, is ultimately derived
from that supreme will, which bestowed on each being its peculiar nature, and
arranged the several classes and orders of existence. (EPM App. 1.21)
Hume associated reason with the discovery of truths that would be
recognized and acknowledged by any intelligent being, including a divine

expressions of their feelings can cause me to feel obliged to act accordingly. That project is further
prosecuted in the second part of EPM 9.
8
I do not mean to offer this as a correct translation of the question Socrates asked at Euthyphro 10a.
I am using “question of the Euthyphro” as a label for a particularly telling question.
 Moral Disagreement 245
being (EPM 1.3, App. 1.21). At the outset of EPM App. 1 he observed that
because moral judgments depend in part on utility, reasoning about the
relations and effects of objects and actions must have a role to play in moral
judgment (EPM App. 1.2). Reasoning is declared to be particularly import-
ant where considerations of justice are concerned, as these are dependent on
facts and consequences that can be difficult to discern (EPM App. 1.2). But
a being for whom all things are equally easy to do, and who needs no tools to
do them, could have no sense that one thing is more useful than any other. It
could not even think that one way of doing things is faster or more efficient
than another. It could at most think that limitations it has imposed on other
beings make such things so for them. Moreover, a being that has no need to
divide its labor with others to achieve its ends could have no use for
institutions of property, fidelity to contracts, or rules of exchange. It would
live in the conditions of superabundance that, for Hume, make the concept
of justice meaningless (EPM 3.2–4 and 3.14). A supreme intelligence could
appreciate that justice would facilitate the thriving of more limited beings,
but it would not consider such policies to be of any relevance to itself. Sunt
superis sua jura (NHR 13.7).9
More fundamentally, there can only be utility for a being that has ends, and
there can only be ends where there are desires. According to EPM, human
judgments of utility are based on our disinterested desire for the welfare of
others. That we feel this desire is empirically obvious. But we can assign no
further reason why we feel it. To resolve it into the will of our maker, who
could just as well have made us otherwise, is to make the nature of virtue and
vice depend on a divine decree. As this decree concerns the sentiments human
beings are made to feel, it reflects nothing in the divine nature – except what
divine nature decided to put into human beings to make them work in ways
that, for whatever reason, it decided human beings would work. Even suppos-
ing we are better off for having been given those sentiments, they are of benefit
only to creatures with a life like ours, not to beings who want nothing and can
be perturbed by nothing. As Demea says at DNR 3.13 (p. 156),
All the sentiments of the human mind, gratitude, resentment, love, friend-
ship, approbation, blame, pity, emulation, envy, have a plain reference to
the state and situation of man, and are calculated for preserving the exist-
ence, and promoting the activity of such a being in such circumstances. It
seems, therefore, unreasonable to transfer such sentiments to a supreme
existence, or to suppose him actuated by them.

9
They are above their own laws. Hume offered his own, less incendiary translation: The Gods have
maxims peculiar to themselves.
246 lorne falkenstein
Philo is even more emphatic at DNR 12.31 (p. 226): “It is an absurdity to
believe that the Deity has human passions.”
As Wright (2009, pp. 255–56) points out, there is no stretch in attribut-
ing these consequences to Hume himself. Already on March 16, 1740,
when writing to Francis Hutcheson about the moral theory of the prepub-
lication Book 3 of the Treatise, Hume had raised a “question of prudence.”
I wish from my Heart, I could avoid concluding, that since Morality, according
to your Opinion as well as mine, is determin’d merely by Sentiment, it regards
only human Nature & human Life . . .. If Morality were determined by
Reason, that is the same to all rational Beings: But nothing but Experience
can assure us, that the Sentiments are the same. What Experience have we with
regard to superior Beings? How can we ascribe to them any Sentiments at all?
They have implanted those Sentiments in us for the Conduct of Life like our
bodily Sensations, which they possess not themselves.10
Morality, depending as it does on sentiments that could have been
otherwise, has no absolute foundation.

12.2 Against Moral Skepticism

Granting that Hume was not a moral absolutist or a moral rationalist is not
the same as granting that he was a moral skeptic. One can hold that
nonhuman intelligences might not accept human moral principles,
founded as they are on contingent human sentiments, while still maintain-
ing that human beings naturally share the same moral sentiments, and so
naturally concur in making the same moral judgments. The evidence that
Hume thought along this line is considerable, though Balfour missed it. It
includes direct declarations, such as the following:
[T]he sentiments, which arise from humanity, are not only the same in all
human creatures, and produce the same approbation or censure; but they
also comprehend all human creatures; nor is there any one, whose conduct
or character is not, by their means, an object, to every one, of censure or
approbation. (EPM 9.7)11
It is also implied by systematic considerations. The principal project of
EPM is to survey human moral judgments in all places and times and
attempt to uncover “the great source of moral distinctions” (EPM 5.15).

10
L I, 39 (Letter 16). Cited by Wright (2009) and also by Cohen (1990, p. 327).
11
EHU 8.7–16 is frequently cited as making the same point, though it concerns uniformity in human
action rather than uniformity in feeling.
 Moral Disagreement 247
The claim that we are motivated by humanity to approve of whatever is
useful or agreeable either to self or others is the outcome of this investigation.
Hume even offered a transcendental argument (EPM 5.42 and 9.5–8). If
we are to communicate with one another, then we must use terms that others
can understand. Crude cries and gestures are adequate to communicate our
personal feelings. But when we mean to talk about objects other than
ourselves, we must use terms that do not vary in meaning from time to
time or place to place even while the objects remain the same, and the
language of self-interested passions contains no such terms. As Hume put it,
“When a man denominates another his enemy, his rival, his antagonist, his
adversary, he is understood to speak the language of self-love, and express
sentiments, peculiar to himself, and arising from his particular circumstances
and situation” (EPM 9.6). These sentiments are inconstant and uncommon.
“[W]e ourselves often change our situation in this particular,” “every man’s
interest is peculiar to himself,” “the aversions and desires, which result from
it, cannot be supposed to affect others in a like degree,” and “we every day
meet with persons who are in a different situation from us.” Consequently,
others “could never converse with us, were we to remain constantly in that
position and point of view, which is peculiar to ourself.” What Hume called
“the intercourse of sentiments” requires “some general unalterable standard,
by which we may approve or disapprove of characters and manners” (EPM
5.42). Given that this approval or disapproval is based on sentiment, we must
have recourse to some sentiment common to all, which recommends the
same objects to all of us, and which extends beyond us and our intimates to
those in the most remote ages and times. “These two requisite circumstances
belong alone to the sentiment of humanity” (EPM 9.5).12
There is a caricatured view of emotivism on which moral language serves
only to express one’s personal likes and dislikes (Broad, 1930, p. 260),13
echoing Balfour’s claim that, for Hume, whatever any individual thinks fit
to do must be a virtue, because immediately agreeable to that person. But
for Hume, my moral language only serves to express my disinterested likes
and dislikes. Those disinterested likes and dislikes are based on general
benevolence, which responds to facts about others’ circumstances and
opportunities.14 This makes my feelings ones I rightly expect all other
human beings to share with me.

