Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology (Routledge Studies in Eighteenth-Century Philosophy) 9781138744752, 9781315180830, 1138744751

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Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology

Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology is an exceptionally interesting and illuminating reflection on Hume’s contributions to moral philosophy and in particular its relations, both methodological and doctrinal, to contemporary cognitive psychology. —John Bricke, Professor of Philosophy Emeritus, University of Kansas Recent work at the intersection of moral philosophy and the philosophy of psychology has dealt mostly with Aristotelian virtue ethics. The dearth of scholarship that engages with Hume’s moral philosophy, however, is both noticeable and peculiar. Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology demonstrates how Hume’s moral philosophy comports with recent work from the empirical sciences and moral psychology. It shows how contemporary work in virtue ethics has much stronger similarities to the metaphysically thin conception of human nature that Hume developed, rather than the metaphysically thick conception of human nature that Aristotle espoused. It also reveals how contemporary work in moral motivation and moral epistemology has strong affinities with themes in Hume’s sympathetic sentimentalism. Philip A. Reed is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Canisius College, USA, where he also codirects the Ethics and Justice Programs. His main areas of interest are in ethics, political philosophy, and moral psychology. His articles on Hume’s moral psychology appear in such places as History of Philosophy Quarterly, Pacific Philosophical Quarterly, and Canadian Journal of Philosophy. He has also published articles in Ethical Theory and Moral Practice, Journal of Medicine and Philosophy, and Christian Bioethics. Rico Vitz is Professor and Chair of the Department of Philosophy at Azusa Pacific University, USA, and serves as the Executive Vice PresidentTreasurer of the Hume Society. He is the author of Reforming the Art of Living: Nature, Virtue, and Religion in Descartes’s Epistemology, co-editor of The Ethics of Belief: Individual and Social, and the editor of Turning East: Contemporary Philosophers and the Ancient Christian Faith.

Routledge Studies in Eighteenth-Century Philosophy

Kant and the Cultivation of Virtue Chris W. Surprenant The Post-Critical Kant Understanding the Critical Philosophy through the Opus postumum Bryan Wesley Hall Kant’s Inferentialism The Case Against Hume David Landy Rousseau’s Ethics of Truth A Sublime Science of Simple Souls Jason Neidleman Kant and the Scottish Enlightenment Edited by Elizabeth Robinson and Chris W. Surprenant Kant and the Reorientation of Aesthetics Finding the World Joseph J. Tinguely Hume’s Science of Human Nature Scientific Realism, Reason, and Substantial Explanation David Landy Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology Edited by Philip A. Reed and Rico Vitz For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/

Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology

Edited by Philip A. Reed and Rico Vitz

First published 2018 by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Taylor & Francis The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-74475-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-18083-0 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

For Don Garrett and David Solomon, with gratitude

Contents

List of Abbreviations Preface

ix x

C H R I S TI A N B . MIL L E R

Acknowledgments Introduction: Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology: An Overview

xii

1

PHILIP A. REED

1 Beyond the “Disease of the Learned”: Hume on Passional Disorders

9

M A R G A R E T WATKIN S

2 Hume on the Rarity of Virtue

40

PHILIP A. REED

3 Spontaneity, Intuition, and Humean Virtue

63

E R I N F RY K H O L M

4 Character, Culture, and Humean Virtue Ethics: Insights From Situationism and Confucianism

91

R I C O V I TZ

5 Empathy, Autism, and Hume

115

K ATH A R I N A PAXMAN

6 Cultivating Empathic Concern and Altruistic Motivation: Insights From Hume and Batson A N N E TTE P I ERDZIWO L

142

viii

Contents

7 Preserving Practicality: In Defense of Hume’s SympathyBased Ethics

170

L O R E N Z O G RE CO

8 Hume, Bloom, and Moral Inclusion

191

A N N E J A A P JACO B SO N

9 Empathy, Interdependency, and Morality: Building From Hume’s Account

208

L O R R A I N E L . B E SSE R

10 The Philosophical Power of Hume’s Notion of Love

226

C H R I S TI N E S WA N TO N

11 Hume on the Methods and Limits of the Science of Human Nature

243

SAU L TR A I G E R

12 Hume on Moral Motivation

263

M I C H A E L B . GIL L

13 Passionate Regulation and the Practicality of Reason

287

E L I Z A B E TH S. RADCL IFFE

14 Hume on Affective Leadership

311

E R I C S C H L I E SSE R

Conclusion: Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology: Future Directions

334

R I C O V I TZ

Contributors’ Information Bibliography Index

345 349 377

Abbreviations

DP

Hume, David. 2008. A Dissertation on the Passions. In A Dissertation on the Passions; The Natural History of Religion: A Critical Edition. Edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. EHU Hume, David. 2006. An Enquiry concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. EMPL Hume, David. 1987. Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary. Revised Edition. Edited by Eugene F. Miller. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Classics. EPM Hume, David. 2006. An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals. Edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. NHR Hume, David. 2008. The Natural History of Religion. In A Dissertation on the Passions; The Natural History of Religion: A Critical Edition. Edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. SBN When preceded by ‘EHU’: Hume, David. 1975. An Enquiry concerning Human Understanding. In Enquiries concerning Human Understanding and concerning the Principles of Morals. 3rd Edition. Edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge. Revised by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford: Oxford University Press. When preceded by ‘EPM’: Hume, David. 1975. An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals. In Enquiries concerning Human Understanding and the Principles of Morals. 3rd Edition. Edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge. Revised by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford: Oxford University Press. When preceded by ‘T’: Hume, David. 1978. A Treatise of Human Nature. 2nd Edition. Edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge. Revised by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford: Oxford University Press. T Hume, David. 2000. A Treatise of Human Nature. Edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Letters Hume, David. 2011. The Letters of David Hume. Edited by J.Y.T. Greig. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Preface Christian B. Miller

Editing a collection of chapters in philosophy is a massive undertaking. Contributors have to be invited. A proposal written. Contracts signed. Drafts read and comments prepared. Revised drafts read again. An introduction crafted (and in this case, a conclusion too!). Copyediting reviewed and proofs checked. An index constructed. This is not a task for the faint of heart. So Professors Vitz and Reed are to be commended for all their hard work in putting this collection together. But this is not just any edited collection. It is a collection filled with rich contributions by some of the best scholars in the world today working on the philosophy of David Hume. And it is even more than that. It is a collection by top Hume scholars on a badly neglected area of scholarship, namely the relationship between Hume’s moral philosophy and the findings of contemporary psychology. It is surprising to me that this relationship has been neglected. Hume addressed topics which are at the forefront of research today in moral psychology, such as the nature of moral motivation and the role of empathy. So one might think that philosophers would take some of this contemporary empirical work and use it to evaluate the plausibility of Hume’s views. Similarly, one might think that admirers of Hume’s views would bring them to bear more so than normally happens in the contemporary psychology literature in order to foster new empirical discoveries. But while there are indeed a few cases of these relationships being explored, there are not nearly as many as one might have expected. Let me expand on this with a particular issue near to my own heart. For many years I have been reading studies in psychology which pertain to moral motivation and behavior in order to arrive at a better understanding of what our character looks like on empirical grounds. This naturally led me into the situationist literature in philosophy, with Gilbert Harman and John Doris being the leading representatives of the situationist approach. On their reading, experimental results in social psychology provide us with good reason for thinking that most people do not have the traditional virtues such as compassion and honesty. This

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lack of virtue in turn is supposed to be a serious problem for Aristotelian virtue ethics. What is striking is how almost all of this discussion has been framed in terms of assessing Aristotelian virtue ethics. Comparatively little has been said about the empirical credentials of other approaches to thinking about character. In particular, Hume had an awful lot to say about character, and so naturally we might wonder how his approach fares in light of the contemporary literature in psychology (for a preliminary discussion, see Maria Merritt, “Virtue Ethics and Situationist Personality Psychology,” Ethical Theory and Moral Practice 3 (2000): 365–83). This volume helps to shed much light on this issue. I am thrilled to see that Erin Frykholm and Professors Vitz and Reed have all included chapters in this collection engaging with Hume’s theory of character and the recent empirical literature on character traits. This is only one of many comparatively neglected issues in Hume scholarship that this volume serves to helpfully illuminate. Others include the nature of love, moral motivation, causal influences on action, selfmoderation, cultivating sympathy, empathy and psychopathy, and melancholy and mental illness. The essays in this volume will be richly rewarding for scholars regardless of whether they are Hume specialists or not. Professors Vitz and Reed are to be commended for identifying the need for more research on Hume’s moral philosophy and its relationship to contemporary psychology. A need which, thanks to their hard work and that of the contributors, is now starting to be met.

Acknowledgments

We owe debts of gratitude to a number of people who helped not only to inspire but also to develop and, ultimately, to complete this volume. We would like to begin by thanking our teachers Don Garrett and David Solomon, to whom we dedicate this book, for nurturing our interest in Hume’s moral philosophy. We want to offer a special word of thanks to Christian Miller and our fellow participants in The Character Project for the enriching conversations on virtue and moral psychology that initially sparked the idea and kindled the desire to develop this project. Although we have expressed our gratitude in private correspondence, we would like to take a moment to offer a public word of thanks to each of the contributors who did excellent research and were exceptionally gracious in responding to our comments, inquiries, and requests. We are grateful to our employers, Azusa Pacific University and Canisius College, for providing scholarly support that allowed us to complete this volume in a timely fashion, and to two anonymous referees for providing insightful comments that helped to improve the form and content of the text. We are also particularly grateful for Damon Hall and Deanna Pavone for help compiling the index, our research assistants, Katherine Harmon and Lexi Hoerner, and for Alexandra Simmons and the editorial team at Routledge for their excellent work in helping to prepare our manuscript for publication. Finally, we would like to thank our families for their support and encouragement, both of us and of our work.

Introduction Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology: An Overview Philip A. Reed Empirical work in psychology has a new standing among moral philosophers. It is probably fair to say that academic moral philosophy is paying more attention to what happens in the scientific study of the mind than it ever has before. There is some obvious rationale for the historic neglect of science by students and teachers of ethics: ethics is a normative discipline and science a descriptive one. Hence, it was commonly thought, moral philosophy need not concern itself with what human beings are and do, for its focus instead is properly on what they ought to be and do. Pushback against this neglect occurred gradually over recent decades, as ethicists realized that an empirically supported account of the nature of the mind (as well as other contributions from the human sciences) can importantly inform an understanding of proper moral norms. Hence, there has been a burgeoning interest among philosophers in the work of contemporary psychologists (and, to some degree, vice versa). Works by Owen Flanagan, John Doris, Shaun Nichols, Jesse Prinz, Christian Miller, Walter Sinnott-Armstrong, Valerie Tiberius, among many others contribute in different ways to empirically informed accounts of moral responsibility, virtue, emotions, and well-being. The interest among philosophers in empirical psychology has grown alongside a more general interest in moral psychology, which investigates various psychological phenomena that are relevant to the ethical domain, such as weakness of will, sympathy, free will, addiction, and self-deception. While moral psychology has been a recognized subfield in philosophy for more than half a century, it has been taken up aggressively by philosophers in the last two or three decades. And, as just mentioned, this recent interest has displayed more willingness to consider the empirical side of moral psychology. Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology contributes to these trends in a unique and illuminating way by applying them to one of the foremost moral philosophers in history, David Hume. The interest among historians of moral philosophy in the work of contemporary psychology has tended to exclude scholars of Hume’s ethics. This

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is remarkable in its own right, since interest in Hume’s ethics has gained steam in recent years among philosophers. The historians of moral philosophy that have taken the most interest in contemporary psychology work principally from the Aristotelian tradition. This volume fills a gap in the literature by showing how Hume’s ethics fits in with recent work from the empirical sciences (especially psychology). Although the recent general interest in moral psychology among philosophers would probably justify a volume devoted to Hume’s moral psychology, this volume goes a step further by placing Hume’s moral psychology in the context of empirical work more generally. It is true that many philosophers working at the intersection of ethics and contemporary psychology are Humeans in a broad sense and take evidence from psychology to support a Humean sentimentalism or naturalism. However, such figures have not been especially concerned to see how Hume’s texts themselves fit in with the psychological claims they take to have learned from the human sciences. This is a significant task, which the book, in part, aims to address. It was the combination of (1) the flourishing of works on the relationship between philosophy and contemporary psychology, and related fields, and (2) the dearth of discussions of Humean value theory in these works, that helped inspire the development of this volume. That Hume’s moral philosophy has been largely excluded by recent work aiming to provide a more empirically informed ethics is especially surprising given Hume’s self-conscious project of reforming the human sciences. Hume is sometimes thought to initiate the modern turn toward psychology, and so it is instructive to begin to examine how Hume’s armchair observations of the mind stand up to the empirical work that he inspired. Hume takes himself to be an “anatomist” of the mind and, according to his empiricist theory of knowledge, aims to reveal the structure and components of the mind only as they are observed by experience. Hume’s new science of human nature includes on the one hand the principles and operations of our reasoning faculty (and the nature of our ideas) and on the other hand the mental operations that are relevant to what is now called value theory: our actions, emotions, passions, tastes, and sentiments. It is this latter category that our volume intends to shed light on: do Hume’s “ultimate principles of the soul” remain valid compared to what contemporary psychologists and other empirical scientists have discovered? The chapters in this volume intend to provide a detailed examination of Hume’s moral psychology by leading scholars in order to advance the conversation in moral psychology more generally.

Plan of the Book As a group, the chapters aim to do two things. First, they provide compelling interpretations and explanations of various aspects of Humean

Introduction

3

moral psychology. Second, they highlight the connections between these Humean positions and contemporary psychological studies. As such, the chapters in this volume may benefit those with interests in ethics and the history of philosophy as well as those with interests in social psychology and related disciplines such as cognitive science and sociology. In the lead chapter, “Beyond the ‘Disease of the Learned,’” Margaret Watkins explores Hume’s admission to suffering early in his life from what he describes as a “disease of the learned.” Drawing on recent work on the nature of psychological disorders, Watkins considers to what degree it is appropriate to extend categories of mental illness to a time when these categories were not recognized (at least not in the way that they are now). She then shows how this topic bears on Hume’s theory of vice, arguing that it is not possible to make a clear distinction on Humean grounds between vice and mental illness. Watkins goes on to explain how understanding vice and mental illness existing on a continuum helps to promote a certain kind of character development broadly understood— whether we might construe this in different contexts as moral education or therapy for mental illness. Watkins specifically describes a way in which one can, according to Humean principles, develop one’s aesthetic taste. The next three chapters enter into the situationist debate that has occupied virtue ethics in recent years. John Doris in particular inspired a situationist critique of virtue ethics, insisting that the results of recent social psychology are incompatible with a number of assumptions and claims made by proponents of normative virtue ethics. The chapters by Philip A. Reed, Erin Frykholm, and Rico Vitz each try to show the relevance of situationism to different aspects of Hume’s moral philosophy, especially his theory of virtue. In different ways, these three chapters each attempt to vindicate Hume against any kind of situationist critique that could be launched against his moral theory. In Chapter 2, “Hume on the Rarity of Virtue,” Philip A. Reed starts out by focusing on the situationist claim that virtue ethics is committed to the idea that individual virtues are widespread, but evidence from social psychology seems to suggest otherwise. Reed argues that Hume’s theory of virtue is not committed to the widespread possession of the virtues. In other words, situationist evidence from social psychology that shows virtue is rare is consistent with what Hume believes about the dispersion of virtue. Reed supports his argument by giving a careful reading of Hume’s moral theory and by trying to explain away passages that suggest Hume makes virtue common or widespread. Next, in her chapter “Spontaneity, Intuition, and Humean Virtue,” Erin Frykholm aims to show how Hume’s theory of virtue is in a good position to account for a specific focus of situationism, namely non-conscious factors in human behavior and the way that such behavior does not always reflect our considered values. Frykholm contends that the Humean virtue

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theorist can accept these results and still show the possibility of both virtue explanation of behavior and virtue cultivation. She uses Hume’s notion of a virtue as a complex set of mental associations to argue that we can enact some reflective control over our conditioned behavior by focusing on these mental associations and consciously manipulating their causes and effects to some degree in order to not only improve our behavior but to develop our character as well. Finally, Rico Vitz aims to show in Chapter 4, “Character, Culture, and Humean Virtue Ethics,” that Hume’s virtue ethics is strategically positioned to respond better to situationist critiques of virtue ethics than is Aristotelian virtue ethics, which is usually the default version of virtue ethics assumed in the situationist literature. Vitz argues that Hume, unlike Aristotle, has a thin notion of virtue such that virtue is neither expected to exhibit consistency across different situations nor is a specific virtue expected to exhibit a principal connection to any other part of the person’s character. This thin account of virtue is more easily compatible with results from situationist social psychology and so (more) immune from the philosophical critique launched by John Doris. Vitz goes on to argue that a Confucian response to situationism that emphasizes the notions of ritual and culture can be accommodated in a Humean framework, particularly using Hume’s notions of customs and manners, thus giving more resources and possible directions for Hume’s virtue ethics to respond to the situationist challenge. The middle chapters of this volume take up a central component of Humean ethics, namely sympathy. Contemporary psychology avoids discussion of sympathy using that name specifically, instead, focusing on “empathy.” A number of the authors in Chapters 5–10 engage with this literature on empathy and try to draw careful distinctions between and connections to Hume’s notion of sympathy. The authors in these chapters take up a variety of topics centered around Hume’s mechanistic account of sympathy, especially including its normative implications and whether these implications need to be modified in light of recent work in psychology. In Chapter 5, “Empathy, Autism, and Hume,” Katharina Paxman focuses specifically on the question of whether autistic individuals, who are purportedly unable to empathize, are thus prohibited from making moral judgments under Hume’s well-known assumption that sympathy has significant responsibility for such judgments. The fact that individuals with high-functioning autism commonly seem to make moral judgments is not evidence, Paxman argues, against a Humean moral psychology because the relevant empathic impairment for autistic individuals is not affective but rather cognitive; and it is affective empathy that Hume’s moral psychology makes central. Chapter 6, “Cultivating Empathic Concern and Altruistic Motivation,” by Annette Pierdziwol, takes a decidedly more practical approach to the

Introduction

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connection between empathy and morality. Pierdziwol acknowledges that Hume does not aim explicitly to motivate people toward altruistic behavior, but nevertheless finds a number of resources in Hume’s moral theory for this very project, especially in Hume’s account of pity and benevolence. In her chapter, she outlines these resources and shows the affinities they have with the work of Daniel Batson, the contemporary psychologist who has done the most to advance the connection between empathy and altruism. The chapters by Paxman and Pierdziwol each show in their own way that contemporary psychology confirms the connection between morality and our ability to feel what others feel that Hume observed more than 200 years earlier. Like Pierdziwol’s chapter that immediately precedes it, Lorenzo Greco’s chapter “Preserving Practicality” also wishes to draw out the practical significance of fellow-feeling for Hume. However, Greco is less concerned to examine contemporary psychology itself than he is to vindicate Hume against some of the arguments against a sympathy-based ethics launched by the contemporary Humean Jesse Prinz. Greco seeks to show in a detailed way that grounding ethics in sympathy as Hume does appropriately guarantees objectivity in our moral judgments as well as connects morality to motivation. Greco uniquely highlights how Hume’s moral theory never loses sight of the practical dimension of human agency. While Greco wishes to distinguish contemporary understandings of empathy from Humean sympathy, Anne Jaap Jacobson believes that there is more affinity between these—at least with respect to the account of empathy provided by Paul Bloom, a leading contemporary psychologist and a focus of Jacobson’s Chapter 8, “Hume, Bloom, and Moral Inclusion.” Jacobson examines Hume’s and Bloom’s theories of sympathy and empathy, respectively, and argues that they begin to show awareness of expanding our moral scope to include those human beings who are often on the margins of our moral community. While Jacobson thinks Hume’s and Bloom’s theories are instructive at expanding our moral community, they nevertheless fall short of establishing an adequate grounding for moral inclusion, particularly when one examines Hume’s and Bloom’s treatments of reason. Jacobson supports her analysis by drawing on evidence from contemporary psychology about our tendency to exclude certain groups from our moral community and she highlights some of the problem specifically as it emerges in contemporary academic philosophy. Chapter 9, “Empathy, Interdependency, and Morality,” further examines the themes developed in the preceding two chapters. Like Greco, Lorraine Besser defends Hume against contemporary psychological critiques from Jesse Prinz and Paul Bloom. She contends that these critiques fail to understand adequately Hume’s account of sympathy; specifically, Besser claims that Prinz was unable to see that for Hume we sympathize with the motives of moral agents. She further shows how this account can explain interdependency and build intersubjectivity among moral agents.

