Discourse: Part One

However important it may be, in order to form a proper judgment of the natural state of man, to consider him from his origin, and to examine him, as it were, in the first embryo of the species; I shall not attempt to trace his organization through its successive approaches to perfection: I shall not stop to examine in the animal system what he might have been in the beginning, to become at last what he actually is; I shall not inquire whether, as Aristotle thinks, his neglected nails were no better at first than crooked talons; whether his whole body was not, bear-like, thick covered with rough hair; and whether, walking upon all-fours, his eyes, directed to the earth, and confined to a horizon of a few paces extent, did not at once point out the nature and limits of his ideas. I could only form vague, and almost imaginary, conjectures on this subject. Comparative anatomy has not as yet been sufficiently improved; neither have the observations of natural philosophy been sufficiently ascertained, to establish upon such foundations the basis of a solid system. For this reason, without having recourse to the supernatural informations with which we have been favoured on this head, or paying any attention to the changes, that must have happened in the conformation of the interior and exterior parts of man's body, in proportion as he applied his members to new purposes, and took to new aliments, I shall suppose his conformation to have always been, what we now behold it; that he always walked on two feet, made the same use of his hands that we do of ours, extended his looks over the whole face of nature, and measured with his eyes the vast extent of the heavens.

To judge humanity’s natural state properly, it may be important to consider human beings from their origins. We may need to examine the species in its earliest beginnings, as though it were still an embryo. However important this approach may be, I shall not trace the human body through its successive stages toward perfection. I shall not pause to examine what humans might originally have been as animals before becoming what they are today. I shall not ask whether, as Aristotle thinks, their untrimmed nails were originally little more than curved talons. Nor shall I ask whether thick, coarse hair covered their entire bodies, as it does a bear’s. Nor shall I ask whether they walked on all fours, their eyes turned toward the ground. Their view would then have extended only a few paces. Did that restricted view reveal both the nature and the limits of their ideas? On these questions, I could offer only vague and almost imaginary guesses. Comparative anatomy has not yet advanced far enough to support a sound theory on such foundations. Nor have the observations of natural science been established with enough certainty. For this reason, I shall not turn to the supernatural knowledge we have been granted on this subject. Nor shall I consider the changes that must have occurred in the internal and external structure of the human body. Those changes would have accompanied the use of limbs for new purposes and the adoption of new foods. Instead, I shall assume that the human body has always had the structure we see today. I shall assume that humans have always walked on two feet and used their hands as we use ours. I shall also assume that they surveyed the whole face of nature and took in the vast heavens with their eyes.

If I strip this being, thus constituted, of all the supernatural gifts which he may have received, and of all the artificial faculties, which we could not have acquired but by slow degrees; if I consider him, in a word, such as he must have issued from the hands of nature; I see an animal less strong than some, and less active than others, but, upon the whole, the most advantageously organized of any; I see him satisfying the calls of hunger under the first oak, and those of thirst at the first rivulet; I see him laying himself down to sleep at the foot of the same tree that afforded him his meal; and behold, this done, all his wants are completely supplied.

If I strip this being, formed as described, of all the supernatural gifts he may have received, what remains? If I also strip away all the artificial abilities we could only have acquired gradually, what do I see? In short, if I consider him as he must have emerged from nature’s hands, I see an animal. He is weaker than some and less agile than others, but overall his physical makeup is the most advantageous. I see him satisfying his hunger beneath the first oak and his thirst at the first stream. I see him lying down to sleep beneath the same tree that provided his meal. And with that, all his needs are fully met.

The earth left to its own natural fertility and covered with immense woods, that no hatchet ever disfigured, offers at every step food and shelter to every species of animals. Men, dispersed among them, observe and imitate their industry, and thus rise to the instinct of beasts; with this advantage, that, whereas every species of beasts is confined to one peculiar instinct, man, who perhaps has not any that particularly belongs to him, appropriates to himself those of all other animals, and lives equally upon most of the different aliments, which they only divide among themselves; a circumstance which qualifies him to find his subsistence, with more ease than any of them.

The earth, left to its natural fertility and covered with vast forests never scarred by an axe, offers food and shelter at every step to every animal species. Humans, scattered among these animals, observe and imitate their skills, and so reach the level of animal instinct. But humans have an advantage. Each animal species is limited to one particular instinct, while humans perhaps have no instinct of their own. Instead, humans adopt the instincts of all other animals. Humans also live just as well on most of the different foods that other animals divide among themselves. This varied diet allows humans to find food more easily than any other animal.

Men, accustomed from their infancy to the inclemency of the weather, and to the rigour of the different seasons; inured to fatigue, and obliged to defend, naked and without arms, their life and their prey against the other wild inhabitants of the forest, or at least to avoid their fury by flight, acquire a robust and almost unalterable habit of body; the children, bringing with them into the world the excellent constitution of their parents, and strengthening it by the same exercises that first produced it, attain by this means all the vigour that the human frame is capable of. Nature treats them exactly in the same manner that Sparta treated the children of her citizens; those who come well formed into the world she renders strong and robust, and destroys all the rest; differing in this respect from our societies, in which the state, by permitting children to become burdensome to their parents, murders them all without distinction, even in the wombs of their mothers.

From infancy, men grow used to harsh weather and the severity of the different seasons. They become accustomed to exhaustion. Naked and unarmed, they must defend their lives and their prey against the forest’s other wild inhabitants. Or at least they must escape the animals’ fury by fleeing. As a result, their bodies become strong and almost unshakably healthy. Their children are born with their parents’ excellent constitutions. They strengthen those constitutions through the same exercises that first developed them. In this way, they gain all the strength the human body can achieve. Nature treats them exactly as Sparta treated the children of its citizens. Nature makes those born well formed strong and hardy, and destroys all the rest. In this respect, nature differs from our societies. By allowing children to become burdens to their parents, the state murders them all without distinction, even in their mothers’ wombs.

The body being the only instrument that savage man is acquainted with, he employs it to different uses, of which ours, for want of practice, are incapable; and we may thank our industry for the loss of that strength and agility, which necessity obliges him to acquire. Had he a hatchet, would his hand so easily snap off from an oak so stout a branch? Had he a sling, would it dart a stone to so great a distance? Had he a ladder, would he run so nimbly up a tree? Had he a horse, would he with such swiftness shoot along the plain? Give civilized man but time to gather about him all his machines, and no doubt he will be an overmatch for the savage: but if you have a mind to see a contest still more unequal, place them naked and unarmed one opposite to the other; and you will soon discover the advantage there is in perpetually having all our forces at our disposal, in being constantly prepared against all events, and in always carrying ourselves, as it were, whole and entire about us.

His body is the only tool that man in the wild knows. He uses his body in ways that ours, for lack of practice, cannot manage. And we can thank our ingenuity for losing the strength and agility that necessity forces him to develop. If he had a hatchet, could his hand so easily snap such a thick branch off an oak? If he had a sling, could his hand throw a stone so far? If he had a ladder, would he climb a tree so nimbly? If he had a horse, would he race across the plain so swiftly? Give civilized man time to gather all his machines around him, and he will certainly overpower man in the wild. But if you want to see an even more unequal contest, place them face to face, naked and unarmed. You will soon see the advantage of always having all our strength at our disposal. You will see the advantage of being constantly ready for anything. And you will see the advantage of always carrying ourselves with us, so to speak, whole and complete.

Hobbes would have it that man is naturally void of fear, and always intent upon attacking and fighting. An illustrious philosopher thinks on the contrary, and Cumberland and Puffendorff likewise affirm it, that nothing is more fearful than man in a state of nature, that he is always in a tremble, and ready to fly at the first motion he perceives, at the first noise that strikes his ears. This, indeed, may be very true in regard to objects with which he is not acquainted; and I make no doubt of his being terrified at every new sight that presents itself, as often as he cannot distinguish the physical good and evil which he may expect from it, nor compare his forces with the dangers he has to encounter; circumstances that seldom occur in a state of nature, where all things proceed in so uniform a manner, and the face of the earth is not liable to those sudden and continual changes occasioned in it by the passions and inconstancies of collected bodies. But savage man living among other animals without any society or fixed habitation, and finding himself early under a necessity of measuring his strength with theirs, soon makes a comparison between both, and finding that he surpasses them more in address, than they surpass him in strength, he learns not to be any longer in dread of them. Turn out a bear or a wolf against a sturdy, active, resolute savage, (and this they all are,) provided with stones and a good stick; and you will soon find that the danger is at least equal on both sides, and that after several trials of this kind, wild beasts, who are not fond of attacking each other, will not be very fond of attacking man, whom they have found every whit as wild as themselves. As to animals who have really more strength than man has address, he is, in regard to them, what other weaker species are, who find means to subsist notwithstanding; he has even this great advantage over such weaker species, that being equally fleet with them, and finding on every tree an almost inviolable asylum, he is always at liberty to take it or leave it, as he likes best, and of course to fight or to fly, whichever is most agreeable to him. To this we may add that no animal naturally makes war upon man, except in the case of self-defence or extreme hunger; nor ever expresses against him any of these violent antipathies, which seem to indicate that some particular species are intended by nature for the food of others.

Hobbes claims that man is naturally fearless and always eager to attack and fight. A distinguished philosopher thinks the opposite, as do Cumberland and Puffendorff. They maintain that nothing is more fearful than man in a state of nature. He is always trembling, ready to flee at the first movement he notices or the first sound he hears. This may indeed be very true when he encounters unfamiliar things. I have no doubt that every new sight terrifies him whenever he cannot judge its likely physical benefits or harms. The same is true whenever he cannot compare his strength with the dangers he faces. But such circumstances rarely arise in a state of nature, where everything follows such a steady course. The earth's appearance is not subject to the sudden, constant changes caused by the passions and fickleness of organized societies. But man in the wild lives among other animals, without society or a fixed home. From an early age, he must test his strength against theirs, so he soon learns to compare them. He finds that his advantage in skill exceeds their advantage in strength, and so he stops fearing them. Set a bear or wolf against a strong, active, determined man of the wild, armed with stones and a good stick. All such men have these qualities. You will soon see that the danger is at least equal on both sides. After several encounters of this kind, wild beasts will not be very eager to attack man. They are already reluctant to attack one another, and they have found man every bit as wild as themselves. Some animals really do have a greater advantage in strength than man has in skill. In relation to these animals, he is like other weaker species, which still find ways to survive. He even has one great advantage over those weaker species. He is just as swift, and almost every tree offers him a nearly secure refuge. So he can always choose whether to use that refuge, and therefore whether to fight or flee, as he prefers. We may add that no animal naturally attacks man except in self-defense or extreme hunger. Nor does any animal ever show him the violent hostility that seems to mark certain species as others' natural prey.

But there are other more formidable enemies, and against which man is not provided with the same means of defence; I mean natural infirmities, infancy, old age, and sickness of every kind, melancholy proofs of our weakness, whereof the two first are common to all animals, and the last chiefly attends man living in a state of society. It is even observable in regard to infancy, that the mother being able to carry her child about with her, wherever she goes, can perform the duty of a nurse with a great deal less trouble, than the females of many other animals, who are obliged to be constantly going and coming with no small labour and fatigue, one way to look out for their own subsistence, and another to suckle and feed their young ones. True it is that, if the woman happens to perish, her child is exposed to the greatest danger of perishing with her; but this danger is common to a hundred other species, whose young ones require a great deal of time to be able to provide for themselves; and if our infancy is longer than theirs, our life is longer likewise; so that, in this respect too, all things are in a manner equal; not but that there are other rules concerning the duration of the first age of life, and the number of the young of man and other animals, but they do not belong to my subject. With old men, who stir and perspire but little, the demand for food diminishes with their abilities to provide it; and as a savage life would exempt them from the gout and the rheumatism, and old age is of all ills that which human assistance is least capable of alleviating, they would at last go off, without its being perceived by others that they ceased to exist, and almost without perceiving it themselves.