12
For a fuller account see Cohon (2008), pp. 126–58. 13 Cited by Costelloe (2007), p. 84.
14
M. F. Cohen’s critique of Hume’s transcendental argument stumbles over this point. Cohen writes:
“In the [case of visual perception] we have recourse to a ‘steady and general point of view’ in order to
state how things are rather than how they look from particular perspectives or distances. On Hume’s
248 lorne falkenstein
12.3 Differences in Moral Judgment
Hume recognized that this universalism is challenged by variation in
human moral judgment. “A Dialogue,” appended to EPM, attempts to
reconcile the two.
The “Dialogue” is presented as taking place between Hume himself
(“the Narrator”) and a friend, Palamedes, who claims to have spent
a considerable part of his life in a land where morals and customs are so
different that the “intercourse of sentiments” described at EPM 5.42 and
9.5–8 could not take place. Characterizations that Palamedes understood
correctly and considered “highly advantageous” were taken as “mortal
affronts.” Actions he considered emblematic of vicious or rude characters
were highly applauded (EPM D 2–12). The Narrator’s initial reaction is to
declare that beings with such sentiments could not be human (EPM D 12).
Palamedes then reveals that he has been speaking of events and charac-
ters in ancient Greece and Rome (EPM D 13, 15–17). An Athenian of the
highest merit in the eyes of the community might have had homosexual
liaisons with minors;15 committed incest; exposed an infant; conspired in
the assassination of a benefactor; lied under oath; endured beatings for the
sake of personal gain; mocked friends to their faces; uttered blasphemies;
and died by suicide – and been memorialized and admired on that account
(EPM D 17). The Narrator, who admires the morals of the ancient writers,
replies that Palamedes has rendered their “innocent and reasonable” man-
ners odious by measuring them by a foreign standard, and employing
a little art and eloquence to aggravate some circumstances and extenuate
others (EPM D 18–19).
This is a striking comment. Apparently, the Narrator believes that
standards of moral evaluation vary from culture to culture. To drive this
point home, the Narrator responds that were the manners and characters of
the modern French, whom Palamedes admires above all other nations,
measured by the standard employed by the ancient Greeks, they would also
appear highly objectionable (EPM D 18–24).

view there is no room for this distinction in the [case of moral judgments] apart from the
objectification or projection of one’s moral feeling” (1990, p. 335). But it is not my disinterested
benevolence that is objectified or projected onto the other person. It is my perception of what is
beneficial to the other person that causes my feeling of approval and that I expect to arouse a similar
feeling in others.
15
This is described as “something else too abominable to be named.” But the abomination, for
Palamedes and Hume, arises from the homosexuality, not the pedophilia. This contrast between
current and eighteenth-century attitudes adds an ironic force to Palamedes’ claim that moral
judgments change with the times. For further discussion see Cohon (2008), pp. 250–52, following
on pp. 244–45.
 Moral Disagreement 249
Palamedes is unfazed and replies that this only goes to prove that
“fashion, vogue, custom, and [positive] law” are “the chief foundation of
all moral determinations.” In direct contradiction to EHU 8.7,16 he
continues:
The athenians surely, were a civilized, intelligent people, if ever there
was one; and yet their man of merit might, in this age, be held in horror
and execration. The french are also, without doubt, a very civilized,
intelligent people; and yet their man of merit might, with the athen-
ians, be an object of the highest contempt and ridicule, and even hatred.
(EPM D 25)
The Narrator’s reply does not abandon the tenet that standards of merit
vary from society to society. He only insists that they are not simply the
product of “fashion, vogue, custom, and law.” Instead, “the first principles,
which each nation establishes, of blame or censure” are the same (EPM
D 260). These first principles are just those that were discovered by EPM
2–8. “It appears, that there never was any quality, recommended by any
one, as a virtue or moral excellence; but on account of its being useful or
agreeable, to a man himself, or to others” (EPM D 37).
The Narrator offers two justifications. First, the ancients and the mod-
erns would in fact agree in approving of the qualities of character identified
over the course of EPM 2–8. The “intercourse of sentiments” described at
EPM 5.42 and 9.5–8 would still take place in most cases (EPM D 27).
Second, if one inquires into the remaining cases, one finds that they derive
from the attempt to achieve more fundamental goals that all would agree
are good: homosexual and adulterous promiscuity is an unintended effect
of the desire to strengthen social bonds and facilitate sociability; infanticide
is motivated by love of children facing a bleak life; assassination by love of
liberty; and so on (EPM D 28–35).
But if “the principles, upon which [people] reason in morals are always
the same,” how can “the conclusions which they draw [be] often very
different” (EPM D 36)? The Narrator offers numerous reasons.
1. Learning and ignorance. While we may share common principles, we
do not always draw the correct inferences from them (EPM D 26). The
ancients considered the assassination of tyrants to be the best and only
way to preserve civil liberty, but the lessons of history have taught us
otherwise. Had the ancients been made aware of this, they would have