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In other words, empathy enables the self to depend on and be constructed by engagement with other people and this makes morality to be exactly what we all pre-reflectively acknowledge: something independent of personal feeling or point of view. Christine Swanton likewise addresses the nature and function of sympathy in Chapter 10, “The Philosophical Power of Hume’s Notion of Love.” Swanton concurs with Jacobson that sympathy leads to moral distortions, but Swanton finds Humean resources to fix these distortions utilizing Hume’s account of virtuous love provided in Book 2 of the Treatise. Indeed, Swanton finds considerable “philosophical power” in Hume’s developed account of love as an indirect passion, and she argues that not only can this account improve the working of sympathy but also solve a paradox about love. This paradox says that it seems impossible to love the beloved for himself. Central to solving the paradox, according to Swanton, is utilizing the significance of Hume’s double relation of impressions and ideas: a feature of a person may cause his lover to love him without that being the reason his lover loves him. This leads Swanton to claim that on Hume’s view it is possible for love to be arational but simultaneously assessable as reasonable or virtuous. The final four chapters of the volume take up Hume’s theory of the passions and show its implications, enlightened by contemporary science of the mind, for his theory of action, his moral philosophy, and his political philosophy. In Chapter 11, “Hume on the Methods and Limits of the Science of Human Nature,” Saul Traiger proposes that Hume’s acknowledgments of certain limits of the method of inquiry he pursues in the Treatise reveal that he includes a central place for third person observation. When it comes to the way psychology influences human action (particularly with respect to the apparent conflict of reason and passion as well as to the first person feeling that our actions are free), Hume indicates that introspection or self-reflection alone is inadequate to get at the truth. Instead, other, more objective observational methods must be included, and Traiger shows how contemporary cognitive science carries on this task in a Humean spirit. Chapters 12 and 13 continue to examine the theme of how Hume believes human beings are moved to act. Michael Gill’s chapter, “Hume on Moral Motivation,” clarifies three different ways that agents are moved to act morally: when acting from virtue, when acting out of approval or disapproval of others, when acting out of approval or disapproval of oneself. Gill contends that these three different kinds of moral motivation are supported by contemporary psychology. The major contribution of his chapter, however, is a specific interpretation of Hume’s famous argument against reason’s role in moral motivation from Treatise 3.1.1. Clarifying that Hume only has approval-of-self motivation in mind in that argument, Gill contends that Hume’s argument is based on anticipatory motivational influence: the prospect of being able to approve of oneself is

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what moves an agent to act according to virtue. He then argues that this reading alone is sufficient to give Hume his conclusion that reason is impotent in morality; contrary to what a number of Hume’s commentators claim, we do not need to know what occurrent motivational state the agent is in. Gill believes that our understanding of Hume improves if we see him as providing different explanations for different kinds of moral motivational contexts. Like Gill, Elizabeth Radcliffe is interested in Humean practical reason, but she extends the topic of moral motivation to motivation more generally in Chapter 13, “Passionate Regulation and the Practicality of Reason.” Hume’s famous comment that reason cannot oppose passions is followed by a claim that we can use passions themselves to regulate each other. Radcliffe tries to explain more what Hume means by this, and tries to show moreover how Hume’s ideas in this regard are supported by recent psychological studies that examine emotional regulation. That Hume expects the passions to work in this way, however, does not mean that reason is completely irrelevant, according to Radcliffe. She reads Hume in such a way that reason is practical in the sense that it provides practical information that the agent uses in his scheme of practical reasoning. Radcliffe concludes by drawing consequences of this interpretation for how contemporary Humeans understand the nature of instrumental reason. In the final chapter, “Hume on Affective Leadership,” Eric Schliesser puts to use the topic of Hume’s account of the passions toward the issue of his political philosophy. Like Radcliffe, Schliesser is concerned with the issue of regulating our passions, but his concern is specifically how political leaders might do this for political ends. He examines Hume’s approving and disapproving discussion in the History of England of the seventeenth-century Dutch statesman Johan de Witt. Schliesser argues that through De Witt, Hume (drawing on Spinoza’s discussion of the same figure) holds out an ideal of social-political unity and suggests that the right political emotions to bring about such unity depends upon social scientific results. We hope this volume sheds light on Hume’s moral psychology and its connections to and challenges from contemporary psychology. Our aim is to bring to bear the philosophical interest in the empirical sciences to Hume’s moral psychology. As we have seen, moral philosophers have recently demonstrated a strong interest in empirically informed moral psychology, but have done this without much attention to a central figure in the history of ethics. Our volume corrects this oversight. Hume has a rich conception of the mind and, as an empiricist, is necessarily open to what the sciences can teach us about the nature of the mind. It is high time that we find out whether Hume’s observations of moral psychology, made without the tools of modern social science, survive investigation from work that has been done with those tools. The original working title

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for this volume was The Testimony of Taste and Sentiment. This phrase, which Hume uses twice in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, demonstrates nicely the extent to which Hume believes that our value theory must be done with adequate empirical information. Indeed, Hume believes this empirical information must be given a certain kind of deference or authority, as he describes the testimony of taste and sentiment to be “blind, but sure . . . left by nature to baffle all the pride of philosophy, and make her sensible of her narrow boundaries and slender acquisitions” (EPM 8.14). The chapters in this volume suggest ways of enabling the boundaries of philosophy to be a little less narrow and enabling our interpretation of the testimony of taste and sentiment to be a little less baffling.

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Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” Hume on Passional Disorders Margaret Watkins

Sometime in the early months of 1734, David Hume wrote a letter that he did not sign, to a physician whom he did not name. An active, energetic young man in love with philosophy, he finds himself unable to work. This letter provides a window into an obscure period of Hume’s life, as well as into the alien world of early eighteenth-century psychological science. But the window is a small, clouded one. I propose to use this episode in Hume’s life to provoke thought about the distinction between vice and mental illness, as well as our responses to both problems. In the first section, I explain why it is difficult to see our way into the young Hume’s predicament. Limited evidence, conceptual divergences between the eighteenth and twenty-first centuries, and the effects of these divergences on disease progression vitiate anachronistic diagnoses of mental illness. Even if we could accurately diagnose Hume’s condition, it is hard to know what it would be like to consider oneself afflicted with “the disease of the learned.” These challenges would affect our understanding of any eighteenthcentury sufferer from this malady. But Hume’s philosophical psychology challenges our understanding of mental illness in more specific ways, which I discuss in the second section. In particular, it is difficult on Humean principles to make a firm distinction between vice and mental illness at all. Both involve disorders of the passions, both cause their possessors to suffer, and in both cases, the origin of some of this suffering lies within the possessors themselves. I consider two Humean possibilities for distinguishing vice from mental illness. But for Hume, neither the distinction between the voluntary and the involuntary (where vice is voluntary and mental illness involuntary) nor the distinction between the real self and mental illness as an intruder within the self can support a strong distinction between vice and mental illness. I conclude this section with the suggestion that a Humean distinction between vice and mental illness must be a vague one, lying along a wide continuum. The continuity of these concepts, however, may prove liberating: it can allow us to broaden our attitudes towards such conditions. Again, both involve passional disorders; therefore, Hume’s suggestions for therapy

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for the passions can be helpful across the continuum. In the final section, I sketch one suggestion for this therapy: his recommendation to cultivate aesthetic taste as a method of ameliorating a kind of bipolarity. The sketch shows how Humean reflection on the passions might have practical effects, in ways that could help anyone with passional disorders. This therapy for the passions requires no explicit appeal to moralized language, which may be an advantage in addressing the experience of the mentally ill and even, in some cases, in addressing the experience of the vicious. Though we cannot expect this therapy to work for everyone, it holds promise for those whose temperament shares something with Hume’s own.

1. The Disease of the Learned In his letter to the anonymous physician, Hume reports that although he had resisted the diagnosis of the “disease of the learned,” which his physician had made in 1730, it was comforting. “It set me very much at ease,” he writes, “by satisfying me that my former Coldness, proceeded not from any Defect of Temper or Genius, but from a Disease, to which any one may be subject” (Letters 1:14). Hume’s comfort may seem familiar, and we may think that we understand the evil that he believes himself to have avoided. Perfect sympathy, however, proves elusive. Do we assume that his release is from the fear that vice has caused his failure to work? Or that his diagnosis relieves him of concomitant guilt? If so, we must query our assumptions. Hume uses several terms here that are no longer in our ordinary parlance or whose meanings have shifted considerably—“disease of the learned,” “temper,” and “genius.” Attempting to explain the first of these entangles us in more alien language. To say that the “disease of the learned” was a nervous disorder may suggest that it involved anxiety, but eighteenthcentury nervous disorders included a vast range of problems, some but not all of which included elements of what we now call anxiety. They also went by a variety of names, without clear distinctions between the disorders signified. Nervous disorders were called melancholia, hypochondria, hysteria, or vapors.1 George Cheyne’s The English Malady (1733) includes in its classification of nervous diseases or distempers an astounding range of psychological and physical suffering—melancholy and moping, fainting fits, palsy, and epileptic seizures—just to name a few (15–18). What unites these disorders is not similarity of symptoms, but the belief that they were caused by problems in the nerves. Even this is complicated: theorists disagreed about whether the problems originated always or sometimes in congenital nerve defects, and some ascribed varieties of the complaint to disorders in the bowels, bodily fluids, or animal spirits—or some combination of all of the above.2 Many, including Cheyne, cited the sedentary life of the scholar as an important

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 11 contributing factor to the development of these disorders. Mandeville agreed. The physician character in his A Treatise of the Hypochondriack and Hysterick Diseases (1730) first seems to blame wit itself: witty men are more prone to such disorders because their more active animal spirits waste themselves more quickly in thought (1976: 237). But then he adds: the most witty men, if they commit no Excess in those things that exhaust the finer Spirits, but divert themselves daily with Hunting, the Tennis-court, or other brisk Exercises; will be as exempt from the Distemper, as the greatest Logger-heads. (Mandeville 1976: 238) Intelligence is safe, then, as long as it is protected with exercise. A little reading of the medical texts of the period suggests that any studious young man presenting himself to a physician with unexplained symptoms was very likely to receive a diagnosis of the “disease of the learned.” (Hume received his diagnosis after consulting his physician about “Ptyalism or Watryness in the mouth” (Letters 1:14).) What of “temper”? Readers of nineteenth-century novels will do fine here, knowing that it means something like what we now usually call “temperament” and does not imply the prevalence of angry passions. Temper is the mixture of dispositions and propensities that partially determine one’s habits and give rise to one’s predilections. An early modern writer was likely to believe that temper depended very much on one’s peculiar bodily state, particularly the balance of humors or bodily fluids. This was not necessarily a strong biological determinism, if this is taken to mean that temper is necessarily innate. John Sutton notes that theorists believed that one’s fluid balance depended not only on an initial, biological temperament, .  .  . for this temperament was just the dynamic mixture of fluids in different proportions and conditions, changing over time in accordance with external influences as well as the drying or cooling rhythms of the life-cycle. (Sutton 1998: 40) Finally, “genius,” in Hume’s English, does not necessarily imply extraordinary intelligence or talent. It could carry this meaning, along with numerous others (including one synonymous with “temper”). While it is fair to assume that the young Hume knows that he possesses extraordinary intelligence, he is probably using “genius” in his letter to mean mental ability or capacity for intellectual work, without implied superlatives.3 So what concern does being diagnosed with the disease of the learned release Hume from? He believes he has a disease “to which any one may be subject.” Neither his peculiar dispositions nor his intellectual abilities

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are at fault. He has no reason to believe that anything in his nature will prevent recovery and forbid his ever returning to the work about which his youthful soul had been so excited. None of this suggests that he has labored under the apprehension that his inability to work proceeds from vice, or that the release his diagnosis offers is from a guilty conscience. We cannot, from these brief remarks, rule out the possibility that Hume has suffered some moral anxiety from his inability to bring his ambitious project to completion. What we can do is look to the rest of the letter to see what fears he does express. He reports that, upon the first onset of symptoms, he “never imagined that there was any bodily Distemper in the Case, but that my Coldness proceeded from a Laziness of Temper, which must be overcome by redoubling my Application” (Letters 1:13). He next reports that he had been engaged in efforts, inspired by his reading of Cicero, Seneca, and Plutarch, to improve his temper, will, reason, and understanding (Letters 1:14). Is this evidence that he found his laziness to be vicious and was striving for moral improvement to effect a cure? But Hume actually claims that these efforts caused the disorder; they were not his response to it. He describes these attempts at “continually fortifying [himself] with Reflections against Death, & Poverty, & Shame, & Pain, & all the other Calamities of Life” as contributing “more than any thing, to waste my Spirits & bring on me this Distemper” (Letters 1:13–14). He seems to have had confidence that a more disciplined focus on work would solve his problem; when this proves ineffectual, he does not seem to have concluded that he had recalcitrant character flaws. When Hume turns from the description of his bodily symptoms to his mental state, he explains that his real suffering stems from his inability to carry out his ambitious philosophical project: [M]y Disease was a cruel Incumbrance on me. I found that I was not able to follow out any Train of Thought, by one continued Stretch of View, but by repeated Interruptions, & by refreshing my Eye from Time to Time upon other Objects. Yet with this Inconvenience I have collected the rude Materials for many Volumes; but in reducing these to Words, when one must bring the Idea he comprehended in gross, nearer to him, so as to contemplate its minutest Parts, & keep it steddily in his Eye, so as to copy these Parts in Order, this I found impracticable for me, nor were my Spirits equal to so severe an Employment. Here lay my greatest Calamity. I had no Hopes of delivering my Opinions with such Elegance & Neatness, as to draw to me the Attention of the World, & I wou’d rather live & dye in Obscurity than produce them maim’d & imperfect. (Letters 1:16–17) It is this lack of focus and incapacity for prolonged application that Hume has begun to despair of recovering from. Realizing that others

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 13 have overcome more severe cases of the disease of the learned, however, he decides to “rouze up” himself and embark on a new mode of life. But he makes it clear that this change is instrumental to his ultimate goal of pursuing his philosophical projects. He cannot quit his “Pretensions in learning,” but will “lay them aside for some time, in order the more effectually to resume them” (Letters 1:17). At the time of writing this letter, Hume’s hopes and fears all whirl around these philosophical pursuits. He is not afraid that he is vicious; he is afraid that he will never be able to realize his powerful intellectual vision. He does not hope to assuage guilt over moral failure; he hopes to cure himself so that he can get back to work. His diagnosis of the disease of the learned was some comfort, I conclude, because it suggested that his malady was not in his inherent constitution and thus might be overcome. The basic distinction at work here is not between non-culpable illness and culpable vice. It is between transitory illness and permanent condition. These considerations call into question the notion that Hume was suffering from a depressive disorder, in the terms of contemporary psychiatry. His description of his struggle does not really sound like the story of someone suffering from a psychological illness, at least in the twentyfirst-century sense.4 His physical symptoms are mild, and include the appearance of “scurvy spots,” which may refer only to some general skin disorder but might actually have indicated the onset of scurvy, which could itself explain his malaise. He also reports an increase of appetite in the summer of 1731 that allowed him to put on a healthy amount of weight. Such a change is hardly abnormal in a young man who has just engaged in a more rigorous program of exercise than he had been used to. (He says that in the winter he “made it a constant Rule to ride twice or thrice a week, & walk every day,” and he expected to be able to exercise “with less Interruption” upon returning to the country in the summer (Letters 1:15).) Again, his primary psychological complaint is the lack of energy and application requisite to bring his nascent intellectual projects to completion. Though he describes the frustration of his plans as a “miserable Disappointment,” he also says that it is “a Weakness rather than a Lowness of Spirits which troubles me” and reports eating and sleeping well (Letters 1:17). He has not isolated himself and does not appear melancholy to others. He writes, “Those who live in the same Family with me, & see me at all times, cannot observe the least Alteration in my Humor, & rather think me a better Companion than I was before, as choosing to pass more of my time with them” (Letters 1:15). Nor has he been truly unproductive. He says that he has “scribled many a Quire of Paper,” has read “most of the celebrated Books in Latin, French & English,” and has learned Italian (Letters 1:16). He sounds more like a doctoral candidate in the last stages of dissertation writing—perhaps with a particular talent for useful procrastination—than

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a victim of clinical depression. He has even found a remedy for himself, though it is not entirely satisfying. He has resolved to embark on a more active life among the merchants in Bristol, since he has found that “there are two things very bad for this Distemper, Study & Idleness,” and “two things very good, Business & Diversion” (Letters 1:17). Although we have no idea what the outcome of this letter was, given that we do not know to whom it was addressed, whether or not it was ever sent, or whether Hume ever met its intended recipient, we do know that his planned cure was both a failure and a success. He found the merchant scene in Bristol “totally unsuitable” and embarked for France, where he arrived no more than six months after the composition of the letter (EMPL xxxiii).5 In May of 1735, he writes to a friend from La Flèche and seems to have gotten over his aversion to prolonged study: “For my part,” he tells James Birch, “I spend alwise more of my Time in Study, than it would be proper for you, who certainly wou’d choose to give one half of the day to Company, & the other to Reading” (Mossner 1958: 32). The result of this renewed application to study, of course, was the Treatise of Human Nature (EMPL xxxiv). He has taken up the life of the learned again, but this time without the disease. Ernest Mossner suggests that Hume cured himself by writing the letter, which “provoked a psychological catharsis” (1980: 86). According to this theory, putting his personal history into words gave Hume the power to overcome his struggles. There would be no need ever to send the letter, but he preserved it as a “symbol of self-mastery.” “At the outset,” Mossner says, “Hume had wanted professional advice upon which to lean; but now, upon completion of the letter, he no longer required such confirmation. Self-confidence had been completely restored” (1980: 87). More recent commentators tend to accept that Hume had the “vapors” or the “disease of the learned,” though they use more contemporary language, describing his problem as a “psychosomatic illness” or “depression.”6 Much about this portion of his life is mysterious, and the most careful scholars admit that we can draw few definite conclusions about the facts of the situation, such as where he was when he wrote the letter to the physician, or the state of his intellectual development at the time.7 What we do know, however, suggests that he managed to work through his difficulties in a brief period of time after composing this letter and that he was never very low to begin with. John P. Wright claims that Hume’s saying that his spirits are not low is a denial “that he is feeling depressed, even though (as we would now say) he recognizes that he is suffering from depression” (2003: 136n). But what evidence justifies accusing Hume of denial? All we have is his self-report, and “depression” is a category that he does not have. Hume even expresses reservations about the application of the contemporaneous categories of disease to his own case. “Tis a weakness rather than a Lowness of Spirits which troubles me, & there seems to be as

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 15 great a Difference betwixt my Distemper & common Vapors, as betwixt Vapors and Madness”8 (Letters 1:17). His case differed significantly from other scholars who might have been diagnosed with the disease of the learned. To take just one example, compare Hume’s struggle with James Boswell’s description of Samuel Johnson’s “morbid melancholy”: While he was at Lichfield, in the college vacation of the year 1729, he felt himself overwhelmed with an horrible hypochondria, with perpetual irritation, fretfulness, and impatience; and with a dejection, gloom, and despair, which made existence misery. From this dismal malady he never afterwards was perfectly relieved; and all his labours, and all his enjoyments, were but temporary interruptions of its baleful influence. (Boswell 2008: 41) Hume does not seem to have any such black dog as a constant companion. He reports in “My Own Life” that he was usually of “cheerful humour” (EMPL xl). We might dismiss this as part of a self-portrait for public consumption, which should therefore be read as the work of a painter rather than an anatomist. But we cannot dismiss the letter of 1734 in the same way, where he claims that his spirits are not low, that he is disappointed rather than sorrowful, and that reflection has enabled him to “rouze up” himself (Letters 1:17). My suspicion is that there was no mental illness in the case at all—only the struggles of a brilliant young thinker not fully understood by his doctor or even himself. But supposing that Hume was suffering from an episodic mental illness, can we retroactively diagnose it as a form of depression? As Jennifer Radden warns in The Nature of Melancholy: from Aristotle to Kristeva, we cannot assume that we have access to a static pathology across the centuries that only happens to have varying names.9 Mossner provides a remarkably clear statement of this assumption. Whether it is called “the ‘vapors,’ the ‘spleen,’ lowness of spirits, or hypochondria or melancholia—the name changes but the disease persists,” he says (1980: 67). Any diagnosis of an illness based on a centuries-old self-report would be questionable, but the nature of psychological illness magnifies the problem. For such disorders, the current vocabulary must affect the sufferer’s symptoms, disease progression, and even self-conception. Consider the way in which stigma might be an obstacle to psychiatric treatment and itself contribute to depression, or the identity crisis experienced by some when the fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders10 changed them from people with “Asperger’s Disorder” to people with “Autism Spectrum Disorder.”11 How a person conceptualizes her trouble affects even apparently straightforward physical disorders; the effect of language on psychological disorders must be at least as profound. Moreover, the language that a sufferer uses to describe

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her symptoms can only be the language of her own time, and we cannot access the precise resonances of such language. Ian Hacking has described the complex feedback between the way that we classify people and the way those people behave as the “looping effect of human kinds”: To create new ways of classifying people is also to change how we can think of ourselves, to change our sense of self-worth, even how we remember our own past. This in turn generates a looping effect, because people of the kind behave differently and so are different. That is to say the kind changes, and so there is new causal knowledge to be gained and perhaps, old causal knowledge to be jettisoned. (1995a: 369)12 If Hacking and Radden are right, the difficulty of retroactively diagnosing Hume with depression goes far beyond the epistemic obstacles to our grasping his physical and psychological condition. Because of the looping effect, we can expect patients classified as having depression to present different symptoms than eighteenth-century patients classified as having the disease of the learned. The classification changes the nature of the malady. In light of these considerations, it is significant that Hume considered himself a sufferer of the “disease of the learned,” even if we suspect, as I do, that he did not have anything that we would now recognize as a mental illness. He cannot have “recognized that he was suffering from depression,” because he had no such category. He did have the concept of a “depression of spirits,”13 but at most as a symptom of a malady that does not map onto the twenty-first-century’s major depressive disorder.14 Nonetheless, he believes his struggle to bring his intellectual projects to completion proceeds from an illness, and he finds comfort in that thought. He does not withdraw this conception over time: in “My Own Life,” he still refers to his “health being a little broken by [his] ardent application” (EMPL xxxiiii). He did not conceive of his affliction as a pure intellectual struggle but always remembered it under the description of a disease. We will therefore misunderstand this episode of Hume’s life both by seeing it as evidence of a familiar psychological pathology and by seeing it as nothing but intellectual transition. According to some extreme constructivist accounts of mental illness, the judgment of the eighteenthcentury medical community would be sufficient to ascribe a disease state to him, since such judgments determine what counts as normal and diseased functioning.15 Such views are sometimes used to undermine the reality of mental illness altogether. But even if the constructivist retains belief in mental illness, she cannot accept that Hume had an identical mental illness to those that we now diagnose, since the current medical community would not reach the same judgment as Hume’s physicians. On a more naturalist or objectivist account of disease, whereby disease

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 17 is rooted in some objective malfunction that scientists have access to (at least in principle),16 it is still untenable to see Hume as having depression, since his disease does not closely resemble our current diagnostic criteria for this mental illness.17 Nonetheless, to the extent that he sees himself as ill or having a disorder of the spirits, he belongs to the community of sufferers from, as Cheyne called it, the “English Malady.” In addition to the obstacles created by variance in language and paucity of evidence, yet another problem vitiates our attempts to understand Hume’s early experience. He is in a category that is very difficult to access from the future. He believes that he has a disease whose reality we do not accept. The “disease of the learned” is not in our current taxonomies. In believing this, however, he is not irrational. There is no justification for calling him a hypochondriac in our sense. He experiences some unusual symptoms; a medical expert diagnoses him; and he expresses reasonable skepticism about the diagnosis. How then can we presume to know what it would be like to see oneself as having the disease of the learned? It was an illness that was alleged to affect one’s mental and emotional state. Yet receiving the diagnosis must have also affected these states—perhaps in ways that would have mimicked the disorder. We can imagine that the diagnosis might have promoted anxiety or unusual changes in behavior, for instance. The resulting phenomenology would differ from that of someone who was perfectly healthy, from that of someone who had major depressive disorder, and from that of someone who has an irrational belief that she suffers from some disease. It is therefore difficult to know what to call this episode in Hume’s life: it is neither perfect health nor mental illness in our sense. I suggest we adopt another word that could have applied in the eighteenth century, but with a somewhat more limited meaning—distemper. This term could refer to a disturbance in the literal temper or balance of humours. But by the eighteenth century, it carried its broader meaning as well. We can think of the young Hume as being distempered—shaken by his inability to bring his project to completion, and consequently feeling very much out of balance. Conceiving of this problem as a disease, he noticed both physical and mental symptoms. He also sought relief both from what we now call “lifestyle remedies” and from medical doctors. A short time later, he seems completely recovered. This denouement raises interesting questions: was this distemper under Hume’s control? If it was, does that mean that it was in some sense voluntary? What do our answers to such questions imply about whether or not we consider his condition to have been a mental illness? As we will see in the next section, none of these questions have easy answers.