But humans face other, more formidable enemies, against which they lack the same means of defense. I mean natural frailties: infancy, old age, and sickness of every kind. These are sad signs of our weakness. The first two are common to all animals, while sickness chiefly affects humans living in society. Even in infancy, a mother can carry her child wherever she goes. She can therefore nurse her child with far less trouble than the females of many other animals. Those animals must constantly go back and forth, with considerable effort and fatigue. They must go one way to find food for themselves, then return to nurse and feed their young. It is true that if the mother dies, her child faces a very great danger of dying with her. But a hundred other species share this danger, since their young take a long time to become self-sufficient. And if our infancy lasts longer than theirs, our lives are longer too. So in this respect, too, everything is more or less equal. There are, admittedly, other patterns concerning the length of infancy and the number of offspring in humans and other animals. But these fall outside my subject. Old men move and sweat little, so their need for food decreases along with their ability to obtain food. And since life in the wild would spare them gout and rheumatism, they would eventually pass away almost unnoticed. Old age is also the illness that human help can do least to relieve. Others would not notice that these old men had ceased to exist, and the men themselves would hardly notice either.

In regard to sickness, I shall not repeat the vain and false declamations made use of to discredit medicine by most men, while they enjoy their health; I shall only ask if there are any solid observations from which we may conclude that in those countries where the healing art is most neglected, the mean duration of man's life is shorter than in those where it is most cultivated? And how is it possible this should be the case, if we inflict more diseases upon ourselves than medicine can supply us with remedies! The extreme inequalities in the manner of living of the several classes of mankind, the excess of idleness in some, and of labour in others, the facility of irritating and satisfying our sensuality and our appetites, the too exquisite and out of the way aliments of the rich, which fill them with fiery juices, and bring on indigestions, the unwholesome food of the poor, of which even, bad as it is, they very often fall short, and the want of which tempts them, every opportunity that offers, to eat greedily and overload their stomachs; watchings, excesses of every kind, immoderate transports of all the passions, fatigues, waste of spirits, in a word, the numberless pains and anxieties annexed to every condition, and which the mind of man is constantly a prey to; these are the fatal proofs that most of our ills are of our own making, and that we might have avoided them all by adhering to the simple, uniform and solitary way of life prescribed to us by nature. Allowing that nature intended we should always enjoy good health, I dare almost affirm that a state of reflection is a state against nature, and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal. We need only call to mind the good constitution of savages, of those at least whom we have not destroyed by our strong liquors; we need only reflect, that they are strangers to almost every disease, except those occasioned by wounds and old age, to be in a manner convinced that the history of human diseases might be easily composed by pursuing that of civil societies. Such at least was the opinion of Plato, who concluded from certain remedies made use of or approved by Podalyrus and Macaon at the Siege of Troy, that several disorders, which these remedies were found to bring on in his days, were not known among men at that remote period.

As for sickness, I will not repeat the empty, false attacks most people make against medicine while enjoying good health. I will ask only whether any reliable observations support the following conclusion. Is average human life shorter in countries that neglect medicine than in countries that develop it most? And how could that be true if we give ourselves more diseases than medicine can provide remedies for? Consider the extreme differences in how the various classes live. Some are far too idle, while others work far too hard. We can so easily stir up and satisfy our sensual desires and appetites. The rich eat excessively refined and unusual foods that fill their bodies with burning fluids and cause indigestion. The poor eat unhealthy food, and often cannot get enough even of that. This shortage tempts them, whenever food becomes available, to eat greedily and overload their stomachs. Add sleepless nights, excesses of every kind, unrestrained outbursts of every passion, exhaustion, and depleted energy. In short, every station in life brings countless pains and anxieties that constantly prey on the human mind. These are the deadly signs that most of our troubles are of our own making. We might have avoided them all by keeping to the simple, unvarying, solitary life nature prescribed for us. If we grant that nature intended us always to enjoy good health, I would almost dare to say this: reflection is an unnatural state, and a person who meditates is a corrupted animal. We need only recall the robust health of savages, at least those we have not destroyed with our strong liquor. We need only consider that they know almost no diseases except those caused by wounds and old age. These observations would almost convince us that tracing the history of civilized societies could easily produce a history of human diseases. Such, at least, was Plato's opinion. He considered certain remedies used or approved by Podalyrus and Macaon at the Siege of Troy. In Plato's own day, these remedies were found to cause several disorders. He concluded that those disorders had been unknown among people in that distant age.

Man therefore, in a state of nature where there are so few sources of sickness, can have no great occasion for physic, and still less for physicians; neither is the human species more to be pitied in this respect, than any other species of animals. Ask those who make hunting their recreation or business, if in their excursions they meet with many sick or feeble animals. They meet with many carrying the marks of considerable wounds, that have been perfectly well healed and closed up; with many, whose bones formerly broken, and whose limbs almost torn off, have completely knit and united, without any other surgeon but time, any other regimen but their usual way of living, and whose cures were not the less perfect for their not having been tortured with incisions, poisoned with drugs, or worn out by diet and abstinence. In a word, however useful medicine well administered may be to us who live in a state of society, it is still past doubt, that if, on the one hand, the sick savage, destitute of help, has nothing to hope from nature, on the other, he has nothing to fear but from his disease; a circumstance, which oftens renders his situation preferable to ours.

People in a state of nature therefore have little need for medicine, and even less for doctors. There are so few causes of illness in that state. In this respect, humans deserve no more pity than any other animal species. Ask people who hunt for pleasure or a living whether they encounter many sick or weak animals. Hunters find many animals with signs of serious wounds that have healed completely. They find many whose broken bones and nearly severed limbs have fully knit back together. Time was their only surgeon, and their usual way of life was their only treatment. Their recovery was no less complete because they escaped the torture of incisions and the poison of drugs. Nor was it less complete because they were spared the exhaustion of restricted diets and fasting. In short, properly administered medicine may be useful to those of us who live in society. Yet one thing remains beyond doubt. If a sick person in a state of nature has no help and nothing to hope for from nature, there is another side. That person has nothing to fear except the disease itself. This often makes the sick person's situation preferable to ours.

Let us therefore beware of confounding savage man with the men, whom we daily see and converse with. Nature behaves towards all animals left to her care with a predilection, that seems to prove how jealous she is of that prerogative. The horse, the cat, the bull, nay the ass itself, have generally a higher stature, and always a more robust constitution, more vigour, more strength and courage in their forests than in our houses; they lose half these advantages by becoming domestic animals; it looks as if all our attention to treat them kindly, and to feed them well, served only to bastardize them. It is thus with man himself. In proportion as he becomes sociable and a slave to others, he becomes weak, fearful, mean-spirited, and his soft and effeminate way of living at once completes the enervation of his strength and of his courage. We may add, that there must be still a wider difference between man and man in a savage and domestic condition, than between beast and beast; for as men and beasts have been treated alike by nature, all the conveniences with which men indulge themselves more than they do the beasts tamed by them, are so many particular causes which make them degenerate more sensibly.

So let us be careful not to confuse man in the wild with the people we see and speak with daily. Nature favors all animals left in her care. This preference seems to show how jealously she guards her right to care for them. Horses, cats, bulls, and even donkeys are generally larger in their forests than in our homes. They always have hardier bodies, more energy, greater strength, and more courage in the wild. They lose half these advantages when they become domestic animals. It seems as if all our efforts to treat them kindly and feed them well only weaken their natural qualities. The same is true of man himself. As he becomes more sociable and more enslaved to others, he becomes weaker, more fearful, and less spirited. His soft, unmanly way of life then completes the weakening of both his strength and his courage. We may add that the difference between wild and domesticated humans must be even greater than between wild and domesticated animals. For nature has treated humans and animals alike. But humans allow themselves more comforts than they give the animals they tame. Each of these extra comforts is another cause of the greater decline in humans.

Nakedness therefore, the want of houses, and of all these unnecessaries, which we consider as so very necessary, are not such mighty evils in respect to these primitive men, and much less still any obstacle to their preservation. Their skins, it is true, are destitute of hair; but then they have no occasion for any such covering in warm climates; and in cold climates they soon learn to apply to that use those of the animals they have conquered; they have but two feet to run with, but they have two hands to defend themselves with, and provide for all their wants; it costs them perhaps a great deal of time and trouble to make their children walk, but the mothers carry them with ease; an advantage not granted to other species of animals, with whom the mother, when pursued, is obliged to abandon her young ones, or regulate her steps by theirs. In short, unless we admit those singular and fortuitous concurrences of circumstances, which I shall speak of hereafter, and which, it is very possible, may never have existed, it is evident, in every state of the question, that the man, who first made himself clothes and built himself a cabin, supplied himself with things which he did not much want, since he had lived without them till then; and why should he not have been able to support in his riper years, the same kind of life, which he had supported from his infancy?

Being naked, then, and lacking houses and all those needless things we consider so necessary are no great hardships for primitive people. Still less do these conditions threaten their survival. Their skin does lack hair, but they need no such covering in warm climates. In cold climates, they soon learn to cover themselves with the skins of animals they have overcome. They have only two feet to run with, but they have two hands to defend themselves and meet all their needs. Teaching their children to walk may take a great deal of time and effort, but mothers carry them easily. Other animal species lack this advantage. When pursued, an animal mother must abandon her young or slow her pace to match theirs. In short, we must set aside certain unusual combinations of chance circumstances, which I will discuss later. Those circumstances may very well never have existed. Unless we assume such circumstances, the conclusion is clear, however we approach the question. The first man who made clothes and built a hut gave himself things he had little need for. After all, he had lived without them until then. And why should he not have been able, as an adult, to continue the life he had led since infancy?

Alone, idle, and always surrounded with danger, savage man must be fond of sleep, and sleep lightly like other animals, who think but little, and may, in a manner, be said to sleep all the time they do not think: self-preservation being almost his only concern, he must exercise those faculties most, which are most serviceable in attacking and in defending, whether to subdue his prey, or to prevent his becoming that of other animals: those organs, on the contrary, which softness and sensuality can alone improve, must remain in a state of rudeness, utterly incompatible with all manner of delicacy; and as his senses are divided on this point, his touch and his taste must be extremely coarse and blunt; his sight, his hearing, and his smelling equally subtle: such is the animal state in general, and accordingly if we may believe travellers, it is that of most savage nations. We must not therefore be surprised, that the Hottentots of the Cape of Good Hope, distinguish with their naked eyes ships on the ocean, at as great a distance as the Dutch can discern them with their glasses; nor that the savages of America should have tracked the Spaniards with their noses, to as great a degree of exactness, as the best dogs could have done; nor that all these barbarous nations support nakedness without pain, use such large quantities of Piemento to give their food a relish, and drink like water the strongest liquors of Europe.

Alone, idle, and always surrounded by danger, savage man must be fond of sleep, but must sleep lightly. Other animals do the same, since they think little. In a sense, animals may be said to sleep whenever they are not thinking. Since self-preservation is almost his only concern, savage man must chiefly exercise the abilities most useful for attack and defense. He uses these abilities to overpower his prey or avoid becoming prey to other animals. By contrast, the senses that only comfort and sensual pleasure can refine must remain undeveloped and incapable of any delicacy. His senses must therefore differ in sharpness. His touch and taste must be extremely coarse and dull, while his sight, hearing, and smell must be equally keen. This is the animal condition in general. And if we may believe travelers, this is also the condition of most savage nations. We should therefore not be surprised by reports about the Hottentots of the Cape of Good Hope. With their naked eyes, they can distinguish ships at sea as far away as the Dutch can with telescopes. Nor should we be surprised that the savages of America tracked the Spaniards by smell as accurately as the best dogs. Nor should we be surprised that all these barbarous nations endure nakedness without pain. They use such large quantities of Piemento to flavor their food and drink Europe’s strongest liquors as if drinking water.

As yet I have considered man merely in his physical capacity; let us now endeavour to examine him in a metaphysical and moral light.

So far, I have considered humans only as physical beings. Let us now try to examine them from a metaphysical and moral perspective.