16
“Would you know the sentiments, inclinations, and course of life of the greeks and romans?
Study well the temper and actions of the french and english.”
250 lorne falkenstein
revised their opinion (EPM D 36, drawing on EPM 2.19). Similar
situations arise wherever considerations of utility are involved, because
it can be difficult to ascertain where the greatest utility lies without
reasoning, which can go wrong, and experience, which can be insuffi-
cient (EPM App. 1.2). The same even holds for our assessments of the
agreeable. “A false relish may frequently be corrected by argument and
reflection . . . moral beauty . . . demands the assistance of our intellec-
tual faculties, in order to give it a suitable influence on the human
mind” (EPM 1.9, drawing on ST).
2. Circumstances of society. Inferences from the same principles can be
varied by the circumstances in which those principles are applied
(EPM D 26, taken up in more detail over 38–41). Judgments concern-
ing the utility of character traits are particularly dependent on circum-
stances. Military virtues will be more celebrated than pacific ones in
time of war (EPM D 39). Qualities that promote industry in wealthy
societies can be disadvantageous in impoverished ones (EPM D 41).
Most significantly for earlier episodes in the discussion, the degree to
which a society is unified or split into competing factions can have
a significant influence on judgments of the utility of characters.
Magnanimity, greatness of mind, disdain of slavery, and other
“heroic” virtues like contempt of death are better suited to ensure
safety and advance prospects in a more factionalized society (EPM
D 40). The greater need for these heroic virtues in the ancient world
and the dangers of exploitation and enslavement attendant on the
display of polite virtues, like deference, account for many of the
differences Palamedes and the Narrator detect in the manners and
customs of the ancient Greeks and modern French.
3. Custom, chance, and government. The Narrator acknowledges
Palamedes’ quartet of fashion, vogue, custom, and law under the
headings of custom, chance, and government, and concedes that
each plays a role.
These factors come into play when deciding between what is useful
and what is agreeable, or what is useful for or agreeable to self and what
is useful for or agreeable to others. Custom, “by giving an early biass to
the mind, may produce a superior propensity, either to the useful or
the agreeable qualities; to those which regard self, or those, which
extend to society” (EPM D 42). Where this role is not played by
custom, it may be played by government (EPM D 51). Hume had
earlier written a substantial essay, “Arts and Sciences,” on the far-
reaching implications that republican and monarchical governments
 Moral Disagreement 251
have on whether what is useful (the sciences) or what is agreeable (the
arts) will be prized and cultivated in a society, and on the associated
development of manners and standards of criticism. Because the
production of agreeable objects diverts labor from necessities, the
wealth of a society can also have an influence on these matters. Even
in the absence of these factors, choices between the useful/agreeable
and personal/social quadrants may be made for elusive reasons.
“Chance has a great influence on national manners; and many events
happen in society, which are not to be accounted for by general rules”
(EPM D 50).
4. Age and gender. Variation in preference for the useful and the agreeable
is also attendant on age. Young men, who are more reckless and more
energetic and need to please others, aspire to the agreeable qualities.
“[T]he merit of riper years is almost everywhere the same; and consists
chiefly in . . . more solid and useful qualities” (EPM D 51). Customs
regarding comportment between the sexes can also demand the exer-
cise of virtues in one sex that are not demanded of the other. Some
customs demand chastity and modesty in women; others impose
restraints on the jealousy and gallantry of men. Depending on the
extent to which agreeability in mixed company is important, “conver-
sation, address, and humor” are judged differently (EPM D 49).
5. Corruptions of nature. A final cause of differences in moral judgment is
brought up by Palamedes (EPM D 43–57): our moral judgments can
be altered by philosophical and religious commitments. When this
happens, those affected may embrace precepts that cannot be derived
from the principles the Narrator has claimed are universal. Palamedes
instances stoic and monkish “virtues,” noting that “both of them have
met with general admiration in their different ages, and have been
proposed as models of imitation” (EPM D 53–56). Yet these “virtues”
are disagreeable and useless or pernicious to self and society.
It is tempting to read Palamedes as raising the question of moral
skepticism in a new way. What the Narrator considers a fundamental
principle of moral judgment may not just be rejected by corrupt individ-
uals like Diogenes, Nero, or Pascal, but also by large communities of
followers. But this is not quite Palamedes’ point. Like all principles estab-
lished by induction, Hume’s claim that moral judgments are based on
assessments of what is useful or agreeable for self or others is drawn from
observation and liable to exceptions. Newtonian methodology stipulates
that the discovery of exceptions calls for the principle to be subsequently
252 lorne falkenstein
restated along with them, and Palamedes does so. Rather than contest the
Narrator’s claims concerning human nature, he restates the rule along with
the exceptions, describing them as “artifices” (like justice17), arising from
philosophical and religious “extravagance” (EPM D 54).18
Palamedes could have taken the harder line, which would have posed
a real problem for Hume, given that he thought that our nature is plastic.19
Dismissing the harder line means there must be a way of telling the
“extravagances” apart from the natural state. Hume did maintain that
there are some cases where this can be done.20 The extreme skepticism
consequent on the study of Pyrrhonian arguments is one of them (EHU
12.23). It is a competing overlay on an original condition. The original
nature remains with us and continues to influence us (DNR 12.13 [221]).
That influence can be overcome, but only by violent enthusiasm, which
can be difficult to sustain except in special circumstances, such as those of
persecution (H 40, 123; E, 76–78). The Narrator’s reply to Palamedes is
accordingly that “no-one can answer for what will please or displease
[people who depart from the maxims of common reason]” (EPM D 57;
cf. H 41, 221). There is no higher standard that can be invoked to expose the
error of these systems of virtue and vice. If our natural instincts do not lead
us to rebel against them, nothing can be said that will change us. Morality
is relative to human nature, and where that is altered the dispute is
irresolvable. This does not mean that there is any question about what is
natural for us. Even had that not been revealed by induction, it would be
proven by the difficulty of sustaining enthusiastic commitments in the
absence of special circumstances inflaming passions.
Speaking in his own voice in the Essays, Hume observed that toleration is
especially important when dealing with enthusiasts (E, 76–78). Arousing
anger, resentment, and other strong passions by attempting to suppress or
oppose enthusiasm can only feed the flames. In the absence of aggravating
factors, the force of nature will reassert itself; the enthusiasts will sink into