2. In Search of the Distinction Between Illness and Vice In the previous section, I argued that Hume’s receiving a diagnosis of the “disease of the learned” relieved him of fear that his condition would

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be permanent rather than from guilt that it was a sign of vice. But what does it mean, on Hume’s premises, to call something a disease or illness as opposed to a vice? Perhaps mental illness is involuntary, whereas vice is voluntary. This way of making the distinction derives plausibility from popular conceptions both of mental illness and of the relation between voluntariness and moral responsibility. We tend to conceive of mental illness as trials that people undergo, not things that they do. In The Nature of Melancholy, Radden writes, “Whatever their other associations, melancholy and depression are today viewed as states suffered, not sought—conditions beyond voluntary control” (2000: 19). Contemporary philosophers of psychology resist an oversimplified interpretation of this claim, as does the DSM-5, which cautions that its diagnoses do not have any necessary implications for “the individual’s degree of control over behaviors that may be associated with the disorder.”18 Nevertheless, most people conceptualize the disorders themselves as diseases that people suffer involuntarily. In addition, the moralized category of vice implies a state that people are responsible for, and philosophers and laypeople alike often assume that responsibility requires voluntariness.19 This bare requirement leaves open all the interesting questions. To mention a few: it is not at all clear what counts as voluntariness in the relevant sense. Must the vice itself be voluntary, or only the behavior that results from the vice? To be voluntary, must either the trait or the behavior be freely chosen, or is it enough that the agent reflectively endorse her trait or behavior (meaning that, on reflection, she affirms either)? I do not propose to answer all of these questions. Instead, I aim to show that Hume’s philosophical psychology cannot rely on any distinction between the voluntary and the involuntary to ground the further distinction between vice and mental illness. The primary reason for this is that Hume believes voluntariness to be largely irrelevant to moral judgments. Neither traits nor behaviors need be voluntary for good moral judges to assess them as virtuous or vicious. With respect to behaviors, Hume maintains across his various treatments of ethics that persons and their mental qualities, not behaviors, are the primary objects of moral judgments. Moral judgments, in turn, are responsible for the existence of virtues and vices and therefore human ethics as a whole. He is most explicit on the first point in the Treatise, where he writes: When we praise any actions, we regard only the motives that produc’d them, and consider the actions as signs or indications of certain principles in the mind and temper. The external performance has no merit. We must look within to find the moral quality. (T 3.2.1.2)

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 19 The specific motives that we praise are those that indicate qualities that are useful or agreeable to the self or others. These qualities are the virtues. In Hume’s discussion of liberty and necessity in the first Enquiry, he argues that ascribing necessity to the human will—that is, claiming that causal forces determine the will to action—actually preserves the possibility of coherent moral judgments. (He thus seeks to undermine arguments that claim that moral responsibility requires an undetermined human will.) His reason is that moral judgments are, again, of persons: we can therefore praise or blame actions only insofar as they teach us something about the character of persons. The only proper object of hatred or vengeance, is a person or creature, endowed with thought and consciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that passion, if only by their relation to the person, or connexion with him. Actions are, by their very nature, temporary and perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the character and disposition of the person who performed them, they can neither redound to his honour, if good; nor infamy, if evil. (EHU 8.29) Hume does recognize a sense in which a person’s control over her behavior affects our moral judgments. To take the most extreme case, we do not blame or praise people for acts performed under physical compulsion.20 But he lists three other mitigating considerations: (1) the actions being performed “ignorantly and casually,” (2) the actions being performed “hastily and unpremeditately,” and (3) the agents showing repentance (EHU 8.30). In explaining why these circumstances soften moral judgments, he never appeals to the notion that they render actions less voluntary. In each case, he is instead concerned with the cause or “principle” of the action in the mind of the agent. Ignorant and casual acts arise from “momentary” principles or origins, which therefore form no enduring or significant aspect of the agent’s character. Repentance shows that the principles that led to the vicious actions have changed, so that those actions are no longer “proofs of criminal principles in the mind.” In the case of hasty, unpremeditated acts, he does seem to acknowledge that a dispositional or enduring feature of the person’s mind causes the act: a “hasty temper” is “a constant cause or principle in the mind” (EHU 8.30). But this principle “operates only by intervals, and infects not the whole character” (EHU 8.30). None of these considerations suggest that Hume considers voluntariness of an act to be especially important for moral responsibility. That I repent of an action, or even of my prior weakness of character, cannot render any past act less voluntary. The most we can say is that I now will that I did not previously will it. The reference to ignorance is more

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promising: many would argue (and have argued)21 that some forms of ignorance result in involuntary rather than voluntary acts. One could even read Hume’s explanation as implying this: “the principles of these actions are only momentary, and terminate in them alone.” Perhaps this means that the cause of these acts is outside of the person—or outside of the morally significant part of the person. But the language Hume chooses emphasizes time, not control. Such actions stem from transitory causes whose effects do not extend beyond the actions in question. His remarks about the hasty temper are particularly revealing. As this temper is a “constant cause or principle in the mind,” there is a sense in which it is a part of the agent’s enduring character. We might assume that Hume believes an agent to be subject to moral judgment only if her acts proceed from her own enduring qualities of mind. But on this view, one would be just as responsible for actions produced by a hasty temper as one would be for actions produced through careful deliberation. But again, this is not how Hume believes we make moral judgments. A hasty temper operates only at intervals and infects not the whole character. This suggests that when we are making moral assessments, we consider not just whether or not a mental quality is an enduring trait but also how significant that quality is relative to other aspects of the person’s character. I will return to this point about the significance of mental qualities in a person’s character later in the chapter. But first, we need to see that Hume considers the voluntariness of traits to be as irrelevant to moral judgments as the voluntariness of behaviors. Hume makes this clear in Appendix 4 to the second Enquiry. He considers the alleged distinction between virtues or vices, on the one hand, and talents or defects, on the other. In searching for a ground for the distinction, he first considers the possibility “that the esteemable qualities alone, which are voluntary, are entitled to the appellation of virtues” (EPM App. 4.2). But he replies that we consider many qualities that “depend little or not at all on our choice” to be virtues, listing as examples courage, equanimity, patience, and self-command. He later cites with approval “the ancients’” opinion on the question: They justly considered, that cowardice, meanness, levity, anxiety, impatience, folly, and many other qualities of the mind, might appear ridiculous and deformed, contemptible and odious, though independent of the will. Nor could it be supposed, at all times, in every man’s power to attain every kind of mental, more than of exterior beauty. (EPM App. 4.20) Finally, he blames the modern union of moral thinking with theology for the unsustainable insistence that the categories of the voluntary and involuntary delineate the boundary between the moral and amoral. This legalistic turn, Hume says, may serve the ends of religion, but cannot

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 21 explain away the natural sentiments of judgment. Indeed, metaphysical speculations prove generally inert against the passionate principles of the human mind. This is a point he makes repeatedly. In the first Enquiry, he insists that no theory of providence, according to which the benevolent intentions of the Deity redeem all apparent evils, can “counterbalance the sentiments, which arise from the natural and immediate view of the objects” (EPM 8.35). Likewise, no complex psychology that finds hidden motives of self-interest behind apparently loving or generous acts will prevent our esteeming and loving those who consistently perform them. “And I find not in this,” Hume writes, “more than in other subjects, that the natural sentiments, arising from the general appearances of things, are easily destroyed by subtile reflections concerning the minute origin of these appearances” (EPM App. 2.4). Taken together, Hume’s remarks in the Enquiries show that he finds voluntariness mostly irrelevant for a philosophical account of moral distinctions. Instead, he emphasizes the landscape of mental qualities in ascribing virtues and vices. By “landscape,” I mean the diverse and multifaceted elements of a person’s mental constitution.22 Many, but not all, of these elements comprise a person’s character. Given Hume’s penchant for using aesthetic terms such as “moral beauty” to refer to ethical concepts, a term from the visual arts seems appropriate here. Judging someone as vicious requires that we believe her immoral behavior to have resulted from an enduring feature of her mind—both in the sense that it has been present for some time and in the sense that it remains there and active. Such judgments also require that this feature take up significant space in her mental landscape. The requisite length of endurance and prominence of space will necessarily be vague, but good moral judges will be able to tell when the requisite has been met. It is fair to assume that he would also expect there to be borderline cases about which we should suspend judgment. How then might we distinguish vice from mental disorders? If we judge acts as vicious when they proceed from a relatively steady and significant disposition, perhaps we can get what we need by making a further distinction between acts caused by such a disposition—a character trait—and acts caused by a disorder. We can look for help in the mitigating circumstances that Hume believes make us hesitate to ascribe vice to people despite their poor behavior. Maybe the disease’s causal force is relatively contained, like ignorant or casual motives. This might be the case with brief, temporary bouts of mental illness. Or maybe, like a hasty temper, the disorder is not significant enough to justify a global judgment on the agent’s character. In either case, we could distinguish the disorder from a character trait and withhold from it the appellation of vice. The problem with these suggestions is that they leave out a vast range of mental disorders. Many of these problems endure for years, or even throughout a lifetime. And part of what makes a disorder like depression

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excruciating is its ability to reach its tentacles into every aspect of a person’s life—work, love, friendship, even eating and sleeping. Of all Hume’s mitigating circumstances, repentance might prove the most promising. Someone with depression, for example, may regret and even feel guilt over her inability to accomplish tasks or maintain relationships. Although such repentance does not in this instance reliably indicate that the cause of her actions (or inactions) is no longer present in the person’s mind, it does suggest the presence of significant countervailing principles. This is a promising possibility I would like to explore in future work, but it must confront the obvious objection that some people who suffer from mental disorders feel no repentance for the resulting behaviors. Ultimately, it may be that Hume’s theory can accommodate a continuum of mental principles with a fair distance between hardened vice and mental disease, but cannot countenance a sharp qualitative divide between the two.23 We perhaps want to see mental disorder as an accretion on the “real self”—an overlay that may obscure but cannot destroy the “deeper self” underneath.24 Something like this thought is behind the last suggestion: character is allegedly the real self; the disorder is an intruder that sometimes causes behavior at variance with that real self. But Hume belongs in that group of philosophers, including Montaigne and Nietzsche, who find the notion of this deeper self highly dubious. Without saddling Hume with absurd views about the nonexistence of the self, we can acknowledge that he is suspicious of any account of the self that posits a static substance underlying the undulations of experience and activity. Any attempt to isolate the “real self” from physical influences on a person’s body will be particularly problematic. It is tempting to call a mental illness a physical invader on the mental part of the self. But in Hume’s sense, a “nervous disorder” could be a principle—or perhaps many principles—in either the mind or the body. He refuses to draw conclusions about the precise nature of the relation between the mental and the physical, ending his long discussion of the immateriality of the soul with the claim that “the question concerning the substance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible” (T 1.4.5.33). The relation between the will and action is at least as mysterious; he argues in the first Enquiry that the operations of voluntary motion are “to the last degree, mysterious and unintelligible” (EHU 7.14). We do not understand the nature of the mind; we have only an inchoate understanding of the nature of the body; and we have no knowledge of how they interact (or whether “interaction” is even the proper term here). Hume does believe that some dispositions are more rooted in a person’s natural temperament than others. Likewise, some are more enduring, and some are more significant. There is reason to assume that the innate ones will overlap to some degree with the enduring and significant ones: we can expect a congenital characteristic to manifest itself throughout a person’s life. The idea that experience might change

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 23 one’s temperament, however, would have been available to Hume, since some theorists thought of temperament as dynamic. Regardless, these innate traits are not coextensive with the enduring and significant ones. Emotional wounds, though not innate, can prove recalcitrant and allengrossing. A hasty temper, on the other hand, might be congenital, but we have seen Hume’s claim that it may be insignificant. None of these traits can be neatly cordoned into the realm of the mental as opposed to the physical. All involve the passions at various levels, and we have much experience of the significance of the body for the passions, at least. Even more, we have no undisputed grounds for a distinction between the mental and the physical at all. Hume treats questions about the source of the passions with a remarkable nonchalance. “Bodily pains and pleasures,” he writes in the Treatise, “are the source of many passions, both when felt and consider’d by the mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception” (T 2.1.1.2, emphasis mine). Given all this mystery and complexity, it is hard to see how any principled distinction could be made between the dispositions of a person’s character—the “real self”—on the one hand, and the motives and passions that a mental illness generates, on the other. There will be cases of such motives and passions that, on Hume’s terms, clearly should not be judged virtuous or vicious. Such cases would include conditions whose presence fragments the self to such a degree that no unified concept of character can be formed at all. They might also include transient episodes that do not endure long enough for us to associate their manifestations with the person as a whole. Perhaps this description fits the distemper Hume experienced as a young man. But distinguishing effects of a disorder from effects of character traits will become much more difficult when the disorders produce only more extreme versions of passions and motives that all of us experience throughout the course of our lives. Some of these passions and motives become significant, even defining, features of the sufferer’s mental landscape.

3. Therapy for the Passions I have argued that we cannot make a Humean distinction between vice and mental illness on the basis of voluntariness, and that it will be very difficult to make any non-vague distinction between mental illness and character on Humean principles. Nonetheless, there is one sense in which both character traits and some forms of mental illness might be voluntary. In this sense, a principle of the mind would be voluntary to the degree to which its possessor might be able to change it. This control does not require that one wills to have or reflectively endorses the mental principle in question. It only requires that there be some hope for improvement, if we desire to alter our characters. The change will not come merely from

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a movement of the rational will. But someone who is dissatisfied with (or made miserable by) her present passional dispositions may be able to take steps to modify those dispositions. Again, whether or not she can do so will not determine whether we judge her morally or consider her mentally ill. But there is a positive side to this philosophical vagueness: there is no antecedent reason to assume that attempts to ameliorate the effects of mental illness will be futile. Humility and charity demand that we recognize our limitations and acknowledge the recalcitrance of mental illness. We should resist facile optimism about curing these problems. But Hume resists facile optimism about improving character traits also. He does believe in the possibility of such self-improvement, as I have argued elsewhere.25 But his hopes for it among people in general are not very strong. We can see this from the list of traits that he expects his reader to agree are independent of the will. The list (in the discussion of verbal disputes) includes both patience and self-command. Given the difficulty of any serious reformation of character, it is hard to imagine how one might accomplish it without patience and self-command. If these qualities are truly independent of the will, then we have little reason to hope that those not fortunate enough to already possess them would be able to cultivate other virtues. In this case, Hume’s premise seems to lead to his Sceptic’s conclusion: Where one is thoroughly convinced that the virtuous course of life is preferable; if he have but resolution enough, for some time, to impose a violence on himself; his reformation needs not be despaired of. The misfortune is, that this conviction and this resolution never can have place, unless a man be, before-hand, tolerably virtuous. (EMPL 171) I do not think, however, that Hume himself is quite as pessimistic as his Sceptic. Radical revolutions of character may be out of reach, but that does not imply that there is no hope for those whose temperament causes suffering in one way or another. We need not believe that someone has chosen to have a certain trait, or that they can efface that trait through an act of rational will, to believe that internal or external motives could influence them to attempt to modify the trait. Hume clearly thinks that moral judgments can have such an influence.26 Separating the world into the virtuous and vicious and determining the various tints and shades of these ascriptions enable us to form models for individual emulation and develop methods of moral education and acculturation. None of these functions requires any robust sense that people have freely chosen their own virtues and vices; they only require that these traits not be wholly fixed and innate. Unless virtues result at least in part from experience and influence, efforts to encourage them must be in vain.

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 25 What are the possibilities for change, however, for those who suffer from a mental illness? At least in some such cases, moral condemnation would be both cruel and ineffective. Does diagnosing the problem as mental illness improve the odds for change? Here the thorny issues from the first section arise again. The answer to this last question will always depend in part on the present cultural conceptualization of mental disorders, in part because these conceptualizations affect people’s understanding of their own characters. They therefore affect people’s beliefs about what they are capable of. For Hume, developing a character is a joint effort between the person who bears that character and those with whom she lives in the world. Several scholars have argued convincingly that the Humean self is constructed over time, through a complex process that involves the development of the indirect passions of pride and humility. Jacqueline Taylor in particular has emphasized the social aspect of this development.27 By learning the grammar of pride that is peculiar to our own social context, we come to understand which dispositions are favored. Through acquiring pride or humility, we come to see ourselves as possessing or failing to possess those dispositions. Neither of these processes is the lone work of a moral agent: the language of character (like all language) is public, and I learn about my own traits in part by observing how others respond to me. The distance between an eighteenth-century sufferer from the disease of the learned and a twenty-first-century sufferer from major depressive disorder, therefore, will be even greater than I suggested before. The different associations implied by these different terms not only affect the way each sufferer would characterize her experience; they reach down to the sufferer’s sense of self. A certain self-conception is built into the term “disease of the learned.” Unless a patient had spent considerable time with Montaigne’s essay “On Pedantry,” how could he not take this diagnosis as, at least in part, a compliment? The same positive connotations went with many early modern diagnoses of nervous disorders in men: melancholia and hypochondria had been associated with exceptional intelligence and talent for millennia in the western tradition. No such comfort was available to women, whose diagnoses of hysteria were likely to exacerbate the prejudice that they were weaker vessels. Modern depressives may escape some of this sexist prejudice, but with no intellectual prejudice in their favor. In fact, the DSM-5 lists “diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness” among the diagnostic criteria for major depressive disorder.28 This is not the same, of course, as diminished intelligence, and Hume’s own experience of the disease of the learned involved a diminished ability to think and concentrate. Nonetheless, it remains the case that the eighteenth-century diagnosis was associated with intellectual talent and accomplishment, whereas the twenty-first century diagnosis is associated with intellectual

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stagnation and failure. For these associations to mean something to the sufferers, they need not have received a diagnosis. It would be enough to know what possible descriptors of their conditions were available, for these descriptors to begin to affect their sense of self. The nature of that sense of self has implications for what kind of change is possible for those with mental illness. I do not mean to imply any silly boot-strapping moral such as, “Mentally ill people can change if they believe they can!” or, even worse, “We should withhold diagnoses of mental illness so that people believe they can change!” In truth, it is impossible to predict how the conceptualization of disease would affect the possibility of change in any particular case. One person may, like the young Hume, take a diagnosis as a sign that what he has is a temporary affliction that can be overcome with the proper treatment. Another may find the label of “disease” stultifying and enervating. It does seem reasonable to infer that we ought to emphasize any well-founded hopes for change, as well as strenuously avoid stupid stereotypes about the mentally ill, whether gender-based or not. One way to avoid such stereotypes might be to admit that we all suffer from passions that we wish we could change. We must be careful, in doing so, not to trivialize the suffering of those with extreme forms of mental illness. Nonetheless, most of us are abysmal at changing our passions, whether we conceive of them as stemming from vice or malady. In this area, we need all the help we can get. Many people believe that Hume has a purely descriptive approach to the passions and has nothing to say about how we might improve them. This is mistaken. He does have some things to say, and those things may be helpful for those suffering from their passions. To begin to see what resources Hume can offer to such people, let us consider his discussion of bipolarity, “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion.” In saying that this is a discussion of bipolarity, I do not mean that it addresses the conditions now known as bipolar disorders. The cautions about anachronistic diagnoses apply here as well. All I mean is that the disposition Hume describes here is marked by vacillation between the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. He calls this disposition “delicacy of passion” and introduces it as follows: Some people are subject to a certain delicacy of passion which makes them extremely sensible to all the accidents of life, and gives them a lively joy upon every prosperous event, as well as a piercing grief, when they meet with misfortunes and adversity. Favours and good offices easily engage their friendship; while the smallest injury provokes their resentment. Any honour or mark of distinction elevates them above measure; but they are as sensibly touched with contempt. (EMPL 3–4)

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 27 Hume is not suspicious of the passions as such. The problem with this disposition is not that such people are extremely passionate, though they are. Nor is it that their mental lives are subject to vacillation; at least in this essay, there is no suggestion that inconstancy of the emotions is inherently painful. The problem, as he presents it, is that negative or sorrowful passions are likely to dominate the experience of people with delicate passions, and that their extreme passions may lead them to imprudent behavior.29 He gives two reasons for the preponderance of sorrowful passions. First, the delicate person’s overreaction to misfortune produces anhedonia or the inability to feel pleasure: “his sorrow or resentment takes entire possession of him, and deprives him of all relish in the common occurrences of life” (EMPL 4). Second, the human condition simply involves more great pains than pleasures; someone unusually prone to feel them both will therefore derive more harm than benefit from her disposition. From Hume’s description, it may seem as if delicacy of passion were dependent on external events. The delicate person reacts to prosperity and adversity, favors and injuries. But the unusual suffering arises internally: it is because such people react to these events in extreme ways that they have reason to lament their condition. None of us can escape suffering entirely, but those with delicacy of passion have a tendency or habit that increases their sufferings and distinguishes their characters. In an important footnote to section 7 of the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, Hume writes: There is no man, who, on particular occasions, is not affected with all the disagreeable passions, fear, anger, dejection, grief, melancholy, anxiety, &c. But these, so far as they are natural, and universal, make no difference between one man and another, and can never be the object of blame. It is only when the disposition gives a propensity to any of these disagreeable passions, that they disfigure the character, and by giving uneasiness, convey the sentiment of disapprobation to the spectator. (EPM 7.2n) Only those with such a disposition generate disapprobation as having a vice. Someone with delicacy of passion, however, is disposed to all of these disagreeable passions. This condition therefore counts as a vice on Hume’s terms. Those who have it accordingly have a double motive for getting rid of it. It produces suffering for themselves and likely produces disapprobation in others. Hume does not foreground the morality of delicate dispositions, however, perhaps because he believes that those with delicacy of passion will be more able to reform without the concept of this vice being added to their sense of self.