I can discover nothing in any mere animal but an ingenious machine, to which nature has given senses to wind itself up, and guard, to a certain degree, against everything that might destroy or disorder it. I perceive the very same things in the human machine, with this difference, that nature alone operates in all the operations of the beast, whereas man, as a free agent, has a share in his. One chooses by instinct; the other by an act of liberty; for which reason the beast cannot deviate from the rules that have been prescribed to it, even in cases where such deviation might be useful, and man often deviates from the rules laid down for him to his prejudice. Thus a pigeon would starve near a dish of the best flesh-meat, and a cat on a heap of fruit or corn, though both might very well support life with the food which they thus disdain, did they but bethink themselves to make a trial of it: it is in this manner dissolute men run into excesses, which bring on fevers and death itself; because the mind depraves the senses, and when nature ceases to speak, the will still continues to dictate.

I see nothing in an animal but a clever machine. Nature has given animals senses to keep themselves running and protect themselves, to some extent, from harm or disruption. I see the same things in the human machine, but with one difference. Nature alone directs every action of an animal, while humans, as free agents, help direct their own actions. Animals choose by instinct, while humans choose freely. For this reason, animals cannot depart from the rules prescribed for them, even when doing so might help them. Humans, however, often depart from the rules laid down for them, to their own harm. Thus, a pigeon would starve beside a dish of the finest meat, and a cat amid fruit or grain. Yet both could easily survive on the food they reject, if they only thought to try it. In the same way, people who live without restraint indulge in excesses that bring on fevers and even death. This happens because the mind corrupts the senses, and when nature stops speaking, the will keeps giving orders.

All animals must be allowed to have ideas, since all animals have senses; they even combine their ideas to a certain degree, and, in this respect, it is only the difference of such degree, that constitutes the difference between man and beast: some philosophers have even advanced, that there is a greater difference between some men and some others, than between some men and some beasts; it is not therefore so much the understanding that constitutes, among animals, the specifical distinction of man, as his quality of a free agent. Nature speaks to all animals, and beasts obey her voice. Man feels the same impression, but he at the same time perceives that he is free to resist or to acquiesce; and it is in the consciousness of this liberty, that the spirituality of his soul chiefly appears: for natural philosophy explains, in some measure, the mechanism of the senses and the formation of ideas; but in the power of willing, or rather of choosing, and in the consciousness of this power, nothing can be discovered but acts, that are purely spiritual, and cannot be accounted for by the laws of mechanics.

We must accept that all animals have ideas, since all animals have senses. Animals even combine their ideas to a certain degree. In this respect, humans and beasts differ only in degree. Some philosophers have even argued that some humans differ more from other humans than from some beasts. So what sets humans apart from other animals is not so much understanding as the ability to act freely. Nature speaks to all animals, and beasts obey her voice. Humans feel the same influence, but also recognize their freedom to resist or give in. The spiritual nature of the human soul appears chiefly in the awareness of this freedom. For the study of nature can explain, to some extent, how the senses work and how ideas form. But the power to will, or rather to choose, and the awareness of this power reveal only purely spiritual acts. These acts cannot be explained by the laws of mechanics.

But though the difficulties, in which all these questions are involved, should leave some room to dispute on this difference between man and beast, there is another very specific quality that distinguishes them, and a quality which will admit of no dispute; this is the faculty of improvement; a faculty which, as circumstances offer, successively unfolds all the other faculties, and resides among us not only in the species, but in the individuals that compose it; whereas a beast is, at the end of some months, all he ever will be during the rest of his life; and his species, at the end of a thousand years, precisely what it was the first year of that long period. Why is man alone subject to dotage? Is it not, because he thus returns to his primitive condition? And because, while the beast, which has acquired nothing and has likewise nothing to lose, continues always in possession of his instinct, man, losing by old age, or by accident, all the acquisitions he had made in consequence of his perfectibility, thus falls back even lower than beasts themselves? It would be a melancholy necessity for us to be obliged to allow, that this distinctive and almost unlimited faculty is the source of all man's misfortunes; that it is this faculty, which, though by slow degrees, draws them out of their original condition, in which his days would slide away insensibly in peace and innocence; that it is this faculty, which, in a succession of ages, produces his discoveries and mistakes, his virtues and his vices, and, at long run, renders him both his own and nature's tyrant. It would be shocking to be obliged to commend, as a beneficent being, whoever he was that first suggested to the Oronoco Indians the use of those boards which they bind on the temples of their children, and which secure to them the enjoyment of some part at least of their natural imbecility and happiness.

But the difficulties surrounding all these questions may leave room for debate about this difference between humans and animals. Still, another very specific quality distinguishes them, and this quality is beyond dispute: the capacity to improve. As circumstances allow, this capacity gradually develops all our other abilities. It belongs not only to the human species but also to each individual. An animal, by contrast, becomes all it will ever be within a few months. And after a thousand years, its species remains exactly as it was at the start of that period. Why do humans alone suffer mental decline in old age? Is it not because they return to their original condition? An animal has acquired nothing and therefore has nothing to lose, so it always retains its instinct. But through age or accident, humans can lose everything they gained through their capacity to improve. Do they not therefore fall even lower than animals themselves? It would be a sad necessity to have to admit that this distinctive, almost unlimited capacity causes all human misfortunes. We would have to admit that it slowly draws humans out of their original condition. In that condition, their days would pass unnoticed in peace and innocence. We would have to admit that, over the ages, this capacity produces their discoveries and errors, their virtues and vices. And in the long run, it makes humans tyrants over both themselves and nature. It would be shocking to have to praise as a benefactor whoever first suggested a practice to the Oronoco Indians. This practice involves binding boards against their children's temples. These boards ensure that the children retain at least some of their natural lack of intelligence and happiness.

Savage man, abandoned by nature to pure instinct, or rather indemnified for that which has perhaps been denied to him by faculties capable of immediately supplying the place of it, and of raising him afterwards a great deal higher, would therefore begin with functions that were merely animal: to see and to feel would be his first condition, which he would enjoy in common with other animals. To will and not to will, to wish and to fear, would be the first, and in a manner, the only operations of his soul, till new circumstances occasioned new developments.

Nature left primitive man to instinct alone. Or rather, nature compensated him for the instinct he had perhaps been denied by giving him other abilities. These abilities could immediately take instinct’s place and later raise him far above it. He would therefore begin with purely animal functions. His first state would be seeing and feeling, a state he would share with other animals. Wanting and not wanting, wishing and fearing, would be the first activities of his soul. In a sense, these would be his only inner activities until new circumstances brought new developments.

Let moralists say what they will, the human understanding is greatly indebted to the passions, which, on their side, are likewise universally allowed to be greatly indebted to the human understanding. It is by the activity of our passions, that our reason improves: we covet knowledge merely because we covet enjoyment, and it is impossible to conceive why a man exempt from fears and desires should take the trouble to reason. The passions, in their turn, owe their origin to our wants, and their increase to our progress in science; for we cannot desire or fear anything, but in consequence of the ideas we have of it, or of the simple impulses of nature; and savage man, destitute of every species of knowledge, experiences no passions but those of this last kind; his desires never extend beyond his physical wants; he knows no goods but food, a female, and rest; he fears no evil but pain, and hunger; I say pain, and not death; for no animal, merely as such, will ever know what it is to die, and the knowledge of death, and of its terrors, is one of the first acquisitions made by man, in consequence of his deviating from the animal state.

Whatever moralists may say, human understanding owes a great deal to the passions. Everyone also agrees that the passions, in turn, owe a great deal to human understanding. Our reason develops through the activity of our passions. We seek knowledge only because we seek enjoyment. We cannot imagine why a person without fears or desires would bother to reason. The passions, in turn, arise from our needs and grow as our scientific knowledge advances. For we can desire or fear something only through our ideas about it or through nature’s simple impulses. Savage man, who has no knowledge of any kind, experiences only passions arising from these natural impulses. His desires never reach beyond his physical needs. He knows no good things except food, a female, and rest. He fears no evils except pain and hunger. I say pain, not death. For no animal, simply as an animal, will ever know what dying means. Knowledge of death and its terrors is among the first things humans acquire as they depart from the animal state.

I could easily, were it requisite, cite facts in support of this opinion, and show, that the progress of the mind has everywhere kept pace exactly with the wants, to which nature had left the inhabitants exposed, or to which circumstances had subjected them, and consequently to the passions, which inclined them to provide for these wants. I could exhibit in Egypt the arts starting up, and extending themselves with the inundations of the Nile; I could pursue them in their progress among the Greeks, where they were seen to bud forth, grow, and rise to the heavens, in the midst of the sands and rocks of Attica, without being able to take root on the fertile banks of the Eurotas; I would observe that, in general, the inhabitants of the north are more industrious than those of the south, because they can less do without industry; as if nature thus meant to make all things equal, by giving to the mind that fertility she has denied to the soil.

If necessary, I could easily cite facts to support this view. I could show that the mind’s progress everywhere has exactly matched the needs imposed by nature or circumstances. Consequently, it has also matched the passions that drove people to meet those needs. I could show the arts emerging and spreading in Egypt with the flooding of the Nile. I could trace their progress among the Greeks. In the sands and rocks of Attica, the arts budded, grew, and rose to the heavens. Yet they could not take root on the fertile banks of the Eurotas. I would note that, in general, northern peoples are more industrious than southern peoples because they need industry more. It is as if nature meant to make everything equal by giving the mind the fertility denied to the soil.

But exclusive of the uncertain testimonies of history, who does not perceive that everything seems to remove from savage man the temptation and the means of altering his condition? His imagination paints nothing to him; his heart asks nothing from him. His moderate wants are so easily supplied with what he everywhere finds ready to his hand, and he stands at such a distance from the degree of knowledge requisite to covet more, that he can neither have foresight nor curiosity. The spectacle of nature, by growing quite familiar to him, becomes at last equally indifferent. It is constantly the same order, constantly the same revolutions; he has not sense enough to feel surprise at the sight of the greatest wonders; and it is not in his mind we must look for that philosophy, which man must have to know how to observe once, what he has every day seen. His soul, which nothing disturbs, gives itself up entirely to the consciousness of its actual existence, without any thought of even the nearest futurity; and his projects, equally confined with his views, scarce extend to the end of the day. Such is, even at present, the degree of foresight in the Caribbean: he sells his cotton bed in the morning, and comes in the evening, with tears in his eyes, to buy it back, not having foreseen that he should want it again the next night.

But leaving aside the uncertain evidence of history, who cannot see how everything seems to discourage savage man from changing his condition? Everything also seems to deny him the means to change it. His imagination presents him with nothing. His heart asks nothing of him. His modest needs are easily met by whatever he finds ready at hand. He is so far from having the knowledge needed to desire more that he can have neither foresight nor curiosity. As the sight of nature becomes entirely familiar to him, he eventually becomes equally indifferent to it. Nature always follows the same order, always repeats the same cycles. He lacks the understanding to feel surprise at the sight of the greatest wonders. Nor should we look in his mind for the philosophical outlook needed to truly observe what we see every day. His soul, disturbed by nothing, gives itself entirely to the awareness of his present existence. He gives no thought even to the nearest future. His plans are as limited as his outlook and hardly reach beyond the end of the day. Even today, such is the degree of foresight shown by a man in the Caribbean. He sells his cotton bed in the morning and returns that evening, with tears in his eyes, to buy it back. He had not foreseen that he would need his bed again that night.