17
Justice is compared with them at EPM 3.36–38.
18
Bohlin (2013, pp. 599–600, 602) claims that Hume’s defense of his position appeals to “a psycho-
logical theory of how moral sentiments develop.” Abramson (1999, p. 182) similarly appeals to the
notion of “extensive sympathy” which, she maintains, plays “a central role in the dialogue” [p. 174]).
But “A Dialogue” was not appended to the Treatise but to EPM, which contains no developmental
psychological theory and which abandons the notion of extensive sympathy. Hume’s case in EPM is
based on induction from the phenomena.
19
E 202–03 (“Of National Characters,” 9); also T 3.2.2.4, 3.2.2.26, 3.2.12.7; EHU 8.11; and DNR
1.2 (130).
20
In saying this I follow Berry (2007) in opposition to Cohen (2000, pp. 114, 115) and Bohlin (2013,
p. 602).
 Moral Disagreement 253
“remissness and coolness” over the application of their perverse principles,
and will eventually return to more natural opinions.

12.4 Deep Moral Disagreements

These points seem to leave no room for any deep moral disagreements.
Either (i) reasoning and experience establish that the moral judgments of
a culture are based on mistaken inferences from shared principles, in which
case even natives to that culture should be persuaded to abandon them; or
(ii) they establish that different circumstances (or ages or genders) call for
the exercise of different qualities, in which case even foreigners should be
persuaded to adopt the standards called for by the circumstances (EPM
3.9); or (iii) the dispute turns on balancing useful with agreeable or
personal with social values, and as there is no obviously correct way to do
this, all should agree to tolerate one another’s preferences on these matters;
or (iv) the dispute is the product of enthusiasm, in which case there is
nothing to be said to the enthusiast and the best thing to do is hope that,
without the support of passions aroused by opposition, nature will reassert
itself and bring the opponent to their senses.
But while these may have been Hume’s intended conclusions in “A
Dialogue,” there are three ways in which his account of moral judgment places
roadblocks in the way of tolerating the different moral opinions of others.
1. Corruptions of nature. The situation Hume found himself in when
considering monkish and stoic virtues parallels the situation he found
himself in when pronouncing on Divine amorality. Just as a being who
feels no sentiments can have no morality, as we understand it, so beings
who feel very different sentiments can share no common basis for moral
agreement. Hume’s claim that God chose to create us with the sentiments
we have implies that there is no necessity to our constitution. The forces
that created us could have given us varying or plastic sentimental constitu-
tions. It is at best fortuitous if competing human moral convictions turn
out to be corruptions of an abiding common nature that will reassert itself
when not inflamed by enthusiasm. That fortuitous circumstance is not
a reason for denouncing useless and disagreeable characters as vicious.
When we do so, it is not because we are in the right or have nature on
our side, but because we cannot escape our own moral psychology.
2. Conflicts between useful/agreeable and personal/social. Where conflicts
between utilities, or the useful and the agreeable, or the personal and the
social are concerned, our natures are plastic, and our sentiments the product
254 lorne falkenstein
of custom, chance, and government. The Narrator’s way of dealing with
these conflicts is to treat them as matters of lesser morality, about which we
should be able to agree to disagree. But the former is not true, and the latter is
not possible. The Narrator discusses one case of a conflict between the useful
and agreeable: that of relations between the sexes (EPM D 43–49, following
on 32). Cloistering one sex is useful, presumably because it facilitates
continued cooperation of parents in child-rearing (EPM 4.5), but it is
disagreeable. Allowing open commerce between the sexes is agreeable, but
it threatens family unity (EPM D 47). The Narrator declares that “These
ends are both good, and are somewhat difficult to reconcile; nor need we be
surprized, if the customs of nations incline too much, sometimes to the one
side, sometimes to the other” (EPM D 32). But the suffering caused to
individuals by these differing domestic arrangements are too severe for us to
be tolerant of them. Hume himself deplored the brutalization attendant on
the cloistering of women, and remarked on the dire consequences of turning
the care of children over to those who are not their natural parents (E, 184,
188; E, 383–98, 400). Not all cultures have been similarly torn. But there is no
higher standard that can be invoked to adjudicate between a culture that
prizes utility above agreeableness and one that does the opposite.
The Narrator allows that “this difference [in customs regarding comport-
ment between the sexes] is the most material, which can happen in private
life,” and so produces “the greatest variation in our moral sentiments” (EPM
D 43), but strives to effect a reconciliation. “The customs of the Spaniards
and of the Italians of an age ago,” which valorized both male promiscuity and
female chastity, are described as “the worst of any,” but it is not clear whether
this is because they frustrate more fundamental principles the Spanish and
Italians accepted (as with the Greek and Roman approval of assassination),
or whether the Narrator is giving vent to the moral sentiments his own
culture enjoins. It is remarked that “some people” are “inclined to think, that
the best way of . . . keeping the proper medium between the agreeable and the
useful qualities” is to condemn male “gallantry” and male jealousy while
(after La Fontaine) turning a blind eye to female infidelity (EPM D 47–48).
But the Narrator’s recommendation is conditionalized: “We must sacrifice
somewhat of the useful, if we be very anxious to obtain all the agreeable
qualities” (EPM D 47, italics added). This presumes that we are “very
anxious to obtain all the agreeable qualities,” or at least “keep a proper [?]
medium.” We have nothing to say to a culture with other priorities.
We are also unlikely to tolerate one another’s differing opinions and
practices, especially if we believe that they come at a cost in human
 Moral Disagreement 255
suffering. It is one thing to exercise toleration as a matter of policy, in the
hope that it will lead others to recover from a fit of enthusiasm, or to
exercise toleration on trivial matters. It is another to tolerate practices that
we perceive to be both abiding and detrimental, as those involving domes-
tic arrangements can very well be. Our perceptions of where the suffering
lies can be expected to be different, and to lead to mutual condemnation.
People can be expected to perceive that “Our opinions of all kinds are
strongly affected by society and sympathy” (DP 10; cf. E, 202–03,
T 3.2.12.7) and so to find the public expression of disapprobation for the
practices of others to be essential to the defense of their own.
3. Nonculpable ignorance. Hume maintained that had the inconveniences
of assassination been clearly demonstrated to the ancients, they would
have reformed their belief in its utility (EPM D 31). But Brutus had no
such knowledge when he participated in the assassination of Caesar. Do
we say that, given what he knew, his action, motivated as it was by
a disinterested love of liberty, displayed the highest merit? Or say that,
as selfless and well intentioned as his act may have been, his time would
have been better served by an individual with a stronger sense of gratitude
and fidelity?
The Humean answer to these questions would have been unequivocal.
We cannot but judge Brutus based on the sentiments induced in us by our
own knowledge of the effects of assassination. We might reflect that he
could not have known any better, and say that nothing else could have been
expected of him, but we will feel moral condemnation all the same. This
does not mean that there is an external, ultimate standard of right and
wrong that we have more clearly discerned. Even granting that the incon-
veniences attendant on assassination are in fact greater than those of
enduring despotism, that fact is not what ultimately determines our
moral assessment. Our sentimental constitution, which determines us to
approve of social utility, is what does so. Someone who agrees with us
about the facts but does not share our sentimental constitution could be at
a loss what to say about this case. The real lesson is that we cannot escape
our own standpoints, even to the extent of forgiving agents for nonculpable
ignorance. Moral pluralism is not an option for us.21