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Because delicacy of passion is a disposition or habit, it will be difficult to overcome. Habit both increases the likelihood that we will feel particular passions and, as Hume emphasizes at T 2.3.5, strengthens the efficacy of passions that are familiar to us. What recourse might we have? The young Hume tells his anonymous doctor that, inspired by his reading of ancient moralists, he tried strengthening himself by reflection against suffering. In a life not marked by active struggle against such sufferings, however, these reflections proved worse than useless: their effect was “to waste the Sprits, the Force of the Mind meeting with no Resistance, but wasting itself in the Air, like our Arm when it misses its Aim” (Letters 1:14). Does the older Hume recommend instead throwing oneself into the active life—sallying into the world of business or soldiering, perhaps, to conquer these melancholy humors?30 On the contrary, he recommends a kind of contemplation—“the cultivating of that higher and more refined taste, which enables us to judge of the characters of men, of compositions of genius, and of the productions of the nobler arts” (EMPL 6). This cultivation would involve learning to appreciate and therefore delight in aesthetic experience, broadly conceived. It might begin with the study of music, poetry, or the visual arts, but the skills learned in one such area make it easier to extend one’s pleasures into others. Delicacy of taste, then, is the proposed cure for delicacy of passion. I have argued elsewhere that this recommendation is not as absurd as it might appear at first glance.31 It has the decided advantage of depending on a redirection rather than elimination of the passions. The contrast of delicate taste with delicate passion could be misleading: Hume believes that taste is itself inextricably bound to the passions. Our appreciation for beauty—as well as our disgust at ugliness—is itself a feeling or passion. Unlike the wild undulations of delicacy of passion, aesthetic feelings tend to be calm rather than violent. (A calm passion, in Hume’s terms, is one that is less emotionally agitating. A violent passion, on the other hand, agitates the spirits; “violence” here in no way implies aggression.)32 One may, however, feel aesthetic passions quite profoundly, especially when they are seconded by fellows, such as during a moving theater performance.33 Moreover, calm passions can be quite strong: the strength or motivating force of a passion is not the same as its violence (T 2.3.4.1). Calm passions can therefore have a great influence on a person’s actions, but they are less likely to result in anti-social or imprudent behavior. And yet, they are passions. Hume is not asking those who suffer from delicacy of passion to reflect on their experience and come to more adequate ideas of the wrongs of men. He is not demanding that we delete all passions about things that are beyond our control, declaring such things indifferent. He does not ask that we subsume our passions under the rule of reason’s independent judgment. Some people may find such demands inspiring, even if they have doubts about the ability of humanity to comply with them.

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 29 But they seem extraordinarily bad counsel for someone with delicacy of passion, who is accustomed to the sustenance of an unusually passionate life. To again draw an analogy with bipolar disorder: many bipolar patients resist or refuse medication. Sometimes this resistance stems directly from the manic surge of confidence and its associated belief that there cannot be anything seriously wrong with oneself. But sometimes patients who are not currently undergoing a manic phase resist medication because they fear (or know from experience) that it will cause a general flattening of affect. The loss of the low does not seem worth the loss of the high. Likewise, the rationalist solutions to delicacy of passion may strike the sufferer as recommending a flat-lining of existence, which substitutes excruciating anhedonia for painful fluctuation between joy and sorrow.34 In recommending that they cultivate delicacy of taste, Hume proposes that the sufferers in question add to rather than subtract from the objects of their passions. Hume adds that objects of taste are far more under our control than the objects of other passions. “The good or ill accidents of life are very little at our disposal; but we are pretty much masters [of] what books we shall read, what diversions we shall partake of, and what company we shall keep” (EMPL 5). We cannot control illness, economic fluctuations, or even the occasional scorn of others, but access to some form of beauty is within the reach of most of us—whether it be in the form of a nineteenth-century novel, a recording of Leonard Cohen, or the placid comforts of nature. These comforts are not always available to everyone, but they are cheaper and more under our control than other kinds of goods, and that is all Hume needs for his case that it is wise to cultivate appreciation of them. But are they available to most people? Delicacy of taste, after all, is not simply the ability to breathe more deeply and easily while gazing at a mountain vista. It is a subtle and cultivated appreciation for aspects of beauty that miss all of us on a first, untutored glance. And it requires work. In “Of the Standard of Taste,” Hume lists the characteristics of the qualified critic as “[s]trong sense, united to delicate sentiment, improved by practice, perfected my comparison, and cleared of all prejudice” (EMPL 241). Perhaps those cultivating delicacy of taste need not fully satisfy each of these criteria, but the cultivation and education of this sensibility would require an attempt to approach this standard. Indeed, the long process and work involved in cultivating delicate taste may be essential to its efficacy. Study of artistic beauty, he says, draws “off the mind from the hurry of business and interest” (EMPL 7). Such study may do so in part because it enables us to take a wider perspective on transitory goods and our own needs and desires. (I take it that “interest” here refers to “self-interest,” conceived in a relatively narrow way.) But it may also have this salutary effect simply because it fills our time with another

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occupation. In The Chocolate Connoisseur, Chloé Doutre-Roussel writes of her quest, It’s comparable to a passion for music or literature. Just like connoisseurs of either art, I cannot stop fighting to learn even more. I want to know about every new development about chocolate as it happens. I do not wait for the press to publish the conclusions of a symposium. I try to attend the symposium myself, or find a close friend who shares my chocolate passion to do so. I do not wait for a company to ask me to visit a plantation, all expenses paid. I use my holiday quota, pay for my own ticket, and find my way to the cocoa plantations to see, ask and learn. (2006: 5–6) This woman, I believe, knows how to live—and not only because she spends her days sampling the best chocolate in the world. Such a passion, pursued with such dedication, offers an endless stream of stimulating experiences, and leaves little time for concern with petty suffering. Again, it cannot inoculate against all evils, but Hume never made such lofty claims.35 Notice, however, that Doutre-Roussel characterizes her passion as beyond her control: she “cannot stop” pursuing knowledge and experience that broadens her taste and helps her further understand the art of chocolate. Once the passion is in place, its objects may be relatively under our control. Not everyone can travel the world in search of fine chocolate, but Doutre-Roussel points out that even the most expensive chocolate looks cheap next to a bottle of fine wine or scotch. Other aesthetic delights are even cheaper, and less consumable. Much delight is available in the literature section of even a middling public library. But suppose one has no such passion in the first place? Can one freely and effectively decide to cultivate it? Hume does not suggest that everyone attempt this. His recommendation is specifically for those subject to delicacy of passion. The sensitivity of their passions suggests that they might be capable of channeling their sensibility in a less destructive direction. In most editions of the Essays, he says that he suspects that there is “a very considerable connexion between” delicacy of taste and delicacy of passion.36 His recommendation is also aimed at the kind of person who would be likely to read such essays for pleasure. Such people were probably a broader segment of the population than at present, but we can hardly assume that they were the majority. In “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,” Hume himself writes: The arts of luxury, and much more the liberal arts, which depend on a refined taste or sentiment, are easily lost; because they are always

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 31 relished by a few only, whose leisure, fortune, and genius fit them for such amusements. (EMPL 124) Cultivating aesthetic appreciation seems to require feelings of love for art, as well as the strength of mind for study, that few people have. But this by no means implies that his recommendation is worthless. The recommendations usually made for those with some version of delicacy of passion will prove insipid and futile to a small segment of the population. People who are bored by common entertainments or who have difficulty finding friends who share their interests and abilities may need passional nourishment as well, and their way of getting it need not appeal to the public at large. We need techniques for healing the passions that serve the gifted and extraordinary as well as the average person. On the other hand, we may do well to remember a maxim of La Rochefoucauld: “We have more strength than will; and it is often in order to excuse ourselves that we imagine that things are impossible” (2009: 9). Things may be impossible for a lone individual that would be possible with encouragement and education. In thinking about whether or not we have control over some aspect of our character, we tend to construe the question in a strongly individualistic way: can I decide to alter my relation to my passions, either through an act of will or through some program of self-discipline and reformation? (Often the subject is even more narrowed, by “I” being identified with some subset of my self, such as my reason.) We tend to forget in discussions of voluntariness that counsel from friends and social circumstances can be significant motives for change. It may be difficult for us to imagine Hume’s recommendations working because we live in social circumstances that do not encourage aesthetic practice and fail to appreciate its value. Delicacy of passion is not itself rare; many people have outsized reactions to the vicissitudes of life. So, even if only those with delicacy of passion are ripe for the conversion to delicacy of taste, there may be a sizable percentage of people who could benefit from aesthetic education. At least in the United States, we cannot claim to have made such education in any sense a priority. So we cannot really know how many people could benefit from the pleasures of art. The benefits, as Hume characterizes them, are far-reaching. As he tells it, cultivation of taste does not merely redirect the attention away from the frustrations and traumas of everyday life. It strengthens the judgment, augments our experience of positive passions, makes us more reflective and tranquil, and even makes us better friends (EMPL 6–7). Again, this is not the place to evaluate all of these claims, though I believe that they are defensible. But what Hume is recommending here is without doubt a program of therapy for the passions. This should refute the notion that he was only interested in describing or theorizing the passions and had

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nothing to say about their reform, as well as the notion that he thought that such reform was impossible. For our purposes, however, what is important is that if this therapy were effective, it could be effective regardless of whether we conceive of delicacy of passion as a vice or as a mental disorder. At the least, the obstacles to its efficacy would be the same kind in either case. We cannot predict the effects of self-conceptions on efforts to reform character, but we can explore methods for reform that transcend some of the distinctions that complicate self-conceptions. I do not say that the obstacles to reform would be equally severe for those with and without mental illnesses. I am not questioning the evidence that those with mental illnesses have physiological differences compared to those without them. Those differences would multiply the difficulties and, in many cases, justify medical intervention to lessen them. But as I have argued earlier, we have no good reason on Humean grounds to assume that those without mental illness do not also have a physiological basis for their vices; nor can we easily distinguish those dispositions attributable to a disorder from the character of the sufferer. In all cases, reform will be difficult and success by no means certain. To recognize a continuity between what we consider “normal” variances in personality traits and what we consider mental illness is not to belittle the hardship of those with disorders. It is to humble those of us lucky enough to be free of them. Finally, please do not let the chocolate example mislead. I believe that excellent chocolate is beautiful, but there are examples of aesthetic pursuits that show their power in a much brighter light. In Primo Levi’s If This Is a Man, he tells how in a precious hour that he has to spend with a sympathetic listener, he decides to try to teach his new friend Italian— using Dante. He pleads with his friend to understand: Here, listen Pikolo, open your ears and your mind, you have to understand, for my sake: ‘Think of your breed; for brutish ignorance Your mettle was not made; you were made men, To follow after knowledge and excellence.’ As if I also was hearing it for the first time: like the blast of a trumpet, like the voice of God. For a moment I forget who I am and where I am. (1996: 113)37 This is not a case of art acting as therapy for either mental illness or vice. Whatever mental illness Levi later endured seems to have been induced by his experience in the Nazi death camp, and as his memoir indicates, it was a setting in which one lost one’s grip on much of the distinction between

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 33 virtue and vice. But vice, mental illness, and conditions of oppression share in common that they lead to human suffering. In this most extreme example, a Jewish chemist chose to share the dolce stil novo of a Catholic poet, because in this moment in which it was dangerous to feel, aesthetic passions conveyed love for the truly human.

4. Conclusion To say that it is difficult to identify a criterion for distinguishing vice from mental illness is not to say that there is no such distinction. But if I am right, we will only find the Humean version of that distinction at the ends of a vague continuum. This can be a frustrating result: we need moral language, and we want to know when it is appropriate to apply it. Its functions—including forming models for emulation and developing methods of moral education and acculturation—will not be served equally well by the language of disease. In some cases, however, the difficulty of making a firm distinction between mental illness and vice can be an advantage. Both categories involve disorders of the passions, so therapies that address those disorders can be helpful regardless of how we conceptualize the difficulty. Techniques like the cultivation of aesthetic appreciation, moreover, respond to problems that we may notice through our observations of the mentally ill, such as the resistance of bipolar patients to therapies that flatten their passional lives. Some people will believe it to be a disadvantage that these methods do not appeal to explicitly moralized language. Without this language, we risk losing the motivating function of moral distinctions. Hume writes in the Treatise that when someone realizes that he lacks a virtue, he may hate himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire by practice, that virtuous principle, or at least, to disguise to himself, as much as possible, his want of it. (T 3.2.1.8) But the jejune ending of this sentence suggests that he had dim hopes for the efficacy of such efforts at self-improvement. It is not at all clear that self-hatred is the best stance from which to effect significant personal change. However we conceive of Hume’s youthful distemper, it is clear that he eventually was able to effect such change and therefore had control over his distemper in the final sense that I discussed earlier. Through efforts that may forever be unknown to us, he was able to improve and get on with his work. Again, from his own point of view, this does not imply that he had not struggled with a mental illness. But it does mean that

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some therapy helped him overcome his languor and again experience industrious and curious passions. These passions enabled him to cultivate his own delicate taste and appreciation of literary beauties. As a result, he was able to fill his life with learned pursuits, relatively free from disease.38

Notes 1. This is not an exhaustive list, but it gives some idea of the diversity of appellations at work. “Hysteria” was typically ascribed to women, and “hypochondria” to men. See Radden (2000: 27–8 and 39–44). 2. For a helpful précis of these debates, see Lieburg’s The Disease of the Learned, especially “Health Education and Advice for Intellectuals” (1990: 61–78). 3. See OED “genius” 7b. “genius, n. and adj.” Oxford English Dictionary Online, s.v. “genius,” last modified June 2014, www.oed.com. 4. M. A. Stewart argues that Hume was probably also struggling with a “religious crisis” (2005: 30). 5. The dating of Hume’s arrival in France, and later La Flèche, is based on letters that he sent from these locations. See Wright (2003: 131). 6. For instance, Stewart calls it a “psychosomatic illness” (2005: 30). James Harris identifies the disease of the learned as “roughly what we would now call depression” (2015: 47). 7. Wright warns that “a degree of scepticism and suspense of judgment” is the proper attitude about this letter (2003: 135). 8. He does describe himself as laboring under the vapors earlier in the letter. See Letters 1:14. 9. See Chapter 1, especially 1–2 and 50–51. 10. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is the American Psychiatric Association’s standard guide to the classification of mental disorders. The most recent edition is the fifth, which was published in 2013. Future references to the manual are all to this edition and will be cited as DSM-5. 11. For a recent discussion of the relationship between stigma and treatment of psychological disorders, see Kendra et al. (2014). For a discussion of reactions within the Asperger’s community to the DSM-5 changes, see Giles (2013). 12. See also Hacking’s extended application of these ideas to multiple personality disorder in Rewriting the Soul (1995b). 13. In “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm,” Hume writes that “superstition is founded on fear, sorrow, and a depression of spirits” (EMPL 75). “Depression of spirits” likely refers at least in part to a biological phenomenon, albeit one with psychological effects. 14. See Radden (2000: 22–4 and 353). 15. Pure constructivists are difficult to find among philosophers of medicine. For a sympathetic “typology of social construction” from the perspective of sociology of medicine, see Brown (1995). For the most famous statement of the deflationary view that mental illnesses are not rooted in biological damage and therefore are not real, see Szasz 2010 (1961). 16. For influential statements of the naturalist or objectivist position, see Boorse (1975, 1976, and 1977). For replies to objections to his view, see Boorse (1997, 2002, and 2014). There are numerous proponents of “mixed” views on disease, which combine elements of constructivism and objectivism. Notable among these is Jerome Wakefield (1992 and 2014).

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 35 17. The DSM-5 criteria for major depressive disorder are as follows. I have eliminated clarifying notes that are irrelevant to Hume’s situation. The requirement that at least one of the symptoms is “depressed mood” or “loss of interest or pleasure” probably eliminates his case at once. He has not lost interest in his project; he simply cannot apply himself to it long enough to carry it to completion. The only corresponding symptoms he reports are #3 and #8; the diagnosis requires the presence of five symptoms. A. Five (or more) of the following symptoms have been present during the same two-week period and represent a change from previous functioning; at least one of the symptoms is either (1) depressed mood or (2) loss of interest or pleasure. B. 1. Depressed mood most of the day, nearly every day, as indicated by either subjective report (e.g., feels sad, empty, hopeless) or observation made by others (e.g., appears tearful). 2. Markedly diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all, activities most of the day, nearly every day (as indicated by either subjective account or observation). 3. Significant weight loss when not dieting or weight gain (e.g., a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month), or decrease or increase in appetite nearly every day. 4. Insomnia or hypersomnia nearly every day. 5. Psychomotor agitation or retardation nearly every day (observable by others, not merely subjective feelings of restlessness or being slowed down). 6. Fatigue or loss of energy nearly every day. 7. Feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt (which may be delusional) nearly every day (not merely self-reproach or guilt about being sick). 8. Diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness, nearly every day (either by subjective account or as observed by others). 9. Recurrent thoughts of death (not just fear of dying), recurrent suicidal ideation without a specific plan, or a suicide attempt or a specific plan for committing suicide. C. The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning. D. The episode is not attributable to the physiological effects of a substance or another medical condition. Note: Criteria A through C represent a major depressive episode. E. The occurrence of the major depressive episode is not better explained by schizoaffective disorder, schizophrenia, schizophreniform disorder, delusional disorder, or other specified and unspecified schizophrenia spectrum and other psychotic disorders. F. There has never been a manic episode or a hypomanic episode. (American Psychiatric Association, “Depressive Disorders” in Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th ed., (Arlington: American Psychiatric Publishing, 2013), https://doi.org/10.1176/appi.books. 9780890425596.dsm04) 18. American Psychiatric Association, 2013. The DSM can provide only limited guidance on such questions. See John Z. Sadler’s claim that “the DSMs are not the product of metaphysical deliberation and theorizing but rather the

36

19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31. 32.

33. 34.

35.

Margaret Watkins expression of what might be called ‘folk metaphysics’—an amalgam of metaphysical assumptions that are more-or-less socially conventional, and represent a loose, informal consensus of the profession” (2008: 12). See Hacking on the exculpating tendency of “biologizing” kinds (1995a: 372–3). For a brief overview of nineteenth-century attempts to exculpate criminal behavior with diagnoses of various “monomanias,” see Geller (2008). See EHU 8.31. The thought goes back at least to Aristotle’s discussion in Nicomachean Ethics 3.1, although many of his claims about the relation between blameworthiness and voluntariness may seem counterintuitive to the twenty-firstcentury reader. Since drafting this chapter, I have discovered that Katharina Paxman uses the term “mental landscape” in a similar (though distinct) way in “The Movement of Feeling and the Genesis of Character in Hume” (2015b). Cf. Gwen Adshead’s proposal that it may be a mistake for contemporary psychology to assume a sharp dichotomy between vice and mental disorder, and that we might instead “opt for a sliding scale of blameworthiness” (2008: 25). I leave the terms “real self” and “deeper self” intentionally vague. They capture, I believe, a pre-philosophical notion that many people have about mental illness. “That’s the illness talking, not her.” I hope that we can give a compelling philosophical account of the charitable sentiment behind such remarks. All I mean to point out here is that, on Humean principles, this account is not going to be easy. See Watkins (2009). See T 3.1.1.5–6 and EPM App. 1.20–21. See Taylor (2015, especially Chapter 2). DSM 5, “Depressive Disorders,” http://dx.doi.org/10.1176/appi.books.9780 890425596.dsm04. In these respects, the problems with the disposition are similar to those associated with Bipolar II disorder, which is characterized by significant depression and less severe mania than Bipolar I. This “hypomania” is still associated with “activities that have a high potential for painful consequences” (DSM 5, “Bipolar and Related Disorders,” http://dx.doi.org/10.1176/appi. books.9780890425596.dsm03). Actually, Hume associates the life of the soldier with idleness. See “Of National Characters” (EMPL 199). See Watkins (2009). For Hume’s initial presentation of the distinction, see T 2.1.2.3. There has been much debate about the nature of this distinction since Páll Ardal’s seminal treatment in Passion and Value in Hume’s Treatise (1966). For some recent analyses, see Paxman (2015a) and Radcliffe (2015). See Hume’s “Of Tragedy” (1987f), for his account of the relation between the sentiments of beauty and the passions sympathetically communicated to a tragedy’s audience. Hume, commenting on an anhedonic period of his own life, notes that this “total indifference towards every thing in human life . . . is perhaps worse than even the inquietudes of the most unfortunate passion” (Hume to the Comtesse de Boufflers, July 1764, in Letters 1:457). Hume does not appear to consider food or cooking to be among the arts subject to artistic criticism. See his satirical comments about delicate palates in “Of the Standard of Taste” (EMPL 236). Even great thinkers have their blindnesses.

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 37 36. He does remove this from the final edition of the Essays. I suspect, however, that he does so because the paragraph goes on to posit, in a condescending way, a special susceptibility to both in women—a view that his experience of both sexes moderates as he ages. 37. “If This Is a Man” was Levi’s original title of Levi (1996). 38. I am indebted to Philip Reed, Rico Vitz, and Robert Miner for enormously helpful suggestions in response to an earlier draft of this chapter. A Saint Vincent College Faculty Research Grant supported my work on this contribution; I am grateful to both the college and the members of the Faculty Research Committee for this support.