The more we meditate on this subject, the wider does the distance between mere sensation and the most simple knowledge become in our eyes; and it is impossible to conceive how man, by his own powers alone, without the assistance of communication, and the spur of necessity, could have got over so great an interval. How many ages perhaps revolved, before men beheld any other fire but that of the heavens? How many different accidents must have concurred to make them acquainted with the most common uses of this element? How often have they let it go out, before they knew the art of reproducing it? And how often perhaps has not every one of these secrets perished with the discoverer? What shall we say of agriculture, an art which requires so much labour and foresight; which depends upon other arts; which, it is very evident, cannot be practised but in a society, if not a formed one, at least one of some standing, and which does not so much serve to draw aliments from the earth, for the earth would yield them without all that trouble, as to oblige her to produce those things, which we like best, preferably to others? But let us suppose that men had multiplied to such a degree, that the natural products of the earth no longer sufficed for their support; a supposition which, by the bye, would prove that this kind of life would be very advantageous to the human species; let us suppose that, without forge or anvil, the instruments of husbandry had dropped from the heavens into the hands of savages, that these men had got the better of that mortal aversion they all have for constant labour; that they had learned to foretell their wants at so great a distance of time; that they had guessed exactly how they were to break the earth, commit their seed to it, and plant trees; that they had found out the art of grinding their corn, and improving by fermentation the juice of their grapes; all operations which we must allow them to have learned from the gods, since we cannot conceive how they should make such discoveries of themselves; after all these fine presents, what man would be mad enough to cultivate a field, that may be robbed by the first comer, man or beast, who takes a fancy to the produce of it. And would any man consent to spend his day in labour and fatigue, when the rewards of his labour and fatigue became more and more precarious in proportion to his want of them? In a word, how could this situation engage men to cultivate the earth, as long as it was not parcelled out among them, that is, as long as a state of nature subsisted.

The more we think about this subject, the greater the gap between mere sensation and even the simplest knowledge appears. It is impossible to imagine how humans could have crossed such a vast gap through their own powers alone. How could they have done so without communication to help them and necessity to drive them? How many ages may have passed before humans saw any fire other than fire from the sky? How many different accidents must have come together to teach them the most common uses of fire? How often did they let fire go out before learning how to make it again? And how often, perhaps, did each of these secrets die with its discoverer? What can we say about agriculture, which requires so much work and foresight and depends on other skills? Clearly, agriculture can only be practiced within a society. That society need not be fully organized, but it must at least have existed for some time. Agriculture's purpose is not so much to get food from the earth, which would provide food without all that trouble. Rather, agriculture forces the earth to produce the things we like best instead of others. But suppose humans had multiplied so greatly that the earth's natural products could no longer feed them. Incidentally, that assumption would prove that this way of life was very beneficial to the human species. Suppose farming tools had dropped from the heavens into the hands of people living in the wild, without forge or anvil. Suppose these people had overcome the deep aversion they all have to constant work. Suppose they had learned to predict their needs so far ahead. Suppose they had guessed exactly how to till the soil, sow seeds, and plant trees. Suppose they had discovered how to grind their grain and improve grape juice through fermentation. We must grant that the gods taught them all these operations. For we cannot imagine how they could have made such discoveries on their own. Even after all these fine gifts, who would be mad enough to cultivate a field under such conditions? Any passing person or animal could steal the crop simply by taking a liking to it. And would anyone agree to spend the day in exhausting work when the rewards became less secure as their need grew? In short, how could these circumstances encourage people to cultivate the earth as long as it remained undivided among them? That is, how could they do so as long as the state of nature continued?

Though we should suppose savage man as well versed in the art of thinking, as philosophers make him; though we were, after them, to make him a philosopher himself, discovering of himself the sublimest truths, forming to himself, by the most abstract arguments, maxims of justice and reason drawn from the love of order in general, or from the known will of his Creator: in a word, though we were to suppose his mind as intelligent and enlightened, as it must, and is, in fact, found to be dull and stupid; what benefit would the species receive from all these metaphysical discoveries, which could not be communicated, but must perish with the individual who had made them? What progress could mankind make in the forests, scattered up and down among the other animals? And to what degree could men mutually improve and enlighten each other, when they had no fixed habitation, nor any need of each other's assistance; when the same persons scarcely met twice in their whole lives, and on meeting neither spoke to, or so much as knew each other?

Suppose we granted that man in the wild was as skilled at thinking as philosophers claim. Suppose we followed those philosophers and made him a philosopher himself, discovering the highest truths on his own. Suppose he used the most abstract arguments to develop principles of justice and reason. He might draw these principles from a love of order in general, or from his Creator’s known will. In short, suppose his mind were as intelligent and enlightened as it must actually be dull and stupid. Even then, what benefit would humanity gain from all these metaphysical discoveries? Such discoveries could not be shared and would have to die with the individual who made them. What progress could humanity make in the forests, scattered among the other animals? And how much could people improve and enlighten one another when they had no settled homes or need for help? The same people would hardly meet twice in their entire lives. And when they did meet, they neither spoke to one another nor even knew one another.

Let us consider how many ideas we owe to the use of speech; how much grammar exercises, and facilitates the operations of the mind; let us, besides, reflect on the immense pains and time that the first invention of languages must have required: Let us add these reflections to the preceding; and then we may judge how many thousand ages must have been requisite to develop successively the operations, which the human mind is capable of producing.

Let us consider how many ideas we owe to speech, and how much grammar trains the mind and helps it work. Let us also reflect on the enormous effort and time that inventing the first languages must have required. Let us add these reflections to the earlier ones. Then we may judge how many thousands of ages must have been needed for the mind’s abilities to develop, one after another.

I must now beg leave to stop one moment to consider the perplexities attending the origin of languages. I might here barely cite or repeat the researches made, in relation to this question, by the Abbe de Condillac, which all fully confirm my system, and perhaps even suggested to me the first idea of it. But, as the manner, in which the philosopher resolves the difficulties of his own starting, concerning the origin of arbitrary signs, shows that he supposes, what I doubt, namely a kind of society already established among the inventors of languages; I think it my duty, at the same time that I refer to his reflections, to give my own, in order to expose the same difficulties in a light suitable to my subject. The first that offers is how languages could become necessary; for as there was no correspondence between men, nor the least necessity for any, there is no conceiving the necessity of this invention, nor the possibility of it, if it was not indispensable. I might say, with many others, that languages are the fruit of the domestic intercourse between fathers, mothers, and children: but this, besides its not answering any difficulties, would be committing the same fault with those, who reasoning on the state of nature, transfer to it ideas collected in society, always consider families as living together under one roof, and their members as observing among themselves an union, equally intimate and permanent with that which we see exist in a civil state, where so many common interests conspire to unite them; whereas in this primitive state, as there were neither houses nor cabins, nor any kind of property, every one took up his lodging at random, and seldom continued above one night in the same place; males and females united without any premeditated design, as chance, occasion, or desire brought them together, nor had they any great occasion for language to make known their thoughts to each other. They parted with the same ease. The mother suckled her children, when just born, for her own sake; but afterwards out of love and affection to them, when habit and custom had made them dear to her; but they no sooner gained strength enough to run about in quest of food than they separated even from her of their own accord; and as they scarce had any other method of not losing each other, than that of remaining constantly in each other's sight, they soon came to such a pass of forgetfulness, as not even to know each other, when they happened to meet again. I must further observe that the child having all his wants to explain, and consequently more things to say to his mother, than the mother can have to say to him, it is he that must be at the chief expense of invention, and the language he makes use of must be in a great measure his own work; this makes the number of languages equal to that of the individuals who are to speak them; and this multiplicity of languages is further increased by their roving and vagabond kind of life, which allows no idiom time enough to acquire any consistency; for to say that the mother would have dictated to the child the words he must employ to ask her this thing and that, may well enough explain in what manner languages, already formed, are taught, but it does not show us in what manner they are first formed.

I must now ask to pause for a moment to consider the difficulties surrounding the origin of languages. I could simply cite or repeat the Abbe de Condillac’s research on this question. His findings all confirm my theory, and perhaps even gave me its first idea. But consider how this philosopher resolves the difficulties he himself raises about the origin of arbitrary signs. His solution assumes something I doubt: that some kind of society already existed among the inventors of language. So, while referring readers to his reflections, I think I must also offer my own. My purpose is to present the same difficulties in a way suited to my subject. The first difficulty is explaining how languages could have become necessary. People had no dealings with one another, nor the slightest need for any. So we cannot conceive why language needed to be invented, or how it could have been invented unless it was indispensable. Like many others, I might say that languages arose from everyday contact between fathers, mothers, and children. But that explanation resolves none of the difficulties. It also repeats the mistake of those who import ideas from society into their reasoning about the state of nature. Such thinkers always imagine families living together under one roof. They imagine family members sharing bonds as close and lasting as those we see in organized society. In that society, so many common interests work together to unite them. But in this primitive state, there were no houses, huts, or property of any kind. Everyone settled down to sleep wherever chance led them, seldom staying more than one night in the same place. Males and females came together without any plan, as chance, opportunity, or desire brought them together. Nor did they have much need for language to communicate their thoughts to one another. They parted just as easily. A mother nursed her newborn children for her own sake. Later, she nursed them out of love and affection, once habit had made them dear to her. But as soon as the children were strong enough to search for food, they left even their mother voluntarily. They had hardly any way to avoid losing one another except by staying constantly within sight. So they soon forgot one another so completely that they did not even recognize each other when they met again. I must also point out that a child has all his needs to communicate. He therefore has more to say to his mother than she can have to say to him. So the child must do most of the inventing, and his language must largely be his own creation. This would make the number of languages equal to the number of individuals who were to speak them. Their wandering way of life would increase this number still further, allowing no language enough time to develop a stable form. One might say that the mother would tell the child which words to use when asking her for different things. That may well explain how languages are taught once they already exist. But it does not show us how languages are first formed.

Let us suppose this first difficulty conquered: Let us for a moment consider ourselves at this side of the immense space, which must have separated the pure state of nature from that in which languages became necessary, and let us, after allowing such necessity, examine how languages could begin to be established. A new difficulty this, still more stubborn than the preceding; for if men stood in need of speech to learn to think, they must have stood in still greater need of the art of thinking to invent that of speaking; and though we could conceive how the sounds of the voice came to be taken for the conventional interpreters of our ideas we should not be the nearer knowing who could have been the interpreters of this convention for such ideas, as, in consequence of their not having any sensible objects, could not be made manifest by gesture or voice; so that we can scarce form any tolerable conjectures concerning the birth of this art of communicating our thoughts, and establishing a correspondence between minds: a sublime art which, though so remote from its origin, philosophers still behold at such a prodigious distance from its perfection, that I never met with one of them bold enough to affirm it would ever arrive there, though the revolutions necessarily produced by time were suspended in its favour; though prejudice could be banished from, or would be at least content to sit silent in the presence of our academies, and though these societies should consecrate themselves, entirely and during whole ages, to the study of this intricate object.

Let us suppose we have overcome this first difficulty. For a moment, let us imagine we have crossed the immense gap between two stages of human life. One was the pure state of nature. The other was the stage when languages became necessary. Having accepted that necessity, let us examine how languages could first have developed. Here we face a new difficulty, even harder to overcome than the first. If people needed speech to learn to think, they needed the art of thinking still more to invent speech. We might imagine how people agreed to use vocal sounds to represent their ideas. But we would be no closer to knowing who could have explained that agreement for certain ideas. These ideas had no objects perceptible to the senses, so neither gestures nor vocal sounds could make them clear. We can therefore hardly make any reasonable guesses about the birth of this art of communicating thoughts and connecting minds. This is a sublime art. Yet, so long after its beginnings, philosophers still see it as extraordinarily far from perfection. I have never met a philosopher bold enough to claim that this art would ever reach perfection. None would claim this even if the changes time inevitably brings were suspended to favor its progress. Nor would they claim it even if prejudice were banished from our academies, or at least remained silent there. Nor even if these learned societies devoted themselves entirely, for centuries, to studying this intricate subject.

The first language of man, the most universal and most energetic of all languages, in short, the only language he had occasion for, before there was a necessity of persuading assembled multitudes, was the cry of nature. As this cry was never extorted but by a kind of instinct in the most urgent cases, to implore assistance in great danger, or relief in great sufferings, it was of little use in the common occurrences of life, where more moderate sentiments generally prevail. When the ideas of men began to extend and multiply, and a closer communication began to take place among them, they laboured to devise more numerous signs, and a more extensive language: they multiplied the inflections of the voice, and added to them gestures, which are, in their own nature, more expressive, and whose meaning depends less on any prior determination. They therefore expressed visible and movable objects by gestures and those which strike the ear, by imitative sounds: but as gestures scarcely indicate anything except objects that are actually present or can be easily described, and visible actions; as they are not of general use, since darkness or the interposition of an opaque medium renders them useless; and as besides they require attention rather than excite it: men at length bethought themselves of substituting for them the articulations of voice, which, without having the same relation to any determinate object, are, in quality of instituted signs, fitter to represent all our ideas; a substitution, which could only have been made by common consent, and in a manner pretty difficult to practise by men, whose rude organs were unimproved by exercise; a substitution, which is in itself more difficult to be conceived, since the motives to this unanimous agreement must have been somehow or another expressed, and speech therefore appears to have been exceedingly requisite to establish the use of speech.