21
For the opposing view, see Abramson (1999, pp. 179–80), Bohlin (2013, p. 596), and Collier (2013,
p. 50). As noted in Section 12.4, Hume recognized that there is good reason to tolerate the opinions
of others, but that is not the same thing as bringing ourselves to recognize those opinions as equally
valid. In such cases, our tolerance is tolerance of what we consider vicious and it is exercised only
because we appreciate that the alternative would be worse.
256 lorne falkenstein
12.5 Conclusion
Moral absolutism and skepticism and moral pluralism are positions on
how we ought to respond to moral disagreements. This makes them
positions that do not apply to EPM, which is focused on explaining why
we make the moral judgments we do, not on determining what those
judgments ought to be. Hume the moral subject occasionally made the
moral judgments that Hume the moral psychologist predicted such
a subject would make, as when condemning the monkish virtues (EPM
9.3) or preferring the mitigation of gallantry and jealousy to the promotion
of chastity and modesty (EPM D 48). As the moral psychologist would
have observed, the subject could not have done otherwise. The Narrator’s
best efforts in “A Dialogue” notwithstanding, Hume’s moral psychology
allows for the possibility of deep and irreconcilable moral disagreements. It
also dictates that where there are such disagreements, it will not be possible
for individuals to tolerate one another’s moral commitments – except
insofar as they have been convinced that, as a matter of policy, intolerance
would have consequences they themselves find even worse.22

22
Thanks to Elizabeth Radcliffe for helping me clarify the implications here, and to Esther Kroeker,
James Fieser, and Rachel Cohon for numerous helpful comments.
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 Index

absurdity, 79, 246 and virtue, 20

affability, 50, 107 moral, 27, 146, 151, 169, 250
affections natural, 19, 125, 168, 169, 230, 231, 242
parental, 35 of utility, 109
public, 51, 161 perception of, 19, 20, 23, 152
soft, 34, 35, 36, 41, 50 principles of, 23
Alexander the Great, 137, 149, 150 benevolence
Alfred the Great, 87 as basis for refuting selfish theories, 42,
allegiance 44–49
and authority, 73, 75, 76, 77, 81, 84 general, 25, 30, 31, 36, 161, 247
and conventions, 3, 72, 85, 86 particular, 35, 36, 161
and utility, 79, 88, 89, 107, 127, 241 Bentham, Jeremy, 104, 132, 133, 216
as a virtue, 38, 87, 91, 92, 103, 121 Boileau-Despréaux, Nicolas, 141, 146, 147, 148
context of, 85, 88 Bolingbroke, Henry St. John, First Viscount,
duty of, 73, 76, 77, 79, 80 82, 83
foundations of, 78 bravery, 21, 136, 141, 150
political society, 72 Butler, Joseph, 33, 42, 44, 48, 50, 51, 52
theory of, 3, 73, 74, 77, 81, 88, 92
Allestree, Richard, 202, 228, 229, 230, 236 Caesar, 146, 201
ambition, 2, 12, 24, 40, 46, 63, 114, 177, 191 Caesar, Julius, 115, 210, 255
Anglican/Anglicanism, 127, 219, 224, 225, 228, Calvinism, 50, 228, 230, 231
230, 233 Calvinist. See Calvinism
animals, 47, 214, 215, 216, 217, 244 Cataline, 19, 20
Aristotle, 136, 137, 140, 203, 230 character
arrogance, 90, 137 dignity of, 122, 127, 128, 130, 136
assiduity, 43, 127 enjoyment of, 191
authority national, 213
legitimacy of, 77, 79, 85 traits, 17, 20, 36, 99, 110, 131, 132, 167,
limits of, 79 229, 250
avarice, 17, 40, 177 charity, 38, 41, 42, 43, 57, 107, 114, 158
Charles I, 79, 231
Baier, Annette, 26, 37, 42, 50, 89 Charles II, 231
Balfour, James, 3, 125, 195, 211, 238, 239, 242, Charles XII of Sweden, 136, 141
246, 247 chastity
Balguy, John, 193 and society, 38, 92
beauty context of, 251, 254
and geometrical qualities, 19 convention of, 89
and morality, 21, 23, 135, 136 foundation of, 89, 107, 121, 129
and motivation, 26 laws of, 89
and taste, 13, 19, 140, 244 rules of, 89
and the sublime, 147 utility of, 89, 129