References Adshead, Gwen. 2008. “Vice and Viciousness.” Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology 15: 23–6. American Psychiatric Association. 2013. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th edition. Arlington: American Psychiatric Publishing. Ardal, Páll. 1966. Passion and Value in Hume’s “Treatise.” Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Boorse, Christopher. 1975. “On the Distinction Between Disease and Illness.” Philosophy and Public Affairs 5: 49–68. Boorse, Christopher. 1976. “What a Theory of Mental Health Should Be.” Journal for the Theory of Social Behavior 6: 61–84. Boorse, Christopher. 1977. “Health as a Theoretical Concept.” Philosophy of Science 44: 542–73. Boorse, Christopher. 1997. “A Rebuttal on Health.” In What Is Disease, edited by James M. Humber and Robert F. Almeder, 1–134. Totowa: Humana Press. Boorse, Christopher. 2002. “A Rebuttal on Functions.” In Functions: New Essays in the Philosophy of Psychology and Biology, edited by André Ariew, Robert Cummins, and Mark Perlman, 63–112. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boorse, Christopher. 2014. “A Second Rebuttal on Health.” Journal of Medicine and Philosophy 39: 683–724. Boswell, James. 2008. The Life of Samuel Johnson. London: Penguin. Brown, Phil. 1995. Extra Issue. “Naming and Framing: The Social Construction of Diagnosis and Illness.” Journal of Health and Social Behavior 35: 34–52. Cheyne, George. 1733. The English Malady. London: Strahan. www.archive.org/ details/englishmaladyort00cheyuoft. Doutre-Roussel, Chloé. 2006. The Chocolate Connoisseur: For Everyone With a Passion for Chocolate. New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher/Penguin. Geller, Jeffrey L. 2008. “Back to the Nineteenth Century Is Progress.” Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology 15: 19–21. Giles, David C. 2013. “‘DSM-V Is Taking Away Our Identity’: The Reaction of the Online Community to the Proposed Changes in the Diagnosis of Asperger’s Disorder.” Health 18: 179–95. Hacking, Ian. 1995a. “The Looping Effects of Human Kinds.” In Causal Cognition: A Multi-Disciplinary Debate, edited by Dan Sperber, David Premack, and Ann James Premack, 351–83. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hacking, Ian. 1995b. Rewriting the Soul: Multiple Personality and the Sciences of Memory. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Harris, James A. 2015. Hume: An Intellectual Biography. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hume, David. 1987a. “My Own Life.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, xxxi–xli. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 1987b. “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 3–8. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 1987c. “Of National Characters.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 197–215. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 1987d. “Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 111–37. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 1987e. “The Sceptic.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 159–80. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 1987f. “Of the Standard of Taste.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 226–49. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 1987g. “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 73–9. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 1987h. “Of Tragedy.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 216–25. Indianapolis: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 2000. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 2006a. An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 2006b. An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 2011. The Letters of David Hume, edited by J. Y. T. Greig, 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kendra, Matthew S., Jonathan J. Mohr, and Jeffrey W. Pollard. 2014. “The Stigma of Having Psychological Problems: Relations With Engagement, Working Alliance, and Depression in Psychotherapy.” Psychotherapy 51: 563–73. La Rochefoucauld, François, duc de. 2009. Maxims, translated by Stuart D. Warner and Stéphane Douard. South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press. Levi, Primo. 1996. Survival in Auschwitz. New York: Touchstone. Lieburg, M. J. van. 1990. The Disease of the Learned: A Chapter From the History of Melancholy and Hypochondria. Oss: Organon International. Mandeville, Bernard. 1976. A Treatise of the Hypochondriack and Hysterick Diseases. Delmar: Scholars’ Facsimiles & Reprints. Mossner, Ernest Campbell. 1958. “Hume at La Flèche, 1735: An Unpublished Letter.” Texas Studies in English 37: 30–3. Mossner, Ernest Campbell. 1980. The Life of David Hume, 2nd edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Beyond the “Disease of the Learned” 39 Paxman, Katharina. 2015a. “Imperceptible Impressions and Disorder in the Soul: A Characterization of the Distinction Between Calm and Violent Passions in Hume.” Journal of Scottish Philosophy 13: 265–78. Paxman, Katharina. 2015b. “The Movement of Feeling and the Genesis of Character in Hume.” Res Philosophica 92: 569–93. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 2015. “Strength of Mind and Calm and Violent Passions.” Res Philosophica 92: 1–21. Radden, Jennifer, ed. 2000. The Nature of Melancholy: From Aristotle to Kristeva. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sadler, John Z. 2008. “Vice and the Diagnostic Classification of Mental Disorders: A Philosophical Case Conference.” Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology 15: 1–17. Stewart, M. A. 2005. “Hume’s Intellectual Development, 1711–1752.” In Impressions of Hume, edited by Marina Frasca-Spada and P. J. E. Kail, 11–58. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sutton, John. 1998. Philosophy and Memory Traces: Descartes to Connectionism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Szasz, Thomas S. 2010 (1961). The Myth of Mental Illness: Foundations of a Theory of Personal Conduct. New York: Harper Perennial. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2015. Reflecting Subjects: Passion, Sympathy, and Society in Hume’s Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wakefield, Jerome C. 1992. “The Concept of Mental Disorder: On the Boundary Between Biological Facts and Social Values.” American Psychologist 47: 373–88. Wakefield, Jerome C. 2014. “The Biostatistical Theory Versus the Harmful Dysfunction Analysis, Part 1: Is Part-Dysfunction a Sufficient Condition for Medical Disorder?” The Journal of Medicine and Philosophy 39: 648–82. Watkins, Margaret. 2009. “Delicate Magnanimity: Hume on the Advantages of Taste.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 26: 389–408. Wright, John P. 2003. “Dr. George Cheyne, Chevalier Ramsay, and Hume’s Letter to a Physician.” Hume Studies 29: 125–41.

2

Hume on the Rarity of Virtue Philip A. Reed

When you think about the people you know, are most of them virtuous? The way in which you answer this question will vary based on a number of factors, including who the people you know are, how you evaluate the character of people, what counts as “most” people, and especially what counts as “virtuous.” Nevertheless, if virtues are more or less robust dispositions to perform virtuous actions consistently, then it would seem that many recent studies in social psychology provide empirical evidence that most people are not virtuous. For example, we would not expect people who are virtuous to be more honest in the presence of an attractive person than they would be in the presence of an unattractive person, but that is what one recent study found (Wang et al. 2017). Hundreds of other studies have provided a host of reasons to doubt that most people are virtuous. A number of philosophers who have paid attention to such studies have tried to show what implications they have for normative ethics. In particular, these so-called situationists have famously argued that recent work in social psychology shows that virtue ethics is not empirically adequate, at least in part because empirical studies tend to show that many or most people do not possess the virtues (Alfano 2013; Doris 2002; Harman 1999). This situationist criticism has sometimes caused defenders of virtue ethics to identify the extent to which virtue ethics is or might be committed to the social diffusion of virtue. If virtues are not expected to be widespread, then it seems virtue ethics can escape the situationist challenge unscathed. Normally, this situationist debate assumes a context of classical or Aristotelian virtue ethics. As is well known, the recent revival of virtue ethics in contemporary moral theory tends to be inspired principally by Aristotle’s ethical system. Among other modern ethicists, Hume’s work tends to be given short shrift, even though he speaks incessantly about virtue and is himself inspired by ancient moral philosophy. But some scholars have recently detailed to what extent Hume might fit into a version of virtue ethics (Frykholm 2015; Swanton 2015; Greco 2013). Given this recovery of a Humean virtue ethics, it would make sense to consider

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the implications that recent social psychology has for the empirical adequacy of Hume’s virtue theory. In particular, it would be instructive to examine the extent to which Hume is committed to the idea that virtue is widespread; for if he is so committed, his theory would appear to fit awkwardly with results from contemporary psychology. This chapter examines Hume’s texts to see to what extent his own virtue ethics is committed to the diffusion of virtue. I argue that Hume believes that virtue is not diffuse, i.e., that only relatively few people possess the virtues. In this way, Hume’s virtue theory is not in fact troubled by recent empirical work that suggests virtue is uncommon. Indeed, such a result would be exactly what Hume would have predicted; Hume concurs with Aristotle and other ancient moral philosophers that virtue is rare (though as we will see his grounds for doing so are somewhat different from Aristotle’s). I proceed as follows. In Section 1, I define the relevant terms for my argument and outline the empirical result from recent social psychology that virtue is uncommon. In Section 2, I turn to Hume’s work and argue in defense of the view that Hume believes virtue is rare. The final section takes up objections. The chapter addresses a challenge to Hume’s moral theory from social psychology. Nevertheless, my topic is one that would be of interest to Hume’s commentators even independent of contemporary psychology. As we will see, the issue of whether Hume thinks virtue is common or uncommon is treated more or less as a tangential issue by many Hume scholars. This chapter hopes to make the issue less tangential, for how Hume views the diffusion of virtue enables us to know better how Hume understands the moral life. And if Hume is right about the moral life, we know more about the moral life itself.

1. Recent Social Psychology How exactly could contemporary psychology threaten virtue ethics? This is in fact a complicated question that has several competing answers.1 For purposes of this chapter, I pay attention only to one such answer. As we have seen, situationists contend that contemporary psychology threatens virtue ethics because virtue ethics is allegedly committed to the claim that many people possess the virtues, a claim that belies recent studies in social psychology. In this section, I will explain briefly how social psychology is supposed to show that not many people possess the virtues. What is it for a virtue to be common or rare? A virtue is common when it is possessed by most or by many people. A virtue is rare when most or many people do not possess it. The difference between “most” and “many” is not, I think, especially crucial in this context. There are plenty of contexts where this difference does make a difference (e.g., one’s exam

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score or the number of votes one receives). But with respect to our question about the diffusion of virtue, what we want to know is merely: is there a significant portion of virtuous people? I prefer not to put an exact figure or percentage on these terms, leaving them vague. Their significance is that they contrast with “few.” Few people among the general population are, for example, brain surgeons; most people choose other professions; hence, brain surgery as a profession is rare. Let us take the Milgram experiments as a representative example illustrating the thesis that at least one virtue or set of virtues is rare (Milgram 1963). One of the reasons that the Milgram experiments garnered so much attention was that their results were not what Milgram predicted or what the common person would have predicted in advance of performing the experiments. We generally take people’s character to be such that they would not torture an innocent test-taker to death (or even close to death) even if a person in a white coat insists that they do so. People might refuse to take such action because of the virtue of compassion (or a similar virtue) that they possess or at least because they lack of the vice of malice (or something similar). The fact that so many people did in fact go through with delivering the maximum voltage to the test-takers suggests that as many people in fact lacked a moral character sufficient to prevent them from doing otherwise. If the virtue of compassion or a similar virtue were widespread, we would not get the kinds of results we got from the Milgram experiments. Part of what is at stake in thinking about the question of how diffuse virtues are supposed to be among the general population is some account of what virtues are. Generally speaking, we can say that a virtue is a kind of “global” trait, i.e., a trait that is stable over time and consistent across situations. In order for a trait to be consistent, the trait must be such that the agent acts in trait-relevant ways even when pressures from the situation lead against such action. In the Milgram experiments, the fact that the confederate-researcher is commanding the subject to administer shocks to the subject is a feature of the situation that leads against virtuous action; yet if the agents actually possessed the relevant virtue, then such a feature would not be sufficient to prevent the agent from acting according to the virtue. The idea that a virtue is a global trait is meant to capture a common sense idea, namely that a virtuous person’s character manifests itself in action across time and place, including being able to withstand pressures from situational features. It is not just the Milgram experiments, of course, that have led situationists to conclude that global character traits should be called into question. Other commonly cited studies include incidents where research subjects are inclined to lie, cheat, steal, or be cruel to others if they are encouraged to do so by various situational features (Hartshorne and May 1928; Haney et al. 1973). These kinds of studies among others, drawing as they do from random and diverse groups of participants and carried

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out in different times and places, suggest that most people do not behave in ways that we would expect virtuous people to behave.2 Another observation from social psychology that shows that people generally lack virtues is in a phenomenon known as moral licensing. In this phenomenon, an agent avoids moral behavior at least in part because she feels licensed to do so given her prior moral behavior. For example, in one study, subjects were more likely to lie or steal if they had purchased products that were friendly to the environment compared to products that were not (Mazar and Zhong 2010). In another study, subjects were less likely to donate to charity after calling to mind their generous characters (Sachdeva et al. 2009). This is not behavior that is indicative of virtuous individuals; past behavior should be irrelevant to what a virtuous person ought to do in the present.3 Perhaps even more worrisome than the studies where non-virtuous behavior is observed so commonly are studies that show the extent to which situational features can disrupt virtuous behavior completely without agents’ conscious awareness. I mentioned at the beginning of the chapter how being in the presence of an attractive or unattractive person can make people more or less honest. Obviously, people we consider to have the virtue of honesty should not be so affected. There are in fact many studies that show how features such as pleasant fragrances, loud noises, being in a hurry, feeling embarrassed, or feeling guilty can secretly influence the majority of subjects’ behavior.4 If these subjects possessed the virtue of compassion, for example, they should exercise that virtue regardless of whether they happened to be experiencing a pleasant smell or not; but that is not what the studies show. I have argued in this section that many studies from social psychology seem to show that virtuous or moral behavior is either not elicited or rarely elicited consistently. My brief discussion here was not intended to defend carefully this thesis but only give the barest of outlines for it.5 My main interest is to see what relevance this thesis has for ethical theory. As we saw earlier, reading contemporary studies in psychology in this way poses problems for versions of virtue ethics that are committed to an empirical claim about the widespread possession of the virtues. Yet, soon after situationists began to pose a challenge to virtue ethics from contemporary psychology, virtue ethicists or their allies tried to clarify that they were not in fact so committed to the widespread possession of the virtues.6 It would seem, then, that virtue ethics need not worry about psychological studies that show few people possess virtues provided that their versions of virtue ethics do not commit them to anything more. The question for our purposes, of course, is whether Hume follows traditional virtue ethics (especially Aristotelian virtue ethics) in upholding the rarity of the virtues. If Hume thinks that virtue is not widespread, as I will argue he does, then Hume’s virtue ethics similarly survives this particular challenge from contemporary psychology fairly easily.

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2. The Diffusion of Virtue As I turn to Hume’s own texts, I will focus on the positive account, namely whether Hume thinks virtue is widespread. In other words, I will not have much to say about vice, except in a few places by way of contrast. As we will see, there are some reasons to think that the reasons Hume provides to think virtue is rare also entail that he thinks vice is rare. Nevertheless, one cannot simply assume that virtue and vice are perfectly symmetrical. How does Hume understand the nature of virtue? He does not say much about this. He takes as given the commonsense understanding that a virtue is a character trait (“quality of the mind”) that disposes an agent to act virtuously, i.e., to perform actions characteristic of the trait consistently. He is also well-known for insisting that when we praise an agent for committing a virtuous act, we must be praising a durable trait or “principle” of the mind; otherwise, Hume claims, the agent would not be responsible for the act and so worthy of praise or condemnation (see, e.g., T 2.3.2.6, 3.2.1.2–3, 3.3.1.4). There has been some question about whether an account of traits of this kind can be consistent with Hume’s minimalist or reductionist account of the self, but this issue takes us beyond the bounds of my chapter.7 When Hume talks about a “quality of the mind,” I think it is probable that he is conceiving of something close to what psychologists and philosophers would now call a global trait.8 Recall that a global trait is a trait that is stable over time and consistent across situations. Hume seems to have something like this conception in mind given his discussion of a union or connection between character and specific actions. He insists on a “uniformity” in actions that “flows from” an agent’s character to the point of “necessity” (T 2.3.1.10). “No union can be more constant and certain,” he writes, “than that of some actions with some motives and characters” (T 2.3.1.12; see also T 2.3.2.2 and EHU 8.6–20). If character traits carry this necessity, it would stand to reason that at least sometimes they must do so even when features of the situations compel agents to act out of character; that is to say, truly global dispositions will resist situational pressures to act contrary to the disposition. Now, Hume is aware that some traits will not be global; sometimes people do “act out of character” in that they act contrary to what we would expect, given our basic understanding of their underlying motives or traits. He even shows an awareness of the extent to which “the situation” interacts with the character and temper of the agent to bring about the agent’s actions (T 2.3.1.11, 2.3.1.15, 2.3.22). As he writes in the first Enquiry, “a person of an obliging disposition gives a peevish answer: But he has the toothake, or has not dined” (EHU 8.15). Hume is acknowledging the extent to which human beings act in a way that appears to be inconstant and irregular; he thinks nevertheless that an underlying uniformity that includes situational features can still explain human actions. This does not mean, however, that he rejects global traits. Instead, his

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account acknowledges the extent to which dispositions or traits can vary in their relative stability and consistency. Some agents with a (weakly held) obliging disposition will give a peevish answer when they have a toothache and others will give an obliging answer in the same circumstances. We would have no problem, on Hume’s account, saying that the latter agents exhibit a trait that is (more) global compared to those of the former agents. Indeed, there is no reason to deny Hume the commonsense idea that we are more justified in attributing an obliging disposition tout court to agents who are obliging even in the face of a toothache than agents who are not. The view that Hume possesses the conception of global traits is not the view that every trait a person has must be global.9 The question about the diffusion of virtue (how a trait is distributed) should not be confused with the question of the fundamental goodness or badness of human beings. This latter question is a question about the human race as a whole and the degree of selfishness or benevolence present in human nature. Hume tries to dismiss this question as unanswerable in a few places. In the essay “Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature,” he implies that whether human beings are exalted or debased is merely a “verbal” dispute, “founded on some ambiguity in the expression” (EMPL 81). Hume’s moral theory, he informs us, will not settle “the question . . . concerning the wickedness or goodness of human nature” (T 3.2.2.13; see also EPM 9.4). Please note that my topic in this chapter is not the degree of moral goodness or badness in human nature. Rather, among human beings, roughly how many can be expected to possess the virtues? The question about the diffusion of virtue should also not be confused with the question of an individual’s virtuous character taken as a whole. The question I focus on in this chapter is, for any given individual virtue, does Hume expect many people to possess it? I will argue that he does not. Now, it follows from this that there will be few (indeed, probably very few) people who possess a virtuous character as a whole. But that claim is less interesting and less controversial than the claim that few people possess the virtues. Moreover, it does not seem a relevant claim to the psychological literature discussed earlier in Section 1. The relevant studies do not examine or intend to examine virtuous character as a whole; rather they suggest ways in which a particular trait is largely absent from the subjects in the study. The case that Hume thinks few people possess the virtues rests on two central reasons: first, he links virtue to the feeling of pride and states that pride is felt only when the thing for which one is proud is rare. This is a more direct reason. Second, Hume makes a number of disparate remarks that provide a cumulative case for the rarity of virtue. This is a more indirect reason. I take these both in turn. Hume thinks, as an empirical matter, we identify virtues fundamentally by comparison, such that if virtues were common, they would not be

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praised by others. In Book 2 of the Treatise, Hume delivers his theory of the passions whereby pride and humility are produced by a double relation of ideas and impressions. In explaining his system, Hume notes very clearly that objects cause pride in us when they are “peculiar to ourselves, or at least common to us with a few persons” (T 2.1.6.4). If some object that we possess is familiar or common or widespread, it loses value, according to Hume. So Hume thinks that common goods, such as health, cannot be properly subjects of pride10 and certainly not of esteem from others. As Hume makes clear, among the subjects of pride is, of course, virtue. So, as a first pass, Hume straightforwardly declares that virtue is rare; for, if it were common, it would hardly be considered valuable.11 Hume further explains that subjects of pride are only valuable when rare by comparing pride with joy. Hume tells us that pride requires two objects: the cause that produces pleasure (the “subject” of pride) and the self, which is the “real object” of the passion. Joy, meanwhile, only requires one object, namely that which gives pleasure. For example, I feel joy in drinking a nice beer. This is related to the self because I am the one drinking beer. But the object of joy is not the self, so it matters not that many people enjoy drinking beer or are doing so at this moment. Pride, however, does have self as object, so we are naturally going to consider how our self compares with others and whether we really are distinguished by the thing we wish to take pride in. Hume then observes that since “pride has in a manner two objects, to which it directs our view; it follows, that where neither of them have any singularity, the passion must be more weaken’d upon that account, than a passion, which has only one object” (T 2.1.6.5). This makes pride very “delicate,” Hume insists, which is to say that it is fragile or easily destroyed. Characteristics that are fragile are uncommon. It is difficult, in other words, to possess virtue, not because there is some intrinsic difficulty in being virtuous such that it requires skill and practice (in the same sense that it is difficult to be a brain surgeon) but because the very mark of virtue is comparative (quite unlike brain surgery).12 Hume’s point, then, is a simple one: what gives us pride is something that distinguishes us. In making this observation, he is highlighting the extent to which we judge the value of things by comparison. He says repeatedly that we judge value more by comparison than by a thing’s intrinsic worth or merit (T 2.1.6.4, 2.1.8.8, 2.2.8.2, 2.2.8.8, 3.3.2.4). Our tendency to judge by comparison is particularly strong when it comes to the way our passions operate. “Comparison,” Hume writes, “is in every case a sure method of augmenting our esteem of any thing” (T 2.1.10.12; see also 2.1.11.18, 2.2.8.7–12, 3.2.10.5, 3.3.2). We see this obviously in the way that people will brag about, or at least try to distinguish themselves with, that which they take pride in. Hume writes, Every thing belonging to a vain [i.e. proud] man is the best that is any where to be found. His houses, equipage, furniture, cloaths, horses,