The first human language was the cry of nature, the most universal and forceful of all languages. In short, it was the only language people needed before they had to persuade assembled crowds. This cry came only from instinct in the most urgent situations. People cried out to ask for help in great danger or relief from great suffering. So the cry was of little use in everyday life, where more moderate feelings generally prevail. As people’s ideas began to grow and multiply, and communication became closer, they worked to develop more signs and a broader language. They varied their voices more and added gestures. Gestures are naturally more expressive, and their meaning depends less on any prior agreement. So people used gestures to express visible, moving objects, and imitated sounds to express things that could be heard. But gestures can convey hardly anything beyond objects that are present or easily described, and visible actions. Nor can gestures be used in all circumstances, since darkness or an object blocking the view makes them useless. Besides, gestures require attention rather than attract it. So people eventually thought of replacing gestures with articulated vocal sounds. These sounds lacked the same connection to any particular object. But as signs established by agreement, they were better suited to expressing all our ideas. Such a change could only have come about through common consent. It would also have been rather difficult for people whose undeveloped vocal organs had not been trained through practice. The change itself is even harder to understand because the reasons for this unanimous agreement must somehow have been expressed. Speech therefore seems to have been essential to establishing the use of speech.

We must allow that the words, first made use of by men, had in their minds a much more extensive signification, than those employed in languages of some standing, and that, considering how ignorant they were of the division of speech into its constituent parts; they at first gave every word the meaning of an entire proposition. When afterwards they began to perceive the difference between the subject and attribute, and between verb and noun, a distinction which required no mean effort of genius, the substantives for a time were only so many proper names, the infinitive was the only tense, and as to adjectives, great difficulties must have attended the development of the idea that represents them, since every adjective is an abstract word, and abstraction is an unnatural and very painful operation.

We must admit that the first words people used had much broader meanings than words in long-established languages. Since people knew nothing about dividing speech into its parts, they initially gave each word the meaning of a whole statement. Later, people began to distinguish between a subject and what is said about it, and between verbs and nouns. Making these distinctions required considerable ingenuity. For a time, nouns were nothing more than proper names, and the infinitive was the only verb tense. As for adjectives, developing the idea behind them must have been very difficult. Every adjective is an abstract word, and abstraction is an unnatural and very painful mental process.

At first they gave every object a peculiar name, without any regard to its genus or species, things which these first institutors of language were in no condition to distinguish; and every individual presented itself solitary to their minds, as it stands in the table of nature. If they called one oak A, they called another oak B: so that their dictionary must have been more extensive in proportion as their knowledge of things was more confined. It could not but be a very difficult task to get rid of so diffuse and embarrassing a nomenclature; as in order to marshal the several beings under common and generic denominations, it was necessary to be first acquainted with their properties, and their differences; to be stocked with observations and definitions, that is to say, to understand natural history and metaphysics, advantages which the men of these times could not have enjoyed.

At first, they gave each object its own name, without considering its genus or species. These first creators of language were not yet able to make such distinctions. Each individual thing stood alone in their minds, just as it stands in nature. If they called one oak A, they called another oak B. So the less they knew about things, the larger their dictionary must have been. Replacing such a sprawling and unwieldy naming system was bound to be very difficult. To group different beings under shared, general names, they first needed to know their properties and differences. They needed a store of observations and definitions. In other words, they needed to understand natural history and metaphysics. People of those times could not have had the benefit of such knowledge.

Besides, general ideas cannot be conveyed to the mind without the assistance of words, nor can the understanding seize them without the assistance of propositions. This is one of the reasons, why mere animals cannot form such ideas, nor ever acquire the perfectibility which depends on such an operation. When a monkey leaves without the least hesitation one nut for another, are we to think he has any general idea of that kind of fruit, and that he compares these two individual bodies with his archetype notion of them? No, certainly; but the sight of one of these nuts calls back to his memory the sensations which he has received from the other; and his eyes, modified after some certain manner, give notice to his palate of the modification it is in its turn going to receive. Every general idea is purely intellectual; let the imagination tamper ever so little with it, it immediately becomes a particular idea. Endeavour to represent to yourself the image of a tree in general, you never will be able to do it; in spite of all your efforts it will appear big or little, thin or tufted, of a bright or a deep colour; and were you master to see nothing in it, but what can be seen in every tree, such a picture would no longer resemble any tree. Beings perfectly abstract are perceivable in the same manner, or are only conceivable by the assistance of speech. The definition of a triangle can alone give you a just idea of that figure: the moment you form a triangle in your mind, it is this or that particular triangle and no other, and you cannot avoid giving breadth to its lines and colour to its area. We must therefore make use of propositions; we must therefore speak to have general ideas; for the moment the imagination stops, the mind must stop too, if not assisted by speech. If therefore the first inventors could give no names to any ideas but those they had already, it follows that the first substantives could never have been anything more than proper names.

Besides, general ideas cannot enter the mind without words, nor can the mind grasp them without statements. This is one reason animals cannot form such ideas or ever acquire the capacity for improvement that depends on them. When a monkey exchanges one nut for another without the slightest hesitation, does he have a general idea of that fruit? Does he compare these two individual objects with his ideal model of them? Certainly not. Instead, seeing one nut brings back memories of the sensations he received from the other. His eyes, affected in a certain way, tell his palate how it will soon be affected in turn. Every general idea belongs purely to the intellect. Let imagination interfere even slightly, and the general idea immediately becomes a particular one. Try to picture a tree in general. You will never succeed. Despite all your efforts, the tree will appear large or small, sparse or leafy, light or dark in color. Even if you could picture only what every tree shares, the image would no longer resemble any tree. Purely abstract beings are perceived in the same way, or can be conceived only with the help of language. Only the definition of a triangle can give you an accurate idea of that shape. The moment you picture a triangle, you picture one particular triangle and no other. You cannot avoid giving its lines width and its area color. We must therefore use statements. We must therefore speak to have general ideas. For when imagination reaches its limit, thought must also stop unless language helps it along. If the first inventors of language could name only ideas they already had, a conclusion follows. The first nouns could never have been anything more than proper names.

But when by means, which I cannot conceive, our new grammarians began to extend their ideas, and generalize their words, the ignorance of the inventors must have confined this method to very narrow bounds; and as they had at first too much multiplied the names of individuals for want of being acquainted with the distinctions called genus and species, they afterwards made too few genera and species for want of having considered beings in all their differences; to push the divisions far enough, they must have had more knowledge and experience than we can allow them, and have made more researches and taken more pains, than we can suppose them willing to submit to. Now if, even at this present time, we every day discover new species, which had before escaped all our observations, how many species must have escaped the notice of men, who judged of things merely from their first appearances! As to the primitive classes and the most general notions, it were superfluous to add that these they must have likewise overlooked: how, for example, could they have thought of or understood the words, matter, spirit, substance, mode, figure, motion, since even our philosophers, who for so long a time have been constantly employing these terms, can themselves scarcely understand them, and since the ideas annexed to these words being purely metaphysical, no models of them could be found in nature?

But by means I cannot imagine, our new grammarians began to broaden their ideas and give their words more general meanings. The inventors’ ignorance must have kept this method within very narrow limits. At first, they had created too many names for individual things because they knew nothing of genera and species. Later, they created too few genera and species because they had not considered all the differences among things. To divide things into enough categories, they would have needed more knowledge and experience than we can credit them with. They would also have needed more research and effort than we can suppose they were willing to undertake. Even today, we discover new species every day that had previously escaped all our observations. How many species, then, must have escaped people who judged things only by their first appearances! As for the most basic categories and the most general concepts, needless to say, they must have overlooked these too. How, for example, could they have thought of or understood the words matter, spirit, substance, mode, figure, and motion? Even our philosophers can scarcely understand these terms, though they have used them constantly for so long. And since the ideas attached to these words are purely metaphysical, no models for them could be found in nature.

I stop at these first advances, and beseech my judges to suspend their lecture a little, in order to consider, what a great way language has still to go, in regard to the invention of physical substantives alone, (though the easiest part of language to invent,) to be able to express all the sentiments of man, to assume an invariable form, to bear being spoken in public and to influence society: I earnestly entreat them to consider how much time and knowledge must have been requisite to find out numbers, abstract words, the aorists, and all the other tenses of verbs, the particles, and syntax, the method of connecting propositions and arguments, of forming all the logic of discourse. For my own part, I am so scared at the difficulties that multiply at every step, and so convinced of the almost demonstrated impossibility of languages owing their birth and establishment to means that were merely human, that I must leave to whoever may please to take it up, the task of discussing this difficult problem. "Which was the most necessary, society already formed to invent languages, or languages already invented to form society?"

I will stop at these first advances and ask my judges to pause their reading for a moment. Consider how far language still has to go, even in inventing nouns for physical things. Yet these nouns are the easiest part of language to invent. Language must develop enough to express all human feelings, take a fixed form, support public speaking, and influence society. I earnestly ask my judges to consider how much time and knowledge the remaining discoveries must have required. These include numbers, abstract words, aorists and all the other verb tenses, particles, and syntax. They also include ways to connect statements and arguments, and to build the whole logical structure of speech. For my part, I am overwhelmed by the difficulties that multiply at every step. I am convinced that the impossibility of languages arising and becoming established through merely human means has almost been proved. So I must leave the discussion of this difficult problem to anyone willing to take it up. "Which was more necessary: an already formed society to invent languages, or already invented languages to form society?"

But be the case of these origins ever so mysterious, we may at least infer from the little care which nature has taken to bring men together by mutual wants, and make the use of speech easy to them, how little she has done towards making them sociable, and how little she has contributed to anything which they themselves have done to become so. In fact, it is impossible to conceive, why, in this primitive state, one man should have more occasion for the assistance of another, than one monkey, or one wolf for that of another animal of the same species; or supposing that he had, what motive could induce another to assist him; or even, in this last case, how he, who wanted assistance, and he from whom it was wanted, could agree among themselves upon the conditions. Authors, I know, are continually telling us, that in this state man would have been a most miserable creature; and if it is true, as I fancy I have proved it, that he must have continued many ages without either the desire or the opportunity of emerging from such a state, this their assertion could only serve to justify a charge against nature, and not any against the being which nature had thus constituted; but, if I thoroughly understand this term miserable, it is a word, that either has no meaning, or signifies nothing, but a privation attended with pain, and a suffering state of body or soul; now I would fain know what kind of misery can be that of a free being, whose heart enjoys perfect peace, and body perfect health? And which is aptest to become insupportable to those who enjoy it, a civil or a natural life? In civil life we can scarcely meet a single person who does not complain of his existence; many even throw away as much of it as they can, and the united force of divine and human laws can hardly put bounds to this disorder. Was ever any free savage known to have been so much as tempted to complain of life, and lay violent hands on himself? Let us therefore judge with less pride on which side real misery is to be placed. Nothing, on the contrary, must have been so unhappy as savage man, dazzled by flashes of knowledge, racked by passions, and reasoning on a state different from that in which he saw himself placed. It was in consequence of a very wise Providence, that the faculties, which he potentially enjoyed, were not to develop themselves but in proportion as there offered occasions to exercise them, lest they should be superfluous or troublesome to him when he did not want them, or tardy and useless when he did. He had in his instinct alone everything requisite to live in a state of nature; in his cultivated reason he has barely what is necessary to live in a state of society.