269
270 Index
cheerfulness and laws. See habits, and laws
and happiness, 232, 237 and reason, 69, 112
as a moral virtue, 114, 122, 130, 137, 235 and religion, 196
immediately agreeable to self, 122, 123, 127, 128, of humankind, 238
135, 144 of society, 199, 248, 249, 254
useful, 128, 129 role of, 250, 251, 254
Cicero Cyrus, 67, 68, 69
and Christian moralists, 115, 206, 210
and natural talents, 118, 119, 230 decency, 24, 123, 127, 130, 187, 203, 235
as model, 192–95, 198–99, 203–6, 211 dignity, 83, 122, 125, 127, 128, 130,
catalog of virtues, 114, 115, 201–3, 228, 229, 230 136, 137
on gentle government, 80 Diogenes, 207, 208, 251
on rights, 211 discretion, 23, 30, 43, 127, 230, 235
on Stoicism, 115 disgust, 19, 144
civil wars divines, 50, 200, 226, 232, 236
English, 75, 79, 221, 231 dogmatism, 195
civility, 90 duty
cleanliness, 24, 114, 119, 123, 127, 130, 135, 235, 242 imperfect, 212, 214, 216
cognitivism, 24, 26, 27, 28
Collins, Anthony, 204 economy, 127
commerce, 65, 82, 217, 254 education
common sense, 63, 221, 222, 237 and distribution of excellencies, 149
compassion, 25, 30, 35, 36, 42, 156, 181, 214 and humanity, 43
complacency, 19, 47, 142, 178, 183 and justice, 53, 66, 67, 68, 71
confederacy, 60, 214, 215, 216, 217 and superstition, 222
confidence, 3, 45, 135, 136, 140, 152, 223 in prosperous societies, 159
consent, 73, 77, 78, 79, 81, 84, 85, 132 moral, 95, 222
constitution egoism, 45, 46, 47, 49
feudal, 78 Elizabeth I, 79
human, 52, 240, 253, 255 eloquence
mixed, 82, 83, 91 agreeable to others, 127, 130
of animals, 244 and talents, 119, 124, 126, 130, 230
of Britain, 82, 83 as admirable quality, 24, 123
of government, 65, 76 of EPM, 205
of the community, 65 of Palamedes, 248
of the mind, 95 emotivism, 247
original, 79 enthusiasm, 38, 64, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225,
republican, 82 233, 237, 252, 253
corruption, 82, 83, 171, 251 enthusiasts. See enthusiasm
courage envy, 23, 245
and pride, 142, 143 Epicurus
and utility, 143 and Cicero, 195
approbation of, 139, 143 and Hobbes, 46
Aristotle on, 136 and religion, 194
as a passion, 144 approval of, 195
Cicero on, 118 in EHU, 201, 210
harmful effects of, 136, 143, 149 equality, 60, 63, 82, 214, 217, 221
heroic, 169 equanimity, 43, 119, 137
nonvoluntary, 119 equity, 58, 73, 77
sublimity of, 135, 146, 168 ethics
utility of, 128, 129, 135, 142, 168 and theology, 42, 50, 226, 227
crime, 18, 19, 143 austere, 3, 50, 208
cruelty, 111, 149, 152, 163 virtue ethics, 106
customs Euclid, 19
ancient, 217, 250 Euthyphro, 244
 Index 271
evil, 27, 97, 159, 162, 164, 212, 242 habits
experimental method, 13, 14, 15, 95, 96, 100, 112, and education, 71
116, 154, 159, 160, 220 and laws, 66
and the understanding, 27, 71, 141, 159
factionalism, 90–91, 162, 169, 250 happiness
fanatics/fanaticism, 62–63, 64, 65, 91, 210, 219, of human society, 34, 71, 222
221, 222 of humankind, 15, 16, 46
fidelity personal, 40, 46, 52, 161
and context, 92, 255 primary propensity, 49
and justice, 68, 103, 156, 158, 245 virtue essential to, 14, 225
and utility, 107, 121, 127 harmony, 78, 175, 177, 206
folly, 130, 222, 230 Harris, James, 1, 74, 195, 196, 232
friendship Henry IV, 85
and benevolence, 36, 42, 44, 46, 57, 140 Henry VII, 85, 86
and humanity, 49, 164 heroes, 129, 134, 137, 139
and partiality, 26 history
and utility, 241, 245 accidents of, 76
other-directed attitude, 35, 38, 49 conjectural, 72, 74, 75, 76, 77, 85, 88, 92
other-directed virtue, 30 narrative, 75
philosophical, 195, 211 progressive, 217
reducible to self-love, 46 Hobbes, Thomas
spark of, 51 and Cicero, 3
frugality, 24, 30, 121, 127 and Epicurus, 46
and Locke, 46, 47, 48
general point of view, 37, 71, 99, 100, 101, 105, 110, and selfish theories, 33, 44
155, 163, 167 on justice, 65
generosity on rights, 211, 212
and friendship, 173 secular morality, 51, 227
as a social trait, 29, 57 state of nature, 77
as a social virtue, 38, 107, 114, 156, Home, Henry (Lord Kames), 126, 205, 215,
173, 181 216, 217
as a virtuous motive, 28, 31 honesty, 23, 158
limited, 36, 59 honor/honour, 45, 75, 107, 136, 138, 140, 141
of an enemy, 48 human fabric, 13, 14, 31
Pericles’, 43, 44 humanity
resulting from elevation of joy, 144 and education. See education, and humanity
genius, 20, 65, 141, 147, 207, 229 and friendship. See friendship, and humanity
gentleness, 50 cultivated, 29, 52
Glorious Revolution, 75, 76 enjoyment of, 50–52
God, 29, 42, 51, 52, 119, 154, 208, 222, 228, 230, 231, generous, 98
232, 233, 236, 253 humility, 142, 146, 151, 207, 221, 229, 230
good-will, 156, 157, 163 Hutcheson, Francis
government and religion, 3, 42, 50, 52, 202, 210, 232
allegiance to. See allegiance and selfish theories, 44, 45, 48
circumstances of, 75 and Stoicism, 193
constitution of. See constitution on benevolence, 50, 51, 119, 202, 209
effects of, 74, 80, 81, 84, 139, 250 on moral diversity, 196, 197, 210
foundation of, 81 on reason and sentiment, 246
most perfect, 76, 83 on self-love, 33
origin of, 73, 77, 80, 82 hypocrisy, 44, 45