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hounds, excel all others in his conceit . . . His wine, if you’ll believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his servants more expert; the air, in which he lives, more healthful; the soil he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier and to greater perfection. (T 2.1.10.2) Hume’s considered view is that we simply cannot get away from judging by comparison, and subjects of pride are paradigmatic examples of this. Now, I have been applying Hume’s remarks in 2.1.6, where Hume discusses the limitations on pride, to virtue. Hume does not discuss virtue explicitly in this section, but it is obvious to readers of Hume why pride and virtue are so closely annexed. He remarks, for example, that “perhaps the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon the human mind” is their connection to love and pride, hatred and humility (T 3.1.2.5; see also 3.3.1.3). Indeed, virtue and vice are, Hume says, “the most obvious cases” of the indirect passions of pride and humility (T 2.1.7.2). The first example of the subject of pride and humility that Hume details is virtue and vice in section 2.1.7, and this is the section that immediately follows his discussion of the limitations on pride, including the rarity or peculiarity limitation that concerns us here. So the application to virtue seems straightforward and fair (though I will consider objections later in the chapter). Hume repeats the direct reason to think virtue is rare in his later work. In the Enquiry, Hume says that only a “distinction between one man and another” can be a source of pride and humility and follows this by saying that we perpetually compare ourselves with others (EPM 6.28 n. 33; see also EPM 6.18, 8.7, App. 3.2, App. 4.4). In one of his essays Hume writes: The honourable appellations of wise and virtuous, are not annexed to any particular degree of those qualities of wisdom and virtue; but arise altogether from the comparison we make between one man and another. When we find a man, who arrives at such a pitch of wisdom as is very uncommon, we pronounce him a wise man: So that to say, there are few wise men in the world, is really to say nothing; since it is only by their scarcity, that they merit that appellation. (EMPL 83)13 It should be clear here that Hume’s remarks about wisdom apply equally to virtue—that virtue, like wisdom, is not merely uncommon but, as he notes, “very uncommon” and this is so because virtue is comparative. Hume is saying that a person might have the character trait of courage, say, to the nth degree, and that placed in one context, where many of his peers have courage close to the nth degree, his trait will not be viewed

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as a virtue but placed in a different context, where many of his peers have courage far below the nth degree, his courage will count as a virtue. Virtue is, on Hume’s view, something that distinguishes the agent who possesses it. Because Hume believes that pride—and therefore virtue—arises by comparison, we can apply the same lesson to the vices. An agent cannot feel humility for something unless it is in fact rare or uncommon. Disease, for example, cannot be a cause of humility. Vice, however, is a cause of humility precisely because we think agents are deserving of humility and guilty of vice when they are distinguished in this particular from others. Hume explains: There is no man, who, on particular occasions, is not affected with all the disagreeable passions, fear, anger, dejection, grief, melancholy, anxiety, & c. But these, so far as they are natural, and universal, make no difference between one man and another, and can never be the object of blame. It is only when the dispositions give a propensity to any of these disagreeable passions, that they disfigure the character, and by giving uneasiness, convey the sentiment of disapprobation to the spectator. (EPM 7.2 n. 35, emphasis Hume’s) No one who, on some occasions, is affected by anger is accused of a vicious anger; it is only the person who is consistently angry in such a way that the agent is distinguished from others. Hume’s view, then, is that the rarity of virtue in part explains the ability of virtue to excite what he thinks is naturally attendant on it, namely pride. This is the principled or direct reason to think that virtue is not diffuse. The second reason is what I’m calling the cumulative case, where Hume makes a number of disparate remarks that add up to the conclusion that virtue is uncommon. Moreover, this second reason stands as an outline of an explanation as to why it is that virtue tends to distinguish us from others. To substantiate this cumulative case in a detailed way would take a work apart, but we can get a general sense of how this case proceeds nevertheless. I start with the significance of Hume’s sentimentalism, which helps to explain how so few people are capable of distinguishing themselves by acting virtuously. As every casual reader of Hume knows, Hume believes that morality is more properly felt than judged of (T 3.1.2.1). The moral evaluations that we make (John is courageous, helping at the soup kitchen is generous) are a matter of feeling and not of reason. Hume dubs these judgments “moral sentiments” and further explains that these sentiments arise from a principle in human nature that he calls “sympathy” (T 3.3.1). The rough idea is that we feel that helping at the soup kitchen is virtuous, for example, because we sympathetically experience

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the pleasure that recipients of the soup experience. These good feelings cause us to approve of helping at a soup kitchen, counting it as virtuous (or, more properly, helping at a soup kitchen reflects a trait of generosity in the person who helps, and this trait we count as virtuous by a similar mechanism of approval). Now, Hume seems to work into this account of moral sentiments and the sympathy on which they are founded that they are motivationally weak, particularly in light of our self-interested passions, which Hume finds to be dominant. Hume’s view is that even if we get the right moral sentiments, these sentiments very rarely translate into actions that are virtuous.14 The moral sentiments that are founded on sympathy are so weak and gentle that Hume believes we are likely to confuse them for ideas of reason (T 3.1.2.1). This puts them in a bad position relative to our self-interested affections. Sympathy is “much fainter than our concern for ourselves,” Hume writes (T 3.3.3.2).15 More directly: “My sympathy with another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when any object is presented, that has a tendency to give him uneasiness;” writes Hume, “tho’ I may not be willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest, or cross any of my passions, for his satisfaction” (T 3.3.1.23; see also 3.3.1.18). As he also observes, “the notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to overcome them” (T 2.3.4.5; see also T 3.2.2.24). Because we are weak-willed in this way, when we do act virtuously, it will be something that distinguishes us. Hume says that the principle of sympathy is “too weak to control our passions; but has sufficient force to influence our taste, and give us the sentiments of approbation or blame” (T 3.2.2.24). This claim is repeated later in Book 3 when Hume discusses sympathy more thoroughly with respect to both the artificial and natural virtues: “Sentiments must touch the heart, to make them control our passions: But they need not extend beyond the imagination to make them influence our taste” (T 3.3.1.23). Hume says that all human beings receive pleasure from the happiness of others and displeasure at the misery of others; but he follows this comment by noting that “they are only the more generous minds, that are thence prompted to seek zealously the good of others, and to have a real passion for their welfare.” Sympathy, in many cases, Hume says, “goes not beyond a slight feeling of the imagination” which is sufficient to give spectators certain moral sentiments, but not motives (EPM 6.3 n. 26). It is sometimes claimed that even though Hume makes the moral sentiments motivationally weak in the Treatise, he describes them as quite powerful in the Enquiry (Abramson 2000).16 Hume does acknowledge in the Enquiry that “moral differences” can have a “considerable influence” (EPM 5.42; cf. EPM 9.9), but the context of this quotation seems to indicate that this influence appears to be principally at the level of public discourse. He discusses how moral sentiments influence “society and conversation” and “serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit,

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on the theatre, and in the schools” (EPM 9.9). He does not seem to be remarking here that moral sentiments have the ability to control or regulate or overpower our self-interested affections. In fact, he repeats in this same paragraph that sympathy is “much fainter than our concern for ourselves” (EPM 5.42; see also EPM 5.16). The idea that Hume observes the weakness of moral sentiments can be buttressed against a number of other remarks that imply human beings rarely perform virtuous behavior. For example, Hume speaks frequently of generosity’s “limited” character, indicating its relative weakness in human nature (e.g., T 3.3.1.23). When he considers in Treatise 3.1 the question whether virtue is natural, he notes that in the sense of “natural” that means common (or as he says, “as opposed to what is unusual”), “perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural” (T 3.1.2.10). He remarks causally that human beings “commonly” are “unjust and violent” (T 2.3.6.4). Thus, Hume has a pretty skeptical view of the diffusion of virtue, expecting us normally to act according to our self-interest rather than what virtue dictates.17 Now, given that Hume thinks that virtue does not produce pride unless it is rare, these considerations about Hume’s somewhat low or realistic view of human motives should not be emphasized too much. For, even if human beings were less inclined to act according to self-interest than they are, virtue could still be something that is comparative and therefore virtues would be such that few people possess them. Nevertheless, that Hume believes virtue to be somewhat difficult in light of human nature stands as a supporting reason to hold that he believes virtue is rare. Hume’s view is that virtues are distinguishing features. They are characteristics that set you apart from others. He refers in various places to virtues as qualities that are “shining” and display “eminence” (T 2.1.9.3, 2.2.2.13, 3.3.2.13, EPM 6.26 n. 31, 8.10, App. 4.17). This is in part why Hume is quick to assimilate virtues with talents and natural abilities (T 3.3.4, EPM App. 4). Whether certain qualities are strictly speaking “moral” qualities is less interesting to Hume than whether these qualities display some kind of excellence that an individual has that distinguishes that individual. All in all, a careful reading of the texts suggests that Hume is far from believing that virtue is diffuse. In this way, Hume’s account not only survives the results from social psychology, it anticipates them by observing that most people do not act virtuously.

3. Challenging Rarity If I have not yet convinced you that Hume believes virtue is rare, it is probably because you are thinking of certain passages from Hume that might suggest otherwise. In this section, I examine a number of those passages and try to explain how they are consistent with Hume holding that virtues are rare. I start with some general objections to my interpretation

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of Hume and then turn more specifically to objections against the direct case outlined previously. First, Hume remarks that “if ever there was any thing, which cou’d be call’d natural [in the sense of common or frequent], the sentiments of morality certainly may” (T 3.1.2.8; see also EPM 1.9–10). Hence, it might be thought, Hume expects many people to possess the virtues. However, here we have to distinguish between virtues themselves and moral sentiments. Moral sentiments are the evaluations that we make of agents, their character, and actions: honesty is virtuous, volunteering at the soup kitchen is generous, Donald Trump is dishonest, and so on. Hume traces our ability to make such evaluations to what he also calls the sense of morality or the moral sense. Hume believes this sense is common and universal, that it is a part of human nature. But this does not mean that the possession of the discreet traits we call virtues is likewise common and universal. Having a moral sense is no guarantee that we are virtuous.18 Second, Hume would not believe virtue is rare if he believes most people possess a number of virtues and vices. The idea here is that Hume does seem to believe that it is hard or impossible for people to possess a fully virtuous character (taken as a whole), yet he also seems to allow that people possess a mixed character, consisting of both virtues and vices.19 What reason is there to attribute this view to Hume? For one, Hume mentions the character of Hannibal as having this kind of mixed character: his “great Virtues were balanced by great Vices” (EPM App. 4.17). Yet, Hume does not say anything here about Hannibal’s character being representative of most people. It obviously does not follow from the fact that one person possesses both virtues and vices that many people also have a similar mixed character. Another reason to think Hume believes most people have both virtues and vices is a passage from the History of England. Hume writes, “The character of this prince [Charles I], as that of most men, if not of all men, was mixed; but his virtues predominated extremely above his vices . . .” (HE 5.59.543). This quotation, however, does not entail that most people have a combination of virtues and vices.20 By saying that most people have a “mixed” character, Hume might simply mean that most people have a mix of good traits and bad traits, i.e., traits that dispose people to behave in certain moral ways consistently, whether these fall short from being virtues or vices or not. Indeed, this has to be the way to read this passage, since after attributing vices to Charles I, Hume corrects himself: “his virtues predominated extremely above his vices, or, more properly speaking, his imperfections: For scarce any of his faults rose to that pitch as to merit the appellation of vices.” If Charles I’s character lacks vices but still counts as “mixed”, then there is reason to construe his understanding of “mixed” character pretty broadly.21 Third, it might be thought that (some of) the natural virtues (e.g., parental affection) are not rare, for Hume seems to describe love of children

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and other natural virtues as if they are possessed by many people. Hume says, for example, that a parent’s “natural affection” for his or her child is “the duty of every parent” (T 3.2.1.5). However, Donald Ainslie helpfully distinguishes between a duty and a virtue and observes that Hume names the breach of some natural duties as vicious, but not the keeping of them as virtuous (T 3.2.5.4). As Ainslie remarks “the rare occurrence of parental neglect is a vice, while the common occurrence of parental affection and care is a duty, not a virtue” (2007: 105 n. 31). One does not earn any moral credit for taking care of one’s children (e.g., one does not feel pride for doing so), even though this is something one ought to do. It is striking that in Hume’s discussion in 3.1.1 where he denies moral distinctions are derived from reason and insists “morality” is an “active principle,” he not merely refers to virtues as the things that are compelling moral behavior, but also he commonly uses terms like duties, the opinions of justice or injustice, the merit and demerit of actions, conscience, a sense of morals, and so forth. We can be reminded here that Hume’s moral theory does not revolve entirely around virtue as the focal concept. There are other important moral features that are to be distinguished from virtue. Fourth, it might also be thought that the artificial virtues are not rare, since compliance with justice is required for social stability. If such compliance were rare, the whole system would be threatened. However, again I follow a distinction from Ainslie between a minimal notion of justice as compliance with the conventions, which is common, and a stronger sense of justice as a virtue, which Hume believes is uncommon.22 A person distinguished by the trait of justice would not merely follow the conventions, but would do so, for example, when it comes at great cost to himself. Or, in terms of contemporary psychology, he would do so when situational features encourage him to act in ways that are inconsistent with justice. Similar remarks would hold about the virtues of honesty and chastity. Ainslie’s observation about compliance with conventions versus justice as a virtue can be supported by the idea that there is a range of human psychology that falls short of virtue. In other words, Hume seems to support the idea that virtue is a threshold concept, i.e., that a given character trait must meet some minimal standards before it qualifies as a specific virtue. An agent might fall short of genuinely possessing a virtue, but may still partially possess a trait relevant to the virtue in a way that enables her sometimes to perform acts that are consistent with virtuous behavior. As with Aristotle, it is not the case that only a virtuous agent performs virtuous acts (though perhaps only a virtuous agent genuinely performs a fully virtuous act). An agent might perform acts consistent with justice but not at the level as someone who genuinely possesses the virtuous trait of justice. Hume seems to allow various levels of action consistent with virtue that nevertheless falls short of the possession of virtue when he describes, for example, a man who performs acts of gratitude not

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from a possession of the virtue but merely “from a certain sense of duty” (T 3.2.1.8). The motive for conforming with acts of justice similarly might be a matter of the agent being motivated by a fear of punishment, for example.23 Similarly, Hume willingly attributes “good qualities” to common people such as “an easy friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father” without stating that these count as virtues properly speaking (T 3.3.3.9). Sometimes, we might be inclined to attribute “virtues” to such people out of habit or as a kind of shortcut for saying their behavior is morally praiseworthy, but properly speaking, such people could not be said to possess virtues genuinely if their traits do not pass the relevant minimal threshold. When I claim in this chapter that Hume believes virtue is rare, my concern is with genuine virtues or virtues properly speaking, and not this loose characterization that enables some virtuous behavior in some contexts. Another reason to believe Hume possesses this threshold concept of virtue is that he also adopts it for vices. We saw this, for example, with the figure of Charles I, whose character was such that the traits that disposed him to perform certain blameworthy actions did not rise to the level of being vices but rather “faults” or “imperfections.” Hume has this same threshold idea in the Treatise, where certain passions are “disagreeable” but they do not rise to the level of “vices”; (we allow a certain degree of anger, for example, because disagreeable passions are so common, being “inherent in our very frame and constitution”) (T 3.3.3.7–8; see also 3.3.4.10, EPM 7.2 n. 35). Hume’s notion of moral education can also show how he adopts the idea that a person’s character can fall short of virtue or vice but be on the road to one or the other. Perhaps complying with demands of justice, for example, is a natural prerequisite for possessing the virtue of justice, which is more rigorous and distinguishing. Consider Hume’s remark “taste, as it gives pleasure or pain, and thereby constitutes happiness or misery, becomes a motive to action, and is the first spring or impulse to desire and volition” (EPM App. 1.21). Here, he expresses something of an internalist view—having a moral sentiment is a moral motive to perform the action that is approved. But it may be a weak moral motive and so unreliable, commonly defeated in particular by our strong selfish desires. Yet this moral sentiment, however, weak, can give rise, perhaps over time, to “desire and volition” where the virtuous action is performed habitually. This means that Hume would allow something like (limited) progress toward attaining virtue along the lines of traditional (Aristotelian) virtue ethics.24 Hume at several points acknowledges ways in which character traits fluctuate according to their proximity to or degree of virtue and vice. First, he observes that virtues and vices can be close to one another and run into each other (T 2.2.3.2, 3.2.6.7, 3.3.3.9; EPM 7.10 n. 42, HE 5.49.122). Virtues and vices can have “excesses” and “just proportions”

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(T 3.3.2.1). Second, he allows the notion of virtue and vice as threshold concepts, described previously. This threshold idea is also implied in Hume’s notion of moral education, where an agent makes progress in such a way that he develops the virtues. For example, in “The Skeptic,” Hume writes: Let a man propose to himself the model of a character, which he approves: Let him be well acquainted with those particulars, in which his own character deviates from this model: Let him keep a constant watch over himself, and bend his mind, by a continual effort, from the vices, towards the virtues; and I doubt not but, in time, he will find, in his temper, an alteration for the better. (EMPL 170)25 One gets the impression here that character is a kind of scale, running from vice to virtue and neither in between. It is possible (but difficult) for one to move away from vice and toward virtue until one’s character trait satisfies the minimal conditions of being a virtue. Third, he believes that even when one possesses a virtue, that virtue can be possessed strongly or weakly. That is, virtues are continuous traits; they come in degrees. For example, he remarks that political rulers “may have either a greater or less degree of ambition, capacity, courage, popularity” (EMPL 46, see also, e.g., T 2.3.1.15, 2.3.3.10, 3.1.1.13, 3.2.8.7, 3.3.2.14, 3.3.4.3, EHU 8.7).26 All of this suggests that traits relevant to moral behavior are fluid things in Hume’s mind. They bleed into each other, they can be held strongly or weakly, and they are associated with meriting certain kinds of descriptions but not others. The significance of this is that there are a number of different ways agents can possess traits that exhibit morally relevant behavior, but not possess a virtue (or perhaps only partially possess a virtue).27 I turn now to objections against the direct reason for thinking that Hume holds virtue to be uncommon. These objections stem mostly from recent work by Lorraine Besser, who proposes a number of reasons to believe that we should dismiss Hume’s limitation on pride that its object be something peculiar to us (Besser-Jones 2010). Besser describes Hume’s limitation as a “peculiarity requirement” (and Ainslie describes it as a “rarity requirement” (2007: 106)), even though Hume does not use the word “requirement” to explain that what gives us pride is rare or peculiar. Thinking of this limitation as a requirement is misleading, I suggest, because, given the connection between pride and virtue, it sounds as if the rarity of virtue is built into the concept or definition of virtue itself. Yet Hume is clear in his pronouncement on the nature of virtue that virtue is “a quality of the mind agreeable to or approved of by every one, who considers or contemplates it” (EPM 8.0, n. 50). This definition leaves open the possibility that, as a matter of fact, we approve of qualities that

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most people have. However, Hume believes that, as an empirical matter, we do not approve of such qualities. Instead, we only approve of qualities that distinguish the agents who have them as somehow unique. Hence, Hume’s limitation on pride, that its object is something that distinguishes us, is a descriptive claim and not a normative one. The claim that we should dismiss or even modify Hume’s peculiarity limitation is one that necessarily has trouble dealing with Hume’s texts. As we saw in Section 2, Hume explicitly details this limitation. In the section of the Treatise where he does this (T 2.1.6), Hume mentions several different limitations, but he gives the peculiarity limitation the most space. Hume spends about half of that space providing an explanation for why the peculiarity limitation holds (T 2.1.6.5). Moreover, he repeats the peculiarity limitation in other contexts, applying it to various priderelevant situations several times (T 2.1.8.8, 2.1.9.8, EPM 6.28 n. 33). And he repeats even more the idea that we commonly judge by comparison (more than by a thing’s intrinsic value) (T 2.1.6.4, 2.1.8.8, 2.1.10.12, 2.1.11.18, 2.2.8, 2.2.10.8, 3.2.10.5, 3.3.2). He repeats the peculiarity limitation again in A Dissertation on the Passions, published nearly 20 years after the Treatise (DP 2.43–45). So denying that the subject of pride be peculiar to ourselves is to disagree with Hume’s texts as they stand. Nevertheless, we should consider whether there are other parts of Hume’s moral theory that seem to fit awkwardly with the peculiarity limitation, such that perhaps he was not so committed to it as the texts suggest. One might think that Hume ignores or disregards the limitation when he describes certain subjects of pride. For example, Hume says that property and country give us pride, but these do not seem to be common with only a few.28 I think, however, we have to be mindful of Hume’s purposes in the context of his writing. He is most keen to show in the first two parts of Book 2 that pride, humility, love, and hatred are produced by a double relation of impressions and ideas. Frequently he makes this point without insisting on the limitations in 2.1.6, but that does not mean he has abandoned them. So when Hume says that one’s country, say, can be a source of pride, he might mean that this is so only in certain contexts, such as when one is traveling to another country or when one is dwelling on the inferiority of other countries. When Hume says one’s house can give one pride, he does not mean that every person who owns a house is proud of his house. Instead, the house becomes a source of pride when one is around others who don’t own a house or when the house is particularly distinguished, such as when it is beautiful, a circumstance Hume explicitly refers to throughout his discussion of how the double relation causes pride. Annette Baier claims that Hume dispenses with his peculiarity limitation when it comes to pride in virtue because he writes “a man of sense and merit is pleas’d with himself, independent of all foreign considerations” (T 3.3.2.7) (1991: 270). I agree that this passage poses an apparent

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challenge to my reading. But it should be pointed out that it is a singular passage in that it goes against so much of what Hume writes elsewhere, such as that we constantly judge by comparison and that we consider the opinions of others especially when it comes to our character (see, e.g., T 2.1.11.9, 3.2.2.24, DP 2.33, EMPL 86, EPM 9.10–11). Indeed, even in the same section of the Treatise that Hume makes his singular remark about foreign considerations, he tells us that “no one can well distinguish in himself betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain, that his esteem of his own merit is well-founded” (T 3.3.2.10, Hume’s emphasis). Given this, Hume’s remark about being pleased independent of foreign considerations may just mean that individuals whose pride is well-founded do not dwell on those with inferior characters in the way that individuals whose pride is ill-founded do. This reading of the passage would be consistent with not lifting the peculiarity limitation. Another objection against the peculiarity limitation is that it makes Hume’s account of virtue highly contingent: whether you have a virtue will depend on certain features outside of your control, such as how many people around you have that same quality.29 For example, two individuals can have the same level of courage and only one deemed to be virtuous because those around the courageous agent, as a whole, tend not to be very courageous. However, this objection does not itself challenge the view that virtue is rare; instead it only challenges a consequence of that view—namely if virtue is rare in the way Hume says it is, possession of the virtues will be highly contingent. If we take this to be a reductio, we would need more of an account of why contingency is a problem. I am inclined to bite the bullet: Hume’s view of virtue is highly contingent, and this falls out of his sentimentalism. Hume believes that a virtue is a trait that gives people a certain pleasure by contemplating it (T 3.1.2.5, 3.2.8.8, 3.3.1.3; EPM 8.0, n. 50, App. 1.10; EMPL 486). In this way, virtue depends, by its nature, on the judgments of people and not on anything like intrinsic goodness or a doctrine of the mean, as a more traditional virtue ethic might propose.30 This is just what we would expect from someone who takes his sentimentalism seriously. As we saw in Section 2, Hume acknowledges that we can judge the worth of things intrinsically, i.e., independently of comparison. If a quality of the mind has an intrinsic worth or value, then it would stand to reason that its worth does not depend on comparisons or other contingent circumstances (Besser-Jones 2010: 178–9). But this objection assumes, wrongly, that virtues for Hume are something of intrinsic worth or value. Hume denies this. One might have a quality of the mind that is intrinsically valuable, but still not have a virtue, for virtues are qualities that are approved by everyone (or at least by most people), and Hume observes that most people do not approve of a quality unless it is unique or distinctive. We should be careful not to confuse the issue of possessing a quality of the mind that is valuable with a quality of the mind that is a virtue.