However mysterious these origins may be, we can at least draw one conclusion. Nature has done little to bring people together through mutual needs or to make speech easy for them. This shows how little nature has done to make people sociable. It also shows how little nature has contributed to their own efforts to become sociable. In fact, why would one person in this primitive state need another’s help? It is impossible to see why he would need help more than a monkey or wolf needs its own kind. Even supposing he did need help, what motive could lead another person to help him? And even then, how could the person needing help and the person asked agree on the terms? I know writers keep telling us that people in this state would have been deeply miserable. Yet I believe I have shown that people must have remained in this state for many ages. They would have had neither the desire nor the opportunity to leave it. If this is true, those writers’ claim could only justify blaming nature, not the being nature had made. But if I fully understand the word “miserable,” it either means nothing or means lacking something and suffering because of it. Such suffering must affect either the body or the soul. Now, what misery could a free being experience with perfect peace of mind and perfect bodily health? And which life is more likely to become unbearable to those living it, life in society or life in nature? In society, we can hardly find anyone who does not complain about being alive. Many even cut their lives as short as they can. The combined force of divine and human laws can hardly restrain this disorder. Has any free person living in the wild ever been known even to feel tempted to complain about life and kill himself? Let us therefore judge with less arrogance where real misery lies. By contrast, nothing could have been more unhappy than a person living in the wild, dazzled by flashes of knowledge. He would have been tormented by passions and thinking about a condition different from his own. Providence therefore acted very wisely in allowing his potential abilities to develop only as opportunities arose to use them. Otherwise, those abilities might have been unnecessary or troublesome when he had no need for them. Or they might have arrived too late to be useful when he did need them. Instinct alone gave him everything he needed to live in a state of nature. His developed reason gives him barely what he needs to live in society.

It appears at first sight that, as there was no kind of moral relations between men in this state, nor any known duties, they could not be either good or bad, and had neither vices nor virtues, unless we take these words in a physical sense, and call vices, in the individual, the qualities which may prove detrimental to his own preservation, and virtues those which may contribute to it; in which case we should be obliged to consider him as most virtuous, who made least resistance against the simple impulses of nature. But without deviating from the usual meaning of these terms, it is proper to suspend the judgment we might form of such a situation, and be upon our guard against prejudice, till, the balance in hand, we have examined whether there are more virtues or vices among civilized men; or whether the improvement of their understanding is sufficient to compensate the damage which they mutually do to each other, in proportion as they become better informed of the services which they ought to do; or whether, upon the whole, they would not be much happier in a condition, where they had nothing to fear or to hope from each other, than in that where they had submitted to an universal subserviency, and have obliged themselves to depend for everything upon the good will of those, who do not think themselves obliged to give anything in return.

At first glance, people in this state seem unable to be either good or bad. They had no moral relationships with one another and knew of no duties. They therefore had neither vices nor virtues, unless we use these words in a physical sense. In that sense, an individual's vices would be qualities that might harm their own survival. Their virtues would be qualities that might help them survive. We would then have to call the person who least resisted nature's simple impulses the most virtuous. But if we keep the usual meanings of these terms, we should hold off judging such a condition. We should guard against prejudice until we have carefully weighed several questions. Are there more virtues or vices among civilized people? As their understanding improves, does that improvement make up for the harm they do to one another? They do this harm even as they become more aware of the services they ought to provide one another. Or, overall, would people be much happier in a condition where they had nothing to fear or hope from others? Would that condition be better than one in which everyone has submitted to serving others? In the latter condition, people have made themselves depend for everything on the goodwill of others. Yet those others feel no obligation to give anything in return.

But above all things let us beware concluding with Hobbes, that man, as having no idea of goodness, must be naturally bad; that he is vicious because he does not know what virtue is; that he always refuses to do any service to those of his own species, because he believes that none is due to them; that, in virtue of that right which he justly claims to everything he wants, he foolishly looks upon himself as proprietor of the whole universe. Hobbes very plainly saw the flaws in all the modern definitions of natural right: but the consequences, which he draws from his own definition, show that it is, in the sense he understands it, equally exceptionable. This author, to argue from his own principles, should say that the state of nature, being that where the care of our own preservation interferes least with the preservation of others, was of course the most favourable to peace, and most suitable to mankind; whereas he advances the very reverse in consequence of his having injudiciously admitted, as objects of that care which savage man should take of his preservation, the satisfaction of numberless passions which are the work of society, and have rendered laws necessary. A bad man, says he, is a robust child. But this is not proving that savage man is a robust child; and though we were to grant that he was, what could this philosopher infer from such a concession? That if this man, when robust, depended on others as much as when feeble, there is no excess that he would not be guilty of. He would make nothing of striking his mother when she delayed ever so little to give him the breast; he would claw, and bite, and strangle without remorse the first of his younger brothers, that ever so accidentally jostled or otherwise disturbed him. But these are two contradictory suppositions in the state of nature, to be robust and dependent. Man is weak when dependent, and his own master before he grows robust. Hobbes did not consider that the same cause, which hinders savages from making use of their reason, as our jurisconsults pretend, hinders them at the same time from making an ill use of their faculties, as he himself pretends; so that we may say that savages are not bad, precisely because they don't know what it is to be good; for it is neither the development of the understanding, nor the curb of the law, but the calmness of their passions and their ignorance of vice that hinders them from doing ill: tantus plus in illis proficit vitiorum ignorantia, quam in his cognito virtutis. There is besides another principle that has escaped Hobbes, and which, having been given to man to moderate, on certain occasions, the blind and impetuous sallies of self-love, or the desire of self-preservation previous to the appearance of that passion, allays the ardour, with which he naturally pursues his private welfare, by an innate abhorrence to see beings suffer that resemble him. I shall not surely be contradicted, in granting to man the only natural virtue, which the most passionate detractor of human virtues could not deny him, I mean that of pity, a disposition suitable to creatures weak as we are, and liable to so many evils; a virtue so much the more universal, and withal useful to man, as it takes place in him of all manner of reflection; and so natural, that the beasts themselves sometimes give evident signs of it. Not to speak of the tenderness of mothers for their young; and of the dangers they face to screen them from danger; with what reluctance are horses known to trample upon living bodies; one animal never passes unmoved by the dead carcass of another animal of the same species: there are even some who bestow a kind of sepulture upon their dead fellows; and the mournful lowings of cattle, on their entering the slaughter-house, publish the impression made upon them by the horrible spectacle they are there struck with. It is with pleasure we see the author of the fable of the bees, forced to acknowledge man a compassionate and sensible being; and lay aside, in the example he offers to confirm it, his cold and subtle style, to place before us the pathetic picture of a man, who, with his hands tied up, is obliged to behold a beast of prey tear a child from the arms of his mother, and then with his teeth grind the tender limbs, and with his claws rend the throbbing entrails of the innocent victim. What horrible emotions must not such a spectator experience at the sight of an event which does not personally concern him? What anguish must he not suffer at his not being able to assist the fainting mother or the expiring infant?

Above all, let us avoid Hobbes’s conclusion that human beings must be naturally bad because they have no idea of goodness. Let us not conclude that they are vicious because they do not know what virtue is. Nor that they always refuse to help other people because they believe they owe them nothing. Nor that their rightful claim to whatever they need makes them foolishly consider themselves owners of the whole universe. Hobbes saw very clearly the flaws in all modern definitions of natural right. But the conclusions he draws from his own definition show that his understanding of natural right is equally flawed. To follow his own principles, Hobbes should reach a different conclusion. In the state of nature, concern for our own survival interferes least with the survival of others. That state was therefore the most favorable to peace and the best suited to humanity. Yet Hobbes argues the exact opposite. He mistakenly includes countless passions among the needs that people in the wild must satisfy to preserve themselves. But those passions are products of society, and they have made laws necessary. A bad man, Hobbes says, is a strong child. But that does not prove that a man in the wild is a strong child. And even if we granted that he was, what could Hobbes conclude? Only that if this strong man depended on others as much as when he was weak, nothing would restrain him. He would think nothing of striking his mother if she delayed even slightly in nursing him. He would scratch, bite, and strangle without remorse the first younger brother who accidentally bumped into him or otherwise disturbed him. But strength and dependence are contradictory conditions in the state of nature. A person is weak while dependent and becomes independent before becoming strong. Hobbes overlooked something. Our legal scholars claim that a certain cause prevents people in the wild from using their reason. That same cause also prevents them from misusing their abilities, as Hobbes claims they do. So we may say that people in the wild are not bad precisely because they do not know goodness. Neither developed understanding nor the restraint of law keeps them from doing wrong. Rather, their calm passions and ignorance of vice restrain them: ignorance of vice does far more for them than knowledge of virtue does for us. Another principle has also escaped Hobbes. This principle was given to humanity to moderate, on certain occasions, the blind and violent impulses of self-love. Before self-love appears, it moderates the desire for self-preservation. An inborn horror at seeing beings like ourselves suffer tempers our natural eagerness to pursue our own welfare. Surely no one will object if I grant humanity the one natural virtue even its fiercest critic could not deny. I mean pity, a feeling suited to creatures as weak as we are and exposed to so many troubles. Pity is all the more universal and useful because it comes before any reflection. It is so natural that even animals sometimes show clear signs of it. Consider mothers’ tenderness toward their young and the dangers they face to protect them. Consider, too, how reluctant horses are to trample living bodies. No animal passes unmoved by the dead body of another of its own species. Some even give their dead companions a kind of burial. And cattle’s mournful cries as they enter the slaughterhouse reveal how deeply the horrible sight before them affects them. It is pleasing to see the author of the fable of the bees forced to acknowledge human compassion and sensitivity. In the example he gives to support this admission, he abandons his cold, subtle style. Instead, he presents a heartbreaking picture of a man whose hands are tied. The man must watch a beast of prey tear a child from its mother’s arms. The beast crushes the innocent victim’s tender limbs between its teeth and tears its throbbing entrails with its claws. What horrible emotions must this witness feel at the sight of an event that does not personally concern him? What anguish must he suffer because he cannot help the fainting mother or the dying child?

Such is the pure motion of nature, anterior to all manner of reflection; such is the force of natural pity, which the most dissolute manners have as yet found it so difficult to extinguish, since we every day see, in our theatrical representation, those men sympathize with the unfortunate and weep at their sufferings, who, if in the tyrant's place, would aggravate the torments of their enemies. Mandeville was very sensible that men, in spite of all their morality, would never have been better than monsters, if nature had not given them pity to assist reason: but he did not perceive that from this quality alone flow all the social virtues, which he would dispute mankind the possession of. In fact, what is generosity, what clemency, what humanity, but pity applied to the weak, to the guilty, or to the human species in general? Even benevolence and friendship, if we judge right, will appear the effects of a constant pity, fixed upon a particular object: for to wish that a person may not suffer, what is it but to wish that he may be happy? Though it were true that commiseration is no more than a sentiment, which puts us in the place of him who suffers, a sentiment obscure but active in the savage, developed but dormant in civilized man, how could this notion affect the truth of what I advance, but to make it more evident. In fact, commiseration must be so much the more energetic, the more intimately the animal, that beholds any kind of distress, identifies himself with the animal that labours under it. Now it is evident that this identification must have been infinitely more perfect in the state of nature than in the state of reason. It is reason that engenders self-love, and reflection that strengthens it; it is reason that makes man shrink into himself; it is reason that makes him keep aloof from everything that can trouble or afflict him: it is philosophy that destroys his connections with other men; it is in consequence of her dictates that he mutters to himself at the sight of another in distress, You may perish for aught I care, nothing can hurt me. Nothing less than those evils, which threaten the whole species, can disturb the calm sleep of the philosopher, and force him from his bed. One man may with impunity murder another under his windows; he has nothing to do but clap his hands to his ears, argue a little with himself to hinder nature, that startles within him, from identifying him with the unhappy sufferer. Savage man wants this admirable talent; and for want of wisdom and reason, is always ready foolishly to obey the first whispers of humanity. In riots and street-brawls the populace flock together, the prudent man sneaks off. They are the dregs of the people, the poor basket and barrow-women, that part the combatants, and hinder gentle folks from cutting one another's throats.