submission to, 73
tyrannical, 80 ideas
grandeur, 137, 138, 139, 146, 147, 149, 168 abstract, 28
gratitude, 29, 30, 36, 126, 163, 181, 245, 255 general, 24, 28, 229, 230
Grotius, Hugo, 211, 212 lively, 28, 161
272 Index
idleness, 158 institution of, 40, 158
ignorance, 23, 38, 101, 143, 249, 255 rules of, 40, 58, 61, 62, 70, 73, 74, 81, 84, 88,
imagination, 17, 57, 63, 89, 96, 125, 175, 187, 212 157, 158
impartiality theory of, 3, 53, 54, 55, 59, 64
and utility, 105, 106
impartial spectator, 111, 128, 216 Kant, Immanuel, 71
of historians, 75 kindness, 28, 35, 47, 140, 168, 214
of moral judgments, 96, 99, 100, 101, 105, 107 knave
of moral sentiments, 99, 105 sensible, 171, 190
philosophical, 75, 194
impoliteness, 91 language
industry aesthetic, 146, 147
and enterprise, 43 as guide, 15, 39, 79, 155, 167, 247
and equality, 63 common use of, 101, 114, 116, 230
and justice, 157 conventions of, 66
as a generally admirable quality, 23 figurative, 160
as an agent-interested virtue, 30, 121, 127 modern, 117
effects of, 159, 250 molded on moral distinctions, 24, 28
for Hutcheson, 119 of contagion, 188
inequalities, 99, 102, 107, 163 of natural law, 214
ingenuity, 24, 135 of selfishness, 59
ingratitude, 18 of self-love, 163, 165, 247
injury, 162, 215 religious, 226, 229, 235, 236
injustice law
abhorrence of, 67 natural, 211, 214
and violence, 39, 85 of justice. See justice, rules of
disapproval of, 71, 103, 158, 163 of nations, 72, 88, 89, 92
sense of, 53, 66, 215 of nature, 63
susceptible of degrees, 212 of property, 64, 158
insensibility, 14, 138, 162 positive, 249
instincts rule of, 40, 71
and benevolence, 36, 37, 42, 68 legitimacy
and human nature, 252 absence of, 85
and humanity, 29, 30 of political authority. See authority,
as primary propensities, 49 legitimacy of
instinctive concern for human welfare, 31, of the revolution, 76
35, 240 standard of, 83
no instinct to justice, 56, 70, 158 Leland, John, 126
of self-preservation, 45 Levellers, 62, 63, 221, 222, 223
integrity, 126, 156, 189 liberty
intentions, 27, 44 and happiness, 46
internalism, 24–31 and peace, 84
civil, 82, 249
James I, 79, 87 effects of, 83
James II, 87 love of, 249, 255
Jansenist, 208, 223 natural, 78
Jesuit, 223 personal, 128
Jesus, 137 system of, 83
jurisprudence, 63, 216 Locke, John
justice and Cicero, 198
and fairness, 22 and empiricism, 196
definition of, 55 and secondary passions, 48
distinct from benevolence, 34, 68 and the selfish system, 46, 47, 48
general principles of, 61, 62 and the social contract tradition, 76
ideals of, 54 and the state of nature, 77
 Index 273
on moral diversity, 196, 197, 210 ethics, 3, 93, 124
on political power, 77 rather than descriptive, 81, 93, 100, 101–2
on rights, 211
Longinus, 146, 147, 148 obedience, 60, 79, 87, 214, 224, 230
loyalty, 81 objectivity, 14, 18, 21, 24
Lucian, 44
lust, 177 Pascal, Blaise, 207, 208, 209, 223, 227, 251
luxury, 159 passions
calm, 35, 48, 99
Machiavelli, Niccolo, 80–81, 82 disagreeable, 144
magnanimity, 31, 44, 129, 136, 137, 139, 144, 146, natural, 34, 163, 253
203, 207, 208, 250 primary/secondary, 48, 49
magnificence, 135, 148, 158 selfish, 38, 45, 46, 47, 51, 167, 247
Mandeville, Bernard, 33, 44, 45–46, 51, 67 social, 51, 68, 209
manners sublime, 144, 146, 148
approval of, 102, 123, 163, 247, 251 tender, 140
good, 72, 90–91, 92, 114, 121, 127, 130 violent, 148, 152, 252
innocent, 248 patience, 12, 119, 127, 229, 230
national, 251 patriotism, 46, 137
of each society, 65, 248, 250 peace, 22, 61, 67, 73, 78, 139, 143, 158, 189
vicious, 223 Pericles, 23, 34, 39, 40–44, 46, 52, 140
marriage, 157, 199, 236 perseverance, 119, 127, 235
Medea, 134, 137, 149 physics, 47, 120
memory, 114, 118 pity, 35, 245
mercy, 38, 107 poetry, 140, 185
metaphysics, 33, 50, 51 poets, 135
moderation, 38, 54, 58, 64, 91, 107, 114 politeness
modesty and good manners, 90
and chastity, 256 and moderation, 91
and pride, 151 as a generally admirable quality, 24, 187
as agreeable to others, 123, 127, 130 as art of conversation, 90
as generally admirable quality, 24, 187 Polybius, 47
different from qualities agreeable to poverty, 63, 130, 137, 224
self, 135 Presbyterian, 219, 224, 225, 231, 233
in women, 251 prescriptive, 88, 106, 243
monarchy, 79, 82, 84, 86, 87 pride
money, 66 a hero’s, 129
monkish virtues, 2, 208, 221, 224, 225, 229, and courage. See courage, and pride
233, 256 and self-love, 40, 41
Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de, 3, 66, 196, and the ancients, 44, 207
216, 217 as a virtue, 151
moral internalism. See internalism as an affection, 144
motives in virtue, 174–75, 189
altruist, 45 noble, 44, 137, 143, 150, 151, 168
generous, 31, 95, 160 or vanity, 40, 44
nonmoral, 30 related to the virtues of the great, 142, 148
of self-preservation, 58, 59 role of sympathy for, 128, 180–81
original, 29, 174 progress
murder, 134 of a more humane sensibility, 141
of Christianity, 75
normative of history, 76, 217
arguments, 78 of sentiments, 67, 158, 213, 214
concepts, 18, 28 of society, 3, 150