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The contingency feature of Hume’s moral theory can perhaps be more easily accepted if we keep in mind the earlier point about virtue being a threshold concept. If one possesses a trait that enables one to perform some courageous acts, but that trait still does not properly count as the virtue of courage, then this trait can still be generally praiseworthy and useful to the possessor of the trait. In short, possessing traits that have a positive moral valence and approach virtues are still good for you. We see this if we compare such subvirtuous traits to health—health will not distinguish one enough to allow one to feel pride (according to Hume), but it is still better to have health than not to have health, for the simple reason that health is useful. Similarly, it is better to perform acts of gratitude from a sense of duty than not to perform such acts at all. Moreover, when we come across unusual traits that count as virtues in Hume’s book, such as cleanliness, politeness, or cheerfulness, we might be tempted to think that these are very common indeed. But there are surely gradations of these traits; it may be that Hume is imagining the virtue of “cleanliness” applying only to exceptionally clean people. People who are moderately clean nevertheless produce some kind of pleasing sentiment. For Hume, “intrinsic worth and value” gets cashed out in terms of qualities being useful or agreeable. It is appropriate to add, here, that contrary to some commentators’ claims, Hume does not say that any trait that is useful is a virtue.31 When Hume appears to say something like this, he is actually giving an explanation for why some qualities provoke approval. Nevertheless, it is the nature of virtue that it is pleasing and esteemed. This leaves the door open for some traits to be valuable and useful even though they may not be esteemed as virtues. A final objection against the direct reason for virtue’s rarity is that Hume links virtue to pride necessarily—and so apparently independently of any peculiarity of virtue. Besser contends that Hume’s claim about virtue causing pride in its possessor is one reason to think that he rejects the peculiarity of virtue and insists on the need to establish a non-comparative basis for pride. Virtue and vice, writes Hume, “must necessarily be place’d either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions [pride and humility; love and hatred]” (T 3.1.2.5, Besser’s emphasis; 2010: 179). The idea is supposed to be that if virtue must give rise to pride when an agent possesses virtue, then virtue is not required to be uncommon or distinguishing. But this puts the cart before the horse. If we are granting that an agent possesses virtue, then we are already granting that the agent possesses an uncommon quality, given Hume’s discussion in 2.1.6 (and elsewhere). To say that this uncommon quality must cause pride is to say nothing about how diffuse it is. In this final section, I have tried to explain away certain passages that could be read as inconsistent with Hume’s belief in the rarity of virtue. Hume’s considered view is that genuinely possessing a virtue is a

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distinguishing feature of a person’s character. In making this argument I have in some ways drawn Hume’s virtue ethics much closer to Aristotle’s. This should not be read as an attempt to say that Hume is an “Aristotelian virtue ethicist,” for we still have the moral sentiments, the strong contingency, and the weakening (or elimination) of reason’s role in morality. Moreover, Aristotle’s account of virtue is not fundamentally comparative in the way that Hume’s is. Nevertheless, when Hume speaks of virtues, there is no reason he can’t help himself to some of Aristotle’s ideas. And this is to Hume’s benefit especially when those ideas are reasonable, such as the idea that virtue is uncommon.32

Notes 1. See, e.g., Reed (2016) and Miller (2014, ch. 8). 2. It is true that some studies show many people engaging in virtuous behavior, but these are either studies that tend not to have any situational features that might compel them to act otherwise (e.g., Clark and Word 1974) or they are studies where the regular virtuous behavior seems to depend on situational features (e.g., Baron 1997); either way, these studies hardly suggest that most people possess genuine virtues. 3. For more on moral licensing, see, e.g., Blanken et al. (2015) and Merritt et al. (2010). A related compensatory moral behavior is “moral cleansing,” where agents engage in a morally good behavior in order to cleanse themselves of a perceived immoral behavior; see, e.g., Sachdeva et al. (2009). 4. See, e.g., Baron (1997), Mathews and Canon (1975), Carlson et al. (1988), Darley and Batson (1973), Cann and Blackwelder (1984) and Cunningham et al. (1980). 5. In addition to the situationists, one should also consult Miller (2013) for an extended, careful argument for this thesis. 6. For helpful discussion and a long list of authors who make this claim, see Miller (2014, ch. 8). Supposing that a theory of virtue is not committed to the widespread possession of virtues does not necessarily mean that the challenge from situationism is completely overcome. For example, there is some question about whether, if virtue is rare, the theory is psychologically realistic enough. 7. For a recent helpful account, see Frykholm (2012). 8. Rico Vitz argues in this volume that Hume denies that virtues are consistent across situations. I am not convinced by this because I don’t think the fact that Hume can account for different ways that virtues manifest themselves (according to culture, according to groups, coming in degrees) entails that he rejects consistency. I try to say in what follows why I think Hume does accept that virtues are (more or less) cross-situationally consistent. 9. See also Section 3, where I discuss how virtues are fluid for Hume. 10. I use the term “subject of pride” to mean those things in which agents take pride, such as virtue, beauty, and property. Hume sometimes calls this the “subject” of pride and other times he calls it the “object” of pride. 11. This does not mean that an agent must feel pride for every virtue that she possesses, for she might not even be aware that she possesses a virtue. In this kind of case, though, others who esteem her virtue (unbeknownst to her) do so, according to Hume’s symmetrical account of pride and love/esteem, because her virtue is peculiar. 12. It is in this respect that Hume’s account of the rarity of virtue differs from Aristotle’s account of the rarity of virtue.

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13. It is worth mentioning here that in the context of this quotation, Hume is warning against inferring that the species as a whole is contemptible from the fact that only a few are wise or virtuous. Hence, this supports my earlier remark that Hume does not think the question about the diffusion of virtue is related to a general judgment of our species. 14. Here I am assuming something like an internalist picture. For a different view, see Brown (1988). How exactly moral sentiments translate into action and the relationship between moral sentiments and virtues is left open for purposes of this chapter, though I say a bit more about those issues in Section 3. 15. For more on the dominance of self-interest, see, e.g., T 3.2.1.10–11, 3.2.5.8–9, and 3.2.9.3. 16. There is a larger question here that I must set to one side about the consistency of Hume’s views between the Treatise and the Enquiry. 17. This does not mean, please note, that he is a Hobbesian, for he allows that there are certain cases in which we act purely for the good of others (namely, when our acting from our own self-interest is not relevant; see T 3.2.5.8; EPM 5.39–40). 18. For more on the relationship between moral sentiments and virtues, see Russell (2006) and Reed (2017). 19. See Russell (2013, 100). As far as I can tell, the only reason that Russell provides to think Hume believes most people possess both virtues and vices is the example of Hannibal. 20. Even if this interpretation were wrong and Hume does believe most people possess some virtues and vices, this could in fact still be consistent with the main thesis of my chapter that for every virtue considered by itself, few people possess it; each person has a handful of virtues (and vices) that distinguishes that person from others. 21. Hume does not deny that, for Charles I, his “virtues” properly speaking fell short of being genuine virtues; nevertheless we know that, because of what he says about vices, he has the concept that people can have traits that fall short of deserving the name “vice” or “virtue.” I further discuss this idea of virtue as a threshold concept later in the chapter. 22. See T 2.3.6.4 and T. 3.2.9.3 (Ainslie 2007, 107, n. 33). 23. Some will object here that this point cuts against Hume’s idea that an action’s quality depends upon durable principles of the mind (T 3.3.1.4). However, the agent who acts outwardly according to virtue might still possess a trait that is a durable principle of the mind, which allows the agent to be responsible for the action, but given that the agent lacks the full or genuine possession of virtue, the action cannot be considered truly virtuous, properly speaking. Others will object that an action that is outwardly consistent with virtue but not performed from a virtuous motive or principle does not have merit according to Hume’s view expressed in 3.2.1. This is a complicated matter that I discuss in some detail in Reed (2012a). 24. See, e.g., Reed (2017), Paxman (2015), Frykholm (2012), and Baier (1991). 25. For more on the development of virtue, see also, e.g., T 3.2.1.8, 3.2.2.25–26, 3.3.4.4; Reed (2017). 26. What further supports the idea that virtue comes in degrees is Hume’s belief that the indirect passions also come in degrees; see, e.g., T 2.2.2.22–25 and 2.2.10.7. 27. One might worry that relying on traits that are something less than virtues, as I interpret Hume to do, is still something that is contradicted by situationism (since these traits would also be global traits). However, I believe that the apparent situationist claim that all global traits are suspect is much less persuasive than the attack on virtues (as a species of global traits) specifically; on this point, see esp. Miller (2013).

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28. Alison McIntyre claims that Hume’s limitations “do not seem to be in force in Treatise 2.1.9 and 2.1.10, where the foreign and extrinsic causes of pride are discussed” (2014: 156; see also Besser-Jones 2010: 179). This is in fact mistaken, at least with respect to the peculiarity limitation; Hume says that traveling to a foreign country can be a source of pride “considering how few there are who have done the same” (T 2.1.9.8). And Hume has the limitation in mind when he discusses how a man imagines his property to “excel all others in his conceit” (T 2.1.10.2). 29. For this view, see, e.g., Besser-Jones (2010), Ainslie (2007), and Gill (2006: 265–6). 30. I say more about this social determination of character in Reed (2012c). 31. For commentators who claim this, see, e.g., Driver (2004), Crisp (2005), Hursthouse (1999), and Shaver (1995). For more argument against this view, see, e.g., Reed (2012b). 32. I delivered an earlier version of this chapter at the 44th Annual International Hume Society Conference in Providence, Rhode Island (July 2017). I thank my commentator there, Lorraine Besser, and members of the audience for helpful feedback. I also thank Lorraine Besser, Lorenzo Greco, and Rico Vitz for generous and insightful comments on an earlier draft.

References Abramson, Kate. 2000. “Sympathy and the Project of Hume’s Second Enquiry.” Archiv Für Geschichte Der Philosophie 83 (1): 45–80. Ainslie, Donald. 2007. “Character Traits and the Humean Approach to Ethics.” In Moral Psychology (Poznan Studies in the Philosophy of the Sciences and the Humanities, Vol. 94), edited by Sergio Tenenbaum, 79–110. New York: Rodopi. Alfano, Mark. 2013. Character as Moral Fiction. New York: Cambridge University Press. Baier, Annette C. 1991. A Progress of Sentiments: Reflections on Hume’s Treatise. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Baron, Robert A. 1997. “The Sweet Smell of .  .  . Helping: Effects of Pleasant Ambient Fragrance on Prosocial Behavior in Shopping Malls.” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 23 (5): 498–503. Besser-Jones, Lorraine. 2010. “Hume on Pride-in-Virtue: A Reliable Motive?” Hume Studies 36: 171–92. Blanken, Irene, Niels van de Ven, and Marcel Zeelenberg. 2015. “A Meta-Analytic Review of Moral Licensing.” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 41 (4): 540–58. Brown, Charlotte. 1988. “Is Hume an Internalist?” Journal of the History of Philosophy 26 (1): 69–87. Cann, Arnie, and Jill Goodman Blackwelder. 1984. “Compliance and Mood: A Field Investigation of the Impact of Embarrassment.” The Journal of Psychology 117 (2): 221–6. Carlson, M., V. Charlin, and N. Miller. 1988. “Positive Mood and Helping Behavior: A Test of Six Hypotheses.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 55 (2): 211–29. Clark, Russell D., and Larry E. Word. 1974. “Where Is the Apathetic Bystander? Situational Characteristics of the Emergency.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 29 (3): 279–87.

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Crisp, Roger. 2005. “Hume on Virtue, Utility, and Morality.” In Virtue Ethics Old and New, edited by Stephen Gardiner, 159–78. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Cunningham, Michael, Jeff Steinberg, and Rita Grev. 1980. “Wanting to and Having to Help: Separate Motivations for Positive Mood and Guilt-Induced Helping.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 38: 181–92. Darley, John, and Daniel Batson. 1973. “‘From Jerusalem to Jericho’: A Study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 27: 100–8. Doris, John. 2002. Lack of Character: Personality and Moral Behavior. New York: Cambridge University Press. Driver, Julia. 2004. “Pleasure as the Standard of Virtue in Hume’s Moral Philosophy.” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 85: 173–94. Frykholm, Erin. 2012. “The Ontology of Character Traits in Hume.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 42 (Supplement 1): 82–97. Frykholm, Erin. 2015. “A Humean Particularist Virtue Ethic.” Philosophical Studies: An International Journal for Philosophy in the Analytic Tradition 172 (8): 2171–91. Gill, Michael B. 2006. The British Moralists on Human Nature and the Birth of Secular Ethics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Greco, Lorenzo. 2013. “Toward a Humean Virtue Ethics.” In Aristotelian Ethics in Contemporary Perspective, edited by Julia Peters, 210–23. New York: Routledge. Haney, Craig, Curtis Banks, and Philip Zimbardo. 1973. “Interpersonal Dynamics of a Simulated Prison.” International Journal of Criminology and Penology 1: 69–97. Harman, Gilbert. 1999. “Moral Philosophy Meets Social Psychology: Virtue Ethics and the Fundamental Attribution Error.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 99: 315–31. Hartshorne, Hugh, and Mark A. May. 1928. Studies in the Nature of Character, vol. 1. New York: Macmillan. Hume, David. 1985. Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary, edited by Eugene F. Miller. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Hume, David. 1998. An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hume, David. 1999. An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. New York: Oxford University Press. Hume, David. 2000. Treatise of Human Nature, edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hume, David. 2007. A Dissertation on the Passions; The Natural History of Religion, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. New York: Oxford University Press. Hursthouse, Rosalind. 1999. “Virtue Ethics and Human Nature.” Hume Studies 25: 67–82. Mathews, Kenneth E., and Lance Kirkpatrick Canon. 1975. “Environmental Noise Level as a Determinant of Helping Behavior.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 32 (4): 571–7. Mazar, Nina, and Chen-Bo Zhong. 2010. “Do Green Products Make Us Better People?” Psychological Science 21 (4): 494–8. McIntyre, Alison. 2014. “Fruitless Remorses: Hume’s Critique of the Penitential Project of the Whole Duty of Man.” Hume Studies 40 (2): 143–67.

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Merritt, Anna C., Daniel A. Effron, and Benoît Monin. 2010. “Moral Self-Licensing: When Being Good Frees Us to Be Bad.” Social and Personality Psychology Compass 4 (5): 344–57. Milgram, Stanley. 1963. “Behavioral Study of Obedience.” Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology 67: 371–8. Miller, Christian B. 2013. Moral Character: An Empirical Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Miller, Christian B. 2014. Character and Moral Psychology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Paxman, Katharina. 2015. “The Movement of Feeling and the Genesis of Character in Hume.” Res Philosophica, Ethical and Religious Themes in Humean Philosophy 92 (3): 569–93. Reed, Philip A. 2012a. “Motivating Hume’s Natural Virtues.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 42 (S1): 134–47. Reed, Philip A. 2012b. “What’s Wrong With Monkish Virtues?: Hume on the Standard of Virtue.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 29 (1): 39–56. Reed, Philip A. 2012c. “The Alliance of Virtue and Vanity in Hume’s Moral Theory.” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 93 (4): 595–614. Reed, Philip A. 2016. “Empirical Adequacy and Virtue Ethics.” Ethical Theory and Moral Practice 19: 343–57. Reed, Philip A. 2017. “Hume on the Cultivation of Moral Character.” Philosophia 45 (1): 299–315. Russell, Paul. 2006. “Moral Sense and Virtue in Hume’s Ethics.” In Values and Virtues: Aristotelianism in Contemporary Ethics, edited by Timothy Chappell, 158–70. New York: Oxford University Press. Russell, Paul. 2013. “Hume’s Anatomy of Virtue.” In The Cambridge Companion to Virtue Ethics, edited by Daniel C. Russell, 82–123. New York: Cambridge University Press. Sachdeva, Sonya, Rumen Iliev, and Douglas L. Medin. 2009. “Sinning Saints and Saintly Sinners: The Paradox of Moral Self-Regulation.” Psychological Science 20 (4): 523–8. Shaver, Robert. 1995. “Hume’s Moral Theory?” History of Philosophy Quarterly 12 (3): 317–31. Swanton, Christine. 2015. The Virtue Ethics of Hume and Nietzsche. New York: Wiley. Wang, Jing, Tiansheng Xia, Liling Xu, Taotao Ru, Ce Mo, Ting Ting Wang, and Lei Mo. 2017. “What Is Beautiful Brings Out What Is Good in You: The Effect of Facial Attractiveness on Individuals’ Honesty.” International Journal of Psychology 52 (3): 197–204.

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Spontaneity, Intuition, and Humean Virtue Erin Frykholm

As ethical theories have become more responsive to developments in moral psychology in recent years, particular challenges have been raised for theories of virtue. Theories of virtue appeal to the frame of mind of the virtuous agent, her ability to understand a situation and know how to act well in it. However, empirical data indicates that we are often poor observers of our situations, and furthermore that the features of our situations that most reliably lead us to act well appear often to be morally irrelevant. In response, virtue ethicists have begun to reconsider what it means to possess a virtuous trait, and how much control a virtuous agent has over her reliably manifesting that trait when it is called for—that is to say, how reliably she acts virtuously. Two sets of empirical data are pertinent to the moral psychology of virtue ethics. First, there is data that suggests that people do not act reliably virtuously in the ways that we might expect; this is the data from situationists and their philosophical inheritors.1 Second, there is data that indicates that our immediate understanding of our situations, what we might call our intuitive responses, indicates the significant role of affect and non-conscious inference in how we understand the situations in which we find ourselves, and so how we act in them.2 Taking both sets together, it might appear that we have very little rational control over how we perceive our situation and, consequently, how we respond to it. Yet, we commonsensically maintain a strong belief in our ability to change our behavior, or to cultivate traits in ourselves. For a virtue theory to be viable, then, it has to explain what it means to have a trait, and how we go about cultivating traits, in ways consistent with this empirical data. Several philosophers have started making progress along these paths. Even in his skepticism about the widespread existence of traditional3 virtues, Christian Miller has proposed some initial suggestions for becoming more aware of influential situational factors, of priming our response mechanisms in ways that promote virtuous action, and in just being more explicit and forthright about our moral expectations in ways that correlate with better behavior (2014: 230–40). Straightforwardly, virtues are understood as dispositions to act in certain ways; so, we might allow

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suggestions such as those Miller offers to develop the reliability of such a disposition. Yet, we might think that the mechanisms such as priming and reiteration of moral rules, while perhaps effective in generating behavioral results, are not directly connecting with what we thought we were after when we wanted to describe a person as virtuous, or of good character. This robust moral notion seems to include more by way of attribution of internal facts than simply the reliability of output. We want to know what mental conditions are necessary or sufficient for grounding this kind of disposition. Miller is not alone in having these concerns. Philosophers and psychologists studying implicit bias also recognize that our clearest beliefs and aims do not necessarily direct action as we would hope (Frankish 2016; Heubner 2016; Madva 2016; Saul 2013), and that our minds are responsive to immediate associations that do not reflect our considered values. The way to change these biased behaviors is not by thinking more clearly about our values; rather, it is best effected by the kinds of priming that are in line with Miller’s suggestions. If the most reliable virtuous behavior is brought about by this kind of mental manipulation, what can be said for a rational project of aiming to be virtuous? Virtue ethicists are explicitly interested in the psychology of the virtuous agent, but some widely held beliefs about character and virtue initially seem to be at odds with various elements of empirical data on moral psychology. In broad strokes, the following claims seem to be significant for the moral psychology of virtue ethics: (a) people possess robust mental qualities that reliably bring them to act in more or less consistently virtuous (or vicious) ways, (b) these qualities are causally primary at least much of the time in spite of the situational variance of morally irrelevant factors, and (c) we have some reflective control over cultivating and maintaining these traits.4 Further complicating the psychological picture, virtue ethicists also want to maintain an important facility in the virtuous agent to act spontaneously, maintaining that although it is within our control to become virtuous, (d) the virtuous actions of the virtuous agent do not always require, and at times prohibit, an explicit reasoning process in their generation. And yet, the source of this spontaneous virtuous action needs to be located within the agent’s virtue, and not merely in external stimuli. Empirical data suggests that people’s behavior does not reflect robust consistency, that it is considerably causally influenced by morally irrelevant situational factors, and that much of the time our driving motivations are stimulated by automatic and non-conscious mental processes. The suggestions for improving behavior that develops from this empirical data may be promising for generating what appears to be virtuous action, but they are not obviously doing so by connecting up with our usual understanding of robust mental qualities: instead of being rooted in an account of our considered values and moral motivations, they are rooted in the efficacy of explicit rules and standards for

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developing rote habits, and of emotional priming for producing shortterm virtuous responses. It might be true that if we could make a city smell like cinnamon rolls and chicken noodle soup that people would be more likely to be helpful, but this does not obviously make them more virtuous in the traditional sense.5 By defining traits and explaining their operation from a starting point initially sympathetic to empirical moral psychology, which I will argue we can do by looking to Hume, we can recognize a clear role for reference to virtue as normatively significant, and ways of accommodating the psychological claims that virtue ethics seems to require. Accepting this account of virtues, such efficacious suggestions for improving behavior as noted previously can be recognized as, in fact, part of the process of cultivating virtues—and not merely of cultivating good behavior. In this way, the challenge offered by Miller and others highlights an important feature of virtue, giving us reason to develop rather than question its normative significance. My argument will proceed as follows. In Section 1, I present the empirical challenge from Miller and others that people’s behavior is not easily explained by a common conception of virtue, and so these conceptions lack normative force. In Section 2, I offer an account of virtue derived from Hume that is compatible with, and so helps make sense of, the empirical data; however, this account entails that much of our action is automatic and non-conscious, and so it leaves open the question of how we can intentionally cultivate virtues. In Section 3, I discuss recent literature addressing the role of non-conscious and affective responses in directing our action to show that these factors do not necessarily prevent intentional development of traits. Though an account of virtue that is compatible with much of our action being automatic and non-conscious might be empirically appealing, philosophers interested in virtue might worry that it amounts to a very thin account of what it means to possess a virtue. In Section 4, I address an important feature of a more robust account of virtue, which is the ability to act spontaneously rather than merely habitually, and show that on a Humean picture, the mental qualities attributed to the virtuous agent can explain the possibility of spontaneously virtuous action. Finally, in Section 5, I review what it will mean, on this account, to cultivate traits. In spite of the automaticity of our behavior, we can maintain some reflective control over these traits—and thereby some responsibility for them—as a normative virtue ethic would require, but some methods of attempting to cultivate good behavior will be more successful than others in actually cultivating virtuous traits.