Such is nature’s pure impulse, before any reflection begins. Such is the power of natural pity, which even the most corrupt ways of life have struggled to extinguish. Every day, at the theater, we see men sympathize with the unfortunate and weep over their suffering. Yet those same men, in the tyrant’s place, would increase their enemies’ torments. Mandeville understood very well that, despite all their morality, people would never have been better than monsters without pity. Nature gave them pity to help reason. But he failed to see that pity alone produces all the social virtues he denied humanity possessed. Indeed, what are generosity, mercy, and humanity but pity directed toward the weak, the guilty, or humanity in general? Even goodwill and friendship, properly understood, seem to arise from lasting pity focused on a particular person. For what is wishing that someone should not suffer but wishing that person happiness? Suppose compassion is nothing more than a feeling that puts us in the sufferer’s place. Suppose that feeling is vague but active in people living in nature, developed but dormant in civilized people. How could this account do anything but make my argument more clearly true? Indeed, compassion must grow stronger as the animal witnessing distress identifies more closely with the animal suffering it. Now, clearly, this identification must have been infinitely more complete in the state of nature than under reason’s rule. Reason gives rise to self-love, and reflection strengthens self-love. Reason makes people withdraw into themselves and avoid everything that might trouble or distress them. Philosophy breaks their ties with other people. Following philosophy’s teachings, a person mutters at the sight of someone in distress: You may die for all I care, nothing can hurt me. Only disasters threatening the entire species can disturb the philosopher’s peaceful sleep and force him out of bed. One man may murder another beneath the philosopher’s windows without interference. The philosopher need only cover his ears and reason with himself for a moment. By doing so, he stops nature’s startled impulse within him from making him identify with the unfortunate victim. A person living in nature lacks this admirable talent. Without wisdom and reason, such a person is always ready to foolishly obey humanity’s first whispers. During riots and street fights, the common people gather, while the prudent man slips away. The lowest ranks of society, the poor women selling goods from baskets and barrows, separate the fighters. These women keep respectable people from cutting one another’s throats.

It is therefore certain that pity is a natural sentiment, which, by moderating in every individual the activity of self-love, contributes to the mutual preservation of the whole species. It is this pity which hurries us without reflection to the assistance of those we see in distress; it is this pity which, in a state of nature, stands for laws, for manners, for virtue, with this advantage, that no one is tempted to disobey her sweet and gentle voice: it is this pity which will always hinder a robust savage from plundering a feeble child, or infirm old man, of the subsistence they have acquired with pain and difficulty, if he has but the least prospect of providing for himself by any other means: it is this pity which, instead of that sublime maxim of argumentative justice, Do to others as you would have others do to you, inspires all men with that other maxim of natural goodness a great deal less perfect, but perhaps more useful, Consult your own happiness with as little prejudice as you can to that of others. It is in a word, in this natural sentiment, rather than in fine-spun arguments, that we must look for the cause of that reluctance which every man would experience to do evil, even independently of the maxims of education. Though it may be the peculiar happiness of Socrates and other geniuses of his stamp, to reason themselves into virtue, the human species would long ago have ceased to exist, had it depended entirely for its preservation on the reasonings of the individuals that compose it.

It is therefore certain that pity is a natural feeling. By restraining each person's concern for themselves, pity helps the whole species survive. Pity drives us, without thinking, to help those we see in distress. In the state of nature, pity takes the place of laws, social customs, and virtue. Pity has this advantage: no one is tempted to disobey its gentle, soothing voice. Pity will always keep a strong savage from robbing a weak child or frail old man of hard-earned food, if he has even the slightest chance of providing for himself by other means. Instead of the lofty principle of reasoned justice, Do to others as you would have others do to you, pity inspires all people with another principle of natural goodness. This principle is much less perfect, but perhaps more useful: Seek your own happiness while harming others' happiness as little as you can. In short, we must look to this natural feeling, rather than elaborate arguments, to explain people's reluctance to do harm. Every person would feel this reluctance, even without the moral rules taught through education. Socrates and other minds like his may have the rare good fortune to reason their way to virtue. But the human species would have died out long ago if its survival had depended entirely on its members' reasoning.

With passions so tame, and so salutary a curb, men, rather wild than wicked, and more attentive to guard against mischief than to do any to other animals, were not exposed to any dangerous dissensions: As they kept up no manner of correspondence with each other, and were of course strangers to vanity, to respect, to esteem, to contempt; as they had no notion of what we call Meum and Tuum, nor any true idea of justice; as they considered any violence they were liable to, as an evil that could be easily repaired, and not as an injury that deserved punishment; and as they never so much as dreamed of revenge, unless perhaps mechanically and unpremeditatedly, as a dog who bites the stone that has been thrown at him; their disputes could seldom be attended with bloodshed, were they never occasioned by a more considerable stake than that of subsistence: but there is a more dangerous subject of contention, which I must not leave unnoticed.

With such mild passions and such a healthy restraint, men were more wild than wicked. They cared more about protecting themselves from harm than about harming other animals, so they faced no dangerous conflicts. Since they had no dealings with one another, they knew nothing of vanity, respect, esteem, or contempt. They had no notion of mine and yours, nor any real idea of justice. They saw any violence they suffered as harm easily repaired, not as a wrong deserving punishment. They never even thought of revenge, except perhaps as an automatic, unplanned response, like a dog biting a stone thrown at it. For all these reasons, their disputes could seldom lead to bloodshed if nothing more than survival was at stake. But there is a more dangerous source of conflict that I must not overlook.

Among the passions which ruffle the heart of man, there is one of a hot and impetuous nature, which renders the sexes necessary to each other; a terrible passion which despises all dangers, bears down all obstacles, and to which in its transports it seems proper to destroy the human species which it is destined to preserve. What must become of men abandoned to this lawless and brutal rage, without modesty, without shame, and every day disputing the objects of their passion at the expense of their blood?

Among the passions that disturb the human heart, one is fiery and impulsive, making the sexes necessary to each other. This terrible passion scorns all dangers and overcomes all obstacles. At its height, this passion seems bent on destroying the human species it is meant to preserve. What must become of men left to this lawless, brutal rage, without modesty or shame? What must become of them when they fight every day over those they desire, at the cost of their blood?

We must in the first place allow that the more violent the passions, the more necessary are laws to restrain them: but besides that the disorders and the crimes, to which these passions daily give rise among us, sufficiently grove the insufficiency of laws for that purpose, we would do well to look back a little further and examine, if these evils did not spring up with the laws themselves; for at this rate, though the laws were capable of repressing these evils, it is the least that might be expected from them, seeing it is no more than stopping the progress of a mischief which they themselves have produced.

First, we must admit that the more violent the passions, the more necessary laws become to restrain them. But the disorder and crimes these passions cause among us every day sufficiently show that laws cannot adequately restrain them. Beyond that, we should look further back and ask whether these evils arose along with the laws themselves. For if so, even if laws could suppress these evils, that would be the least we could expect of them. They would merely be stopping the spread of harm they themselves had caused.

Let us begin by distinguishing between what is moral and what is physical in the passion called love. The physical part of it is that general desire which prompts the sexes to unite with each other; the moral part is that which determines that desire, and fixes it upon a particular object to the exclusion of all others, or at least gives it a greater degree of energy for this preferred object. Now it is easy to perceive that the moral part of love is a factitious sentiment, engendered by society, and cried up by the women with great care and address in order to establish their empire, and secure command to that sex which ought to obey. This sentiment, being founded on certain notions of beauty and merit which a savage is not capable of having, and upon comparisons which he is not capable of making, can scarcely exist in him: for as his mind was never in a condition to form abstract ideas of regularity and proportion, neither is his heart susceptible of sentiments of admiration and love, which, even without our perceiving it, are produced by our application of these ideas; he listens solely to the dispositions implanted in him by nature, and not to taste which he never was in a way of acquiring; and every woman answers his purpose.

Let us begin by distinguishing the moral and physical sides of the passion called love. The physical side is the general desire that draws the sexes to unite. The moral side directs that desire toward one particular person, to the exclusion of all others. Or at least it makes the desire stronger for that preferred person. Now it is easy to see that the moral side of love is an artificial feeling created by society. Women promote this feeling with great care and skill to establish their power. Their aim is to secure authority for the sex that ought to obey. This feeling rests on ideas of beauty and merit that a savage cannot have, and comparisons he cannot make. So this feeling can hardly exist in him. His mind has never been able to form abstract ideas of regularity and proportion. His heart is therefore incapable of the feelings of admiration and love that arise from applying these ideas. These ideas produce such feelings even when we do not realize it. He follows only the impulses nature has planted in him, not a taste he has never had any opportunity to develop. And every woman serves his purpose.

Confined entirely to what is physical in love, and happy enough not to know these preferences which sharpen the appetite for it, at the same time that they increase the difficulty of satisfying such appetite, men, in a state of nature, must be subject to fewer and less violent fits of that passion, and of course there must be fewer and less violent disputes among them in consequence of it. The imagination which causes so many ravages among us, never speaks to the heart of savages, who peaceably wait for the impulses of nature, yield to these impulses without choice and with more pleasure than fury; and whose desires never outlive their necessity for the thing desired.

In a state of nature, men experience only the physical side of love. They are fortunate not to know the preferences that sharpen sexual desire while making it harder to satisfy. So they must feel this passion less often and less violently. As a result, their disputes over love must also be fewer and less violent. Imagination, which causes so much havoc among us, never stirs the hearts of people in a state of nature. They wait peacefully for nature’s impulses and yield to those impulses without choosing a particular partner. They feel more pleasure than frenzy, and their desires never last beyond their need for what they desire.

Nothing therefore can be more evident, than that it is society alone, which has added even to love itself as well as to all the other passions, that impetuous ardour, which so often renders it fatal to mankind; and it is so much the more ridiculous to represent savages constantly murdering each other to glut their brutality, as this opinion is diametrically opposite to experience, and the Caribbeans, the people in the world who have as yet deviated least from the state of nature, are to all intents and purposes the most peaceable in their amours, and the least subject to jealousy, though they live in a burning climate which seems always to add considerably to the activity of these passions.

Nothing, then, could be clearer: society alone has given love, like all other passions, a reckless intensity often fatal to humanity. It is therefore all the more ridiculous to portray savages as constantly murdering one another to satisfy their brutality. This view directly contradicts experience. The Caribbeans have so far departed less from the state of nature than any other people in the world. Yet they are, in every respect, the most peaceful in their love affairs and the least prone to jealousy. This is true even though they live in a scorching climate that always seems to intensify these passions considerably.

As to the inductions which may be drawn, in respect to several species of animals, from the battles of the males, who in all seasons cover our poultry yards with blood, and in spring particularly cause our forests to ring again with the noise they make in disputing their females, we must begin by excluding all those species, where nature has evidently established, in the relative power of the sexes, relations different from those which exist among us: thus from the battle of cocks we can form no induction that will affect the human species. In the species, where the proportion is better observed, these battles must be owing entirely to the fewness of the females compared with the males, or, which is all one, to the exclusive intervals, during which the females constantly refuse the addresses of the males; for if the female admits the male but two months in the year, it is all the same as if the number of females were five-sixths less than what it is: now neither of these cases is applicable to the human species, where the number of females generally surpasses that of males, and where it has never been observed that, even among savages, the females had, like those of other animals, stated times of passion and indifference, Besides, among several of these animals the whole species takes fire all at once, and for some days nothing is, to be seen among them but confusion, tumult, disorder and bloodshed; a state unknown to the human species where love is never periodical. We can not therefore conclude from the battles of certain animals for the possession of their females, that the same would be the case of man in a state of nature; and though we might, as these contests do not destroy the other species, there is at least equal room to think they would not be fatal to ours; nay it is very probable that they would cause fewer ravages than they do in society, especially in those countries where, morality being as yet held in some esteem, the jealousy of lovers, and the vengeance of husbands every day produce duels, murders and even worse crimes; where the duty of an eternal fidelity serves only to propagate adultery; and the very laws of continence and honour necessarily contribute to increase dissoluteness, and multiply abortions.