distinctions, source of, 16, 29 of the arts and sciences, 213
effects of sympathy, 175, 185 promises, 73, 84, 137
274 Index
property for injuries, 42, 47, 162
and public interest, 62, 89, 103, 121, 127, 157 of one’s misery, 15
conventions regarding, 57 of one’s misery, 16, 188
distribution of, 62, 221 related to benevolence, 35
Hume’s account of, 74, 245 revenge, 134, 177
laws regulating property. See law, of property reward, 19, 51, 148, 171, 207, 237
particular laws determining, 61 Robertson, William, 75
private, 57 Rose, William, 124
protection of, 55
restraints of, 60, 65 sacrifice, 41, 42, 190, 207, 237, 254
right to, 81, 212–16 sagacity, 77, 203
supposes use of reason, 70 sage, 138, 146
Protestant, 43, 75, 83, 208, 219, 224, 227, 233, satire, 45
234, 237 science
providence, 51, 75, 194 abstract, 116
Pufendorf, Samuel, 211, 212 and causes, 97, 241
punishment, 35, 71, 117, 207, 237 arts and sciences, 213, 251
experimental, 116
reasoning of human nature, 2, 213
a priori, 63 of man, 78
about experience, 158, 164, 170 of politics, 78, 86
about utility, 104, 144, 171, 250 of theology, 226
abstract, 13, 90, 112 secrecy, 127–28, 241
causal, 143, 145, 148, 150, 152, 245 sects, 195, 206
elaborate, 116 self-interest
good, 100 abstraction from, 37, 199
legal reasonings, 63 and human nature, 97, 163, 242
moral, 131, 156, 159, 203 and the cultivation of virtues, 52
sound, 158, 170 and the foundation of political authority, 80
rebellion, 79, 80 and the selfish hypothesis, 45, 47, 96
reflection narrow, 16, 18, 94
impressions of, 28 not the source of morality, 17, 95, 114, 122, 164,
philosophical, 1 242, 244
regime rather than public utility, 108, 160
mixed, 84 selfish theory, 95, 155, 161, 165
regime type, 77, 80–82 self-love
variety of regimes, 77, 85 distinct from humanity, 155, 160, 161, 165,
relativism, 3, 239 166, 171
religion informed by sympathy, 180
ancient, 207, 237 self-preservation, 39, 45, 58–59, 157
Christian, 196 sensibility, 21, 28, 30, 34, 140, 141
distinct from morality, 3, 211, 234 sentiment
false, 220–21, 224, 233 inverted, 98
Hume’s skeptical view of, 115, 220, 231 original, 67, 165
modern, 207, 211, 237 skepticism, 44, 59, 193, 239, 246, 251, 252, 256
natural, 196, 215 slavery, 78, 137, 168, 216, 250
philosophy of, 204 Smith, Adam, 3, 93, 107, 108–11, 216, 217
religious morality, 197, 206, 209, social contract, 72, 76, 78, 85, 88
235, 237 society
true, 223 actual, 59, 61
reputation, 12, 114, 138, 143, 167, 189 civil, 45, 174
resentment matriarchal, 89
and sympathy, 178, 183, 216 Socrates, 23, 137, 149, 151
effects of, 157, 214, 252 solitude, 202, 221
fear or, 163 soul, 137, 139, 177, 179, 235, 236
 Index 275
state of nature, 59, 77 toleration, 252, 255
superstition, 38, 62, 208, 210, 219–25, 233, 237 tranquility
philosophical, 137, 138, 139, 152, 168, 235
talents virtuous trait, 24, 122, 127, 128
involuntary, 117 trust, 45
nonmoral, 115, 118, 119, 124, 126, 130 truths, 27, 50, 78, 196, 244
taste tyranny, 79, 136, 216
aesthetic, 2 tyrants, 79, 249
and beauty. See beauty, and taste
as productive faculty, 13, 20 utilitarianism, 94, 103–8, 132
cultivation of, 20, 23
delicacy of, 20, 26, 134, 138, 140–42, 152, 235 vanity
Taylor, Jacqueline, 29, 30, 100, 105, 151, 179 and avarice, 17
temper and modesty, 151
ambitious, 223 and natural endowments, 230
dogmatic, 195 and pride, 39, 44, 46
elevated with joy, 144 vengeance, 49, 189
martial, 136, 169 veracity, 156
melancholy, 144
monkish virtues sour the, 221 Walpole, Robert, 82, 83
natural, 178, 183, 226, 229, 231 well-being, 16, 29, 68, 105, 174,
selfishness of, 162 242, 243
temperance, 118, 121, 127, 203 Wilkes, John, 91
tenderness, 30, 39, 57, 59, 140 wisdom, 52, 76, 118, 138, 210, 230
terror, 147, 176 wit
theocracy, 62 and benevolence, 113
theology and humor, 115, 123
and morality, 226, 227 and ingenuity, 135
Anglican, 230 and natural talents, 113, 116–18, 131
Calvinist, 231, 233 as immediately agreeable, 145
Christian, 228, 231 evident emotion, 130
mixed with philosophy, 226, 227 utility of, 131
tolerance, 194
 CAMBRIDGE CRITICAL GUIDES

Titles published in this series (continued):

Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics
edited by jon miller
Kant’s Metaphysics of Morals
edited by lara denis
Spinoza’s Theological-Political Treatise
edited by yitzhak y. melamed and michael a. rosenthal
Plato’s Laws
edited by christopher bobonich
Plato’s Republic
edited by mark l. mcpherran
Kierkegaard’s Concluding Unscientific Postscript
edited by rick anthony furtak
Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations
edited by arif ahmad
Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason
edited by andrews reath and jens timmermann
Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals
edited by jens timmermann
Kant’s Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Aim
edited by amélie oksenberg rorty and james schmidt
Mill’s On Liberty
edited by c. l. ten
Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit
edited by dean moyar and michael quante