What can we infer about various animal species from fights between males? These fights stain our poultry yards with blood in every season. In spring especially, our forests ring with the noise of males fighting over females. We must first exclude species whose males and females clearly differ in relative strength from men and women. So cockfights tell us nothing about the human species. In species whose balance of strength more closely resembles ours, these fights must have only two possible causes. Either females are few compared with males, or females regularly refuse males’ advances during certain periods. These causes amount to the same thing. If a female accepts a male for only two months a year, the effect is the same. It is as if there were five-sixths fewer females. Now neither case applies to the human species, where females generally outnumber males. Even among people living in the wild, women have never been observed to have fixed periods of desire and indifference. In this respect, women differ from the females of other animals. Besides, in several animal species, the whole species becomes sexually excited at once. For several days, nothing appears among these animals but confusion, uproar, disorder, and bloodshed. Such a state is unknown to the human species, whose sexual desire never follows a periodic cycle. We therefore cannot conclude that humans in a state of nature would fight as certain animals do over females. Even if we could, such conflicts do not destroy those other species. We have at least as much reason to think these conflicts would not destroy ours. Indeed, such fights would very probably cause less harm than they do in society. This is especially true in countries where morality still enjoys some respect. There, lovers’ jealousy and husbands’ revenge produce duels, murders, and even worse crimes every day. There, the duty of lifelong faithfulness serves only to spread adultery. The very laws of sexual restraint and honor necessarily increase sexual misconduct and multiply abortions.

Let us conclude that savage man, wandering about in the forests, without industry, without speech, without any fixed residence, an equal stranger to war and every social connection, without standing in any shape in need of his fellows, as well as without any desire of hurting them, and perhaps even without ever distinguishing them individually one from the other, subject to few passions, and finding in himself all he wants, let us, I say, conclude that savage man thus circumstanced had no knowledge or sentiment but such as are proper to that condition, that he was alone sensible of his real necessities, took notice of nothing but what it was his interest to see, and that his understanding made as little progress as his vanity. If he happened to make any discovery, he could the less communicate it as he did not even know his children. The art perished with the inventor; there was neither education nor improvement; generations succeeded generations to no purpose; and as all constantly set out from the same point, whole centuries rolled on in the rudeness and barbarity of the first age; the species was grown old, while the individual still remained in a state of childhood.

Let us conclude that man in his natural state wandered through the forests, without work, speech, or a fixed home. He knew neither war nor any social ties. He had no need of other people in any way, nor any desire to harm them. Perhaps he never even distinguished one person from another. He had few passions and found everything he wanted within himself. Let us conclude, then, that man in these circumstances knew and felt only what suited his condition. He was aware only of his actual needs and noticed only what served his interests. His understanding developed as little as his vanity. If he happened to discover something, he was all the less able to share it because he did not even know his children. The skill died with its inventor. There was neither education nor progress. Generation followed generation without result. Since everyone always started from the same point, whole centuries passed in the primitive roughness and barbarity of the earliest age. The species had grown old, while the individual still remained a child.

If I have enlarged so much upon the supposition of this primitive condition, it is because I thought it my duty, considering what ancient errors and inveterate prejudices I have to extirpate, to dig to the very roots, and show in a true picture of the state of nature, how much even natural inequality falls short in this state of that reality and influence which our writers ascribe to it.

If I have discussed this hypothetical primitive condition at such length, it is because I believed I had a duty. Given the ancient errors and deeply rooted prejudices I must uproot, I had to dig down to the roots. I had to present a true picture of the state of nature. Such a picture would show how much less real and influential even natural inequality is in that state than our writers claim.

In fact, we may easily perceive that among the differences, which distinguish men, several pass for natural, which are merely the work of habit and the different kinds of life adopted by men living in a social way. Thus a robust or delicate constitution, and the strength and weakness which depend on it, are oftener produced by the hardy or effeminate manner in which a man has been brought up, than by the primitive constitution of his body. It is the same thus in regard to the forces of the mind; and education not only produces a difference between those minds which are cultivated and those which are not, but even increases that which is found among the first in proportion to their culture; for let a giant and a dwarf set out in the same path, the giant at every step will acquire a new advantage over the dwarf. Now, if we compare the prodigious variety in the education and manner of living of the different orders of men in a civil state, with the simplicity and uniformity that prevails in the animal and savage life, where all the individuals make use of the same aliments, live in the same manner, and do exactly the same things, we shall easily conceive how much the difference between man and man in the state of nature must be less than in the state of society, and how much every inequality of institution must increase the natural inequalities of the human species.

In fact, we can easily see that several differences between people are considered natural but come only from habit. They also come from the different ways people live in society. A strong or delicate body, and the strength or weakness that follows, more often result from upbringing than from birth. They depend more on whether a man was raised to endure hardship or to live in softness and comfort. The same is true of mental abilities. Education creates differences between minds that have been developed and minds that have not. But education also widens the differences among developed minds in proportion to how much education they receive. For if a giant and a dwarf take the same path, the giant gains another advantage with every step. Now consider the enormous variety in education and ways of life among the different social classes. If we compare that variety with the simplicity and uniformity of animal life and life in the wild, the contrast is clear. In the wild, all individuals eat the same foods, live in the same way, and do exactly the same things. From this comparison, we can easily understand how much smaller differences between people must be in nature than in society. We can also understand how much every inequality created by social institutions must increase humanity’s natural inequalities.

But though nature in the distribution of her gifts should really affect all the preferences that are ascribed to her, what advantage could the most favoured derive from her partiality, to the prejudice of others, in a state of things, which scarce admitted any kind of relation between her pupils? Of what service can beauty be, where there is no love? What will wit avail people who don't speak, or craft those who have no affairs to transact? Authors are constantly crying out, that the strongest would oppress the weakest; but let them explain what they mean by the word oppression. One man will rule with violence, another will groan under a constant subjection to all his caprices: this is indeed precisely what I observe among us, but I don't see how it can be said of savage men, into whose heads it would be a harder matter to drive even the meaning of the words domination and servitude. One man might, indeed, seize on the fruits which another had gathered, on the game which another had killed, on the cavern which another had occupied for shelter; but how is it possible he should ever exact obedience from him, and what chains of dependence can there be among men who possess nothing? If I am driven from one tree, I have nothing to do but look out for another; if one place is made uneasy to me, what can hinder me from taking up my quarters elsewhere? But suppose I should meet a man so much superior to me in strength, and withal so wicked, so lazy and so barbarous as to oblige me to provide for his subsistence while he remains idle; he must resolve not to take his eyes from me a single moment, to bind me fast before he can take the least nap, lest I should kill him or give him the slip during his sleep: that is to say, he must expose himself voluntarily to much greater troubles than what he seeks to avoid, than any he gives me. And after all, let him abate ever so little of his vigilance; let him at some sudden noise but turn his head another way; I am already buried in the forest, my fetters are broke, and he never sees me again.

But suppose nature really did show all the favoritism people attribute to her when distributing her gifts. What advantage could the most favored gain at anyone else’s expense, when people had hardly any contact with one another? What use is beauty where there is no love? What use is wit to people who do not speak, or cunning to people with no dealings to conduct? Writers constantly insist that the strongest would oppress the weakest. But let them explain what they mean by oppression. One man rules by violence, while another suffers under constant submission to his every whim. This is exactly what I see among us. But I do not see how it could apply to people living in the wild. It would be harder to get even the meaning of domination and servitude into their heads. One man might indeed seize the fruit another had gathered, the game another had killed, or the cave another sheltered in. But how could he ever force the other man to obey him? And what bonds of dependence can exist among people who own nothing? If I am driven from one tree, I need only look for another. If someone makes one place uncomfortable for me, what can stop me from settling somewhere else? But suppose I met a man far stronger than me, and also so wicked, lazy, and brutal that he forced me to feed him while he stayed idle. He would have to make up his mind never to take his eyes off me for a moment. Before taking even the shortest nap, he would have to tie me up tightly. Otherwise, I might kill him or slip away while he slept. In other words, he would willingly take on far greater trouble than he wanted to avoid, or caused me. And after all, let him relax his watchfulness ever so slightly. Let him merely turn his head at some sudden noise. I am already deep in the forest, my bonds are broken, and he never sees me again.

But without insisting any longer upon these details, every one must see that, as the bonds of servitude are formed merely by the mutual dependence of men one upon another and the reciprocal necessities which unite them, it is impossible for one man to enslave another, without having first reduced him to a condition in which he can not live without the enslaver's assistance; a condition which, as it does not exist in a state of nature, must leave every man his own master, and render the law of the strongest altogether vain and useless.

But without dwelling further on these details, everyone must see that enslavement rests solely on people's dependence on one another. The needs that bind people together create this dependence. So no man can enslave another without first making him unable to live without the enslaver's help. Since no such dependence exists in the state of nature, every man must remain his own master. The rule of the strongest must therefore be entirely powerless and useless.

Having proved that the inequality, which may subsist between man and man in a state of nature, is almost imperceivable, and that it has very little influence, I must now proceed to show its origin, and trace its progress, in the successive developments of the human mind. After having showed, that perfectibility, the social virtues, and the other faculties, which natural man had received in potentia, could never be developed of themselves, that for that purpose there was a necessity for the fortuitous concurrence of several foreign causes, which might never happen, and without which he must have eternally remained in his primitive condition; I must proceed to consider and bring together the different accidents which may have perfected the human understanding by debasing the species, render a being wicked by rendering him sociable, and from so remote a term bring man at last and the world to the point in which we now see them.

I have shown that inequality between people in a state of nature is almost imperceptible and has very little influence. I must now show how inequality began and trace its growth through the successive developments of the human mind. I have shown that the capacity for improvement, social virtues, and other faculties existed in natural humans only as potential. These faculties could never develop on their own. Their development required several outside causes to come together by chance. These causes might never have occurred. Without them, humans would have remained in their original condition forever. I must now examine and bring together the various chance events that may have improved human understanding while degrading humanity. These events may have made humans wicked by making them sociable. I must trace how, from such distant beginnings, these events finally brought humanity and the world to their present state.

I must own that, as the events I am about to describe might have happened many different ways, my choice of these I shall assign can be grounded on nothing but mere conjecture; but besides these conjectures becoming reasons, when they are not only the most probable that can be drawn from the nature of things, but the only means we can have of discovering truth, the consequences I mean to deduce from mine will not be merely conjectural, since, on the principles I have just established, it is impossible to form any other system, that would not supply me with the same results, and from which I might not draw the same conclusions.

I must admit that the events I am about to describe could have happened in many different ways. So my choice of how to explain them can rest on guesswork alone. But such guesses become reasons when they meet two conditions. They must be the most likely explanations we can draw from the nature of things. They must also be our only means of discovering the truth. Moreover, the consequences I intend to draw from my guesses will not be mere guesswork. Given the principles I have just established, no other account could lead to different results or conclusions.

This will authorize me to be the more concise in my reflections on the manner, in which the lapse of time makes amends for the little verisimilitude of events; on the surprising power of very trivial causes, when they act without intermission; on the impossibility there is on the one hand of destroying certain Hypotheses, if on the other we can not give them the degree of certainty which facts must be allowed to possess; on its being the business of history, when two facts are proposed, as real, to be connected by a chain of intermediate facts which are either unknown or considered as such, to furnish such facts as may actually connect them; and the business of philosophy, when history is silent, to point out similar facts which may answer the same purpose; in fine on the privilege of similitude, in regard to events, to reduce facts to a much smaller number of different classes than is generally imagined. It suffices me to offer these objects to the consideration of my judges; it suffices me to have conducted my inquiry in such a manner as to save common readers the trouble of considering them.

This allows me to reflect more briefly on several points. First, the passage of time makes up for how unlikely events seem. Second, even very small causes have surprising power when they work without interruption. Third, certain hypotheses cannot be disproved, even if we cannot give them the certainty we must grant to facts. Next comes the task of history. Suppose two events are presented as real, but the chain of events connecting them is unknown or considered unknown. History must supply events that can actually connect them. When history is silent, philosophy must suggest similar events that may serve the same purpose. Finally, similarities between events allow us to group facts into far fewer distinct classes than people generally imagine. It is enough for me to present these points for my judges to consider. It is enough to have conducted my inquiry so that ordinary readers need not trouble themselves with these points.