1. The Causes of Our Actions—An Empirical Challenge Empirical data suggests that our actions are often the result of a complex interaction of situational features and internal beliefs and feelings

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of which we are often not fully conscious. If being virtuous entails being motivated by particular beliefs or feelings in spite of other conflicting factors, and becoming virtuous involves developing a capacity to act on specific desires or beliefs, then there is immediately some tension between the moral psychology of virtue ethics and apparent facts about why we act as we do. To begin, I will outline the ways in which this data seems to challenge virtue ethics. At the forefront of more recent articulations of character is a theory laid out by Christian Miller in two recent books (2013, 2014). Miller’s account embraces the empirical data noted earlier and poses challenges for traditional conceptions of virtue, though he is sympathetic to attempts to re-conceptualize virtue. He argues that while people have stable “mixed traits,” empirical data cannot account for stable traits in most people that would fit the traditional categories of virtues and vices. A mixed trait is something like a trait that disposes one to be helpful under circumstances that include feeling guilty for a perceived transgression, perceiving an opportunity to relieve guilt by helping someone else, aiming to avoid embarrassment, etc. Most people would have such a trait, and for any individual, the exact circumstances under which these conditions are met will depend on her own personality, which can determine, for example, under which circumstances she would expect to feel better by helping. In other words, the salience of certain features of a situation can vary from one person to another, and so tendencies to help will vary (Miller 2013: ch. 7, 2014: ch. 2). So while Miller argues for stable character traits, he argues against the viability of traditional accounts of virtue by claiming that empirical data does not confirm broad possession of traits that are classically virtuous (wherein someone helps regardless of how she is feeling or other morally irrelevant circumstances), and not only do people not possess such virtues, it is also unclear how the average person would go about cultivating them. He calls this last point the “realism challenge,” suggesting that the traditional bar for virtue does not offer an empirically adequate account of the traits we possess or the ways in which we might develop them (Miller 2014: 210). Miller’s account codifies data from situationists and other psychologists to make a strong case that our actions are the causal result of a complex set of internal triggers, many of which are affective, non-conscious, and quirky. Several questions arise for the virtue ethicist: are there traits that can be identified as traditional virtues, such as honesty or generosity? If so, what does it mean to possess these traits? (That one always acts honestly? That one always acts as the honest person would act? That one values honesty, those who are honest, etc.?) Can anything approximating virtuous traits be productively cultivated by individuals? What would the process of cultivation look like? It may be true that we are naturally inclined to assuage our guilt, look good in the eyes of others, etc., and that we are primed by situational factors such as good smells and stubbed

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toes; but we can also recognize, as Miller does, that these are what we call morally insignificant factors. These things influence our actions, but it is hard to accept that they should be doing the bulk of the work in supporting moral behavior, or that cultivating them entails cultivating virtues. So, Miller’s observations pose a problem for normative theories focused on character: how can we come to behave in ways that are not unduly influenced by these morally insignificant factors? Beyond the scope of virtue ethics, Miller’s account reiterates broad questions for moral psychologists. If these various subconscious or affective drives play a primary role in causing us to act as we do, to what extent can we be said to have conscious control over our actions? In what way, if any, can our reasons play a causal role in directing our actions? As we know, for a moral theory to have normative force, it has to be possible for us to direct our behavior in accordance with its mandates. In Section 3, we will look at recent developments in moral psychology that provide ways to think about how our conscious intentions and our unconscious, automatic responses, can be brought together. First, however, I will outline the picture of virtue that Hume’s texts provide. Hume’s project was clearly psychologically oriented, and the resulting account of what it means to possess a trait will provide a backdrop for understanding the normative significance of these recent developments.

2. A Humean Account of Virtue I am advancing the claim that a Humean account of virtue can help us make sense of this empirical data as consistent with, and even supportive of, an account of virtue. In order to do that, I will say a few things about Hume’s explicit view and its implications. (The view I attribute to Hume here goes beyond the text, and is therefore “Humean” or Humeinspired, but I take it to follow directly from claims Hume makes and so highlight Hume’s texts as a foundation for the position.) First, I note that there is good reason to think that Hume’s view aligns with the account of character Miller proposes while maintaining a central role for virtue, motivating it as a candidate worth considering. Then, I discuss in more detail what it means to possess a trait at all for Hume, and more specifically the conditions under which traits are considered virtuous. The non-traditional account of virtuous motives that results is, I will argue, uniquely suited to engage with the motivational structure suggested by Miller. With all this in view, the following sections discuss its compatibility with further trends in contemporary moral psychology to show that this account maintains the normative significance of virtue. Hume’s primary focus in moral judgment is character. On his view, if actions “proceed not from some cause in the characters and disposition of the person, who perform’d them, they infix not themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil”

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(T 2.3.2.6; SBN 411). By contrast, actions play a role in our judgments only as they indicate a person’s character: “actions render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal passions or principles in the mind” (T 2.3.2.7; SBN 411). Hume’s focus on virtue is not novel, but it is worth noting from the perspective of contemporary critiques that he explicitly recognizes some of the empirical considerations at issue. In particular, he is sensitive to the influence of morally insignificant situational factors in determining our actions. I will quote Hume at length here, for the purpose of recognizing his broader claims. In the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, he writes: The most irregular and unexpected resolutions of men may frequently be accounted for by those, who know every particular circumstance of their character and situation. A person of an obliging disposition gives a peevish answer: But he has the toothake, or has not dined. A stupid fellow discovers an uncommon alacrity in his carriage: But he has met with a sudden piece of good fortune. Or even when an action, as sometimes happens, cannot be particularly accounted for, either by the person himself or by others; we know, in general, that the characters of men are, to a certain degree, inconstant and irregular. This is, in a manner, the constant character of human nature; though it be applicable, in a more particular manner, to some persons, who have no fixed rule for their conduct, but proceed in a continued course of caprice and inconstancy. The internal principles and motives may operate in a uniform manner, notwithstanding these seeming irregularities; in the same manner as the winds, rain, clouds, and other variations of the weather are supposed to be governed by steady principles; though not easily discoverable by human sagacity and enquiry. (EHU 8.15; SBN 88) We see several important claims in this passage. First, factors like one’s mood, or one’s having just had a bout of good luck (perhaps finding a dime in a phone booth (Isen and Patrick 1983)), can directly affect a person’s actions. More broadly, people often act in ways that appear “inconstant and irregular”—that is, even though we attribute behavioral traits to people, they do not always act as those attributions might anticipate. Hume embraces this inconstancy as a normal feature of human behavior. And yet, he also suggests that as regards their mental activity, their “internal principles and motives” are acting in a regular manner in spite of the perceived irregularity. This sounds a lot like Miller’s claims that there are stable traits—that people’s actions track stable principles— but furthermore that the intricacies of these stable traits and how they are affected by non-moral factors can make it appear, from an outside

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perspective, as though a person’s behavior is just irregular. A person may not always be honest, Miller maintains, but she is reliably honest when certain other conditions hold, some of which appeal to facts about her current perceptions or affective states. Hume insists that there is regularity at some level, while recognizing that it is not the kind of regularity that is as apparent as, for example, always being obliging and never being short-tempered. An initial interpretive challenge for establishing robust traits is that on Hume’s view, there is no persisting, stable mind but instead a series of bundles of impressions and ideas that are relevantly similar over time, so persisting mental qualities, as Hume frequently refers to character traits (T 3.3.1.4–5; SBN 575; T 3.3.4.1; SBN 606–7; T 3.3.5.1; SBN 614), must be qualities that are attributable to the constitutive impressions and ideas.6 Though we may not have reason to accept Hume’s account of the mind, taking it as an explanatory starting point brings to light a unique account of traits that we might have independent reason to accept. On Hume’s view, a person has current impressions and ideas formed and developed from past impressions, and all of these have various relations to each other, such as associations between certain songs and certain places, or between one concept and another. Some impressions are passions, which are affective responses to other current impressions, such as desiring a cold drink when we pass a water fountain. Hume maintains that strongly held beliefs can bring ideas of non-present objects so vividly to mind as to draw out the same kinds of affective responses as present impressions do: if I remember that I am around the corner from a water fountain I have seen in the past, this might itself bring me to desire a cold drink (T 1.3.10.3; SBN 119; T 1.3.8.13; SBN 103–4). The ideas brought most vividly to mind, by their association with present impressions, can become motivationally salient ideas. The most vivid ideas come close to present impressions and are “felt” more strongly, so strongly that they can produce passions.7 In this way, the connections between our various ideas can, when strong enough, cause us to act in certain ways.8 It may help to imagine an example of this process. Imagine you are on an airplane and you have just reached cruising altitude. It has been a long day, and you have a long flight ahead of you. You lay your seat back and close your eyes, and no sooner have you done so than you feel kicking at the back of your chair. You sneak a look behind and there is a toddler in the seat behind you. What you do next depends on what ideas come to mind for you. If you remember your last flight when some child behind you was loud and rude the whole time, and you are feeling tired and uncomfortable, you might start glaring at the parent sitting next to the child, indicating that the child ought to be controlled. But if your first thought is of when you traveled with your toddler last month, and how his little legs were forced to be hyperextended in those big seats, naturally coming to rest on the back of the seat in front of him, and feeling tired

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and uncomfortable now you think about what a long day that was, and how exhausted you and your son were, you might instead think that it would give the parent less frustration if you raised your seat back up and gave the child the extra two inches of space, in spite of your discomfort. Either process of thought may pass through your mind only semiconsciously—you feel the aggravation of your last flight, or you might feel the exhaustion of the parent, and without even fully thinking of your next move, you act one way or another. Depending on your present state of mind, your past experience, and your mental patterns, one or another set of ideas is more vividly called to mind. On Hume’s view, repeated experience, education, practiced habits, etc., all play a role in cementing associations of ideas (T 2.2.4.5; SBN 353). These various associations determine which ideas are called to mind, and those called most “vividly” to mind—so as to constitute beliefs—carry the motivational force of passions. Though Hume does not explicitly address what it means to possess a particular trait, this account of mental associations and how they produce actions offers a basic framework for considering the strongest associations, and the motivations produced by them, as constitutive of character traits. Stronger associations (including more frequently triggered associations) will more reliably or more frequently give rise to particular motivations.9 Another important feature of Hume’s view that positions it to engage with contemporary moral psychology is that the source or direction of motivations considered virtuous need not always be a stereotypical “moral” intention (such as benevolence, generosity, etc.). On Hume’s view, the traits we consider as virtuous are “every quality of the mind, which is useful or agreeable to the person himself or to others” (EPM 9.12; SBN 277). The designation of usefulness and agreeableness are descriptive rather than constitutive claims about those traits of which we approve; our approval is primary. In other words, it is not the utility itself that makes them morally praiseworthy, but rather it is the circumstance of our approval (when we occupy a properly unbiased perspective), which considers the effects of a trait and, as it happens, appears to closely track the utility and agreeableness. There is an interpretive question about Hume here that, for the interest of Hume scholars, needs clarification. Since approval is theoretically primary, establishing that a trait is useful is not sufficient to establish it as a virtue, on Hume’s view. We could read this feature of his view in more than one way. We might focus on the question of sentimental approval, treating it as theoretically separable from utility or agreeableness; on this view, it is conceivable that not all approved traits fit the preceding categories. Alternatively, we might think that approval is primary because the preceding criteria are disjointed and can potentially conflict, and how utility to others weighs against agreeableness to oneself, for example, is not a matter of mathematical calculation. We need the moral sentiments

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as bedrock given the complexity of the kinds of things that generally garner approval, and we treat them as theoretically primary not because they might significantly depart from utility and agreeableness but because assessment of these criteria along multiple dimensions is an imprecise endeavor. I discuss the utility and agreeableness of traits as indicators of their potential as virtues in what follows, but this is consistent with the primacy of moral sentiments in determining virtuous traits. There is a question as to whether we might approve of such a trait, but certainly its useful and agreeable effects are important information in formulating the full picture of the trait. Our approval of traits determines their virtue when it arises within the appropriate circumstances. From biased perspectives we might approve of very different traits, but the unbiased perspective of the general point of view, considering a trait and its effects regardless of personal interest, removes us from these conflicts. Hume designates specifically which others are to be taken into account in evaluating the value of a person’s traits: we are to sympathize with those within her “narrow circle” or with whom she has some direct or immediate interaction (T 3.3.3.2; SBN 602–3). Exactly who fits these categories is a matter for longer debate,10 but we can say that the relations a person has to others—as a friend or family member, as a neighbor, as a fellow citizen, etc.—are the foundation for determining virtue. Because Hume’s account focuses on the effects of a particular motivating trait, there may be no necessary criterion that a person be motivated by a traditionally virtuous motive. If, by some complex account of my mental associations, it happens that I am quite likely to be an agreeable neighbor, then it may be that I have a particular virtue of neighborliness.11 For example, if out of my concern for public appearance I obsessively tend my lawn, and if I happen to prefer a comparatively quiet life without loud parties, and if out of some fear of bad karma I obligingly share an egg or a cup of sugar if someone comes to my door to borrow it, it seems I may be considered a virtuous neighbor: my qualities of mind are such that I am useful and agreeable to my neighbors. To the extent that they consider my traits, they would approve. There is no further condition that I actually be concerned with their well-being. I think such an account is initially problematic, and perhaps even implausible, but not because I have failed to directly aim at being a kind neighbor. Rather, taking the Humean perspective seriously, I think it seems unlikely that this complex account of my mental associations that happens to manifest in these ways would obviously translate to my being useful and agreeable in other ways. Keeping in mind the primacy of affective approval on Hume’s view, we might consider whether we would approve of such a set of mental associations, and though in some cases we might, I think in many we might not, and this judgment might be informed by further considerations about their implications in other

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contexts. If I am reticent to think that a deep belief in karma (and fear of bad karma) is constitutive of a virtue, it is not because of its misdirected aims but because I might worry either that it is not more broadly useful and agreeable, or perhaps that it is harmful to its possessor. Whether this set of mental associations that produces these neighborly results is a set of mental qualities of which we would approve, morally speaking, is an empirical matter, but certainly relevant for consideration are its effects along the dimensions Hume outlines. It is, of course, still important that the agent have a “proper motive” (T 3.2.1.2; SBN 477), that is, a motive of which we approve; but which motives these turn out to be is an empirical matter, and not one determined by a preconception about virtue. The possibility of a complex and non-traditional set of mental associations that reliably motivate us in ways of which we would approve is significant because it gives us a different perspective on Miller’s “mixed traits.” Having a consistent trait of helping when I am feeling guilty and when I believe my guilt would be relieved by helping, could potentially be virtuous if it also happened that I strongly felt perpetually guilty and happened to believe that every act of helpfulness went some small way to alleviating my guilt. The fact that the mental associations grounding this stability are not our typical account of moral motives is secondary to whether they make me the kind of person others want to associate with. That said, one might think that the possibility of having to accept such a set of traits as constituting virtue is a reductio of the Humean position, but I think we should not be so quick to make this judgment. There is some reason to think the Humean would not always approve of such a trait as virtuous, and also some reason to accept this judgment with certain qualifications. First, merely having mental traits such that one is reliably helpful does seem to be a useful or agreeable character trait, and so a candidate for moral approval, but there are other traits that, as a consequence of feeling perpetually guilty, might make a person less agreeable (e.g., perhaps she is surly). So we can give her this particular virtue of helpfulness without that being the end of the story about what we aim for in aiming to be virtuous. Furthermore, as a spectator I consider this person’s perpetual guilt, and while I might recognize its utility in one context, I might still disapprove of it, perhaps recognizing how disagreeable it is for its possessor. (That is to say, utility does not entail our approval; our approval is a broader process that often, but not exclusively, tracks utility.) Second, it may be that in some circumstances, this set of mental qualities is sufficient to make a person reliably helpful, and our judgment of her mental associations, given their effects in her narrow circle, would be positive; but, there is a further theoretical question of whether this set of mental associations is the most reliable for any person’s proving to be helpful, generally speaking. That is, if other people encounter much more complex or varied situations in which helpfulness might be

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called for, it is unclear that this set of mental qualities is the best suited to do the work we would need it to do.12 So, there is more than one set of mental qualities that can qualify a person to possess the virtue of helpfulness, but in different contexts, much more robust sets might be more reliably useful and agreeable. For that reason, this rather simplistic story might do enough work in a certain situation, but it might not be a fully satisfactory account of what it means for anyone to have the virtue of helpfulness. This might also suggest that merely educating people to feel perpetually guilty and to believe that helping relieves their guilt is not the best means of ensuring widespread reliable helpfulness. It may still be that cultivating greater concern for the well-being of others is the most reliable means for ensuring helping behavior.13 Regardless of further debates about questionable facts about individuals’ particular triggers or associations, and whether we would approve of all motivational structures that produced certain results, we can at least see a framework for figuring out patterns of behavior and dispositions that are candidates for our moral approval. To possess virtues, on Hume’s view, is to have mental associations strong or broad enough to reliably motivate us in ways that are generally useful or agreeable to those to whom we bear relations. The virtue of generosity, for example, is not the possession of a deep valuation of generosity, or a desire to be generous, but is instead a complex set of associations that bring about motivations to act generously in various circumstances, as it is valuable amongst our relations. Rather than being a component idea in the virtuous agent’s mind, the virtue is a pattern amongst a variety of ideas. A person could in principle possess the virtue of generosity without her having an explicit aim of acting generously, as is true of the neighbor described earlier, though there may be some sets of mental associations that either more reliably or more frequently produce generous actions across a wide range of situations. What we see, though, is that a complex set of mental associations, such as those suggested here, are not constitutively different than what Miller calls a “mixed trait,” but under certain conditions that reinforce these associations, we get not just a mixed trait but a virtuous trait. A person can be a generous neighbor within a certain context, even if it were true that under some other set of circumstances that triggered different associations, her motivations might not be useful or agreeable. The effects within a regular sphere of operation are more salient for moral judgment than effects in irregular circumstances or counterfactual situations. This account of what it means to possess a virtue has some explanatory power for attributing traits to people as well as for explaining their behavior in various situations as exhibiting stable traits or not. Though of course the psychology is frequently complex and subtle, we can at least in principle make sense of what we are looking for in attributing virtues. Various triggers, external and internal—seemingly morally insignificant

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patterns of thought—are all part of the complex set of mental associations that contribute to a person’s having a trait. However, the normative difficulty raised by Miller is only more evident at this point: these kinds of mental associations are largely automatic, and their results affective. We are not consciously tracking the train of thought from an impression to a set of related ideas—these mental processes just seem to occur, rapidly and intuitively. As we might state the problem in Miller’s terms, the features of my circumstances that trigger in me the ideas of alleviating guilt, or of saving face, are not things of which I am, in the moment, consciously aware. They direct my actions in a more automatic way. Even if they are such as to produce frequently generous behavior, it is not clear that I have control over, or am responsible for, possessing this virtue. The next challenge is to see how we might reconcile this fact about ourselves with a meaningful sense of having rational control over our behavior and our character, and to do this I suggest we look to contemporary discussions in moral psychology of the source and influence of non-conscious, automatic mental processes.

3. Intuition and Affect in Moral Psychology Largely independently of this empirical debate about character traits, psychologists and philosophers working on issues of moral psychology have been developing a much better understanding of how our minds direct our actions, and what kinds of subconscious and seemingly irrelevant factors bear the explanatory weight of our actions. It turns out—in part as evidenced by the situationist data—that we do not always act on reasons in the ways that we might expect, and that our actions are often the result of non-conscious mental processes. Even if this is true, however, we like to think that these non-conscious mental processes are not entirely separate from, or unaffected by, our conscious reasons, aims, and values (that is, the features of our minds that need to have a role if we want to make normative demands). Appreciating the role of affective responses, such as attraction, disgust, etc., can play a key role in bridging this gap. In this section, I will outline several ways in which our behavior is understood to be the result of non-conscious, automatic mental processes—including what we often call “intuitions”—but seeing how these processes are articulated indicates that they are not necessarily mental processes over which we have no control, or for which we are not responsible. Understanding how these processes are formed and sustained offers important insight into how we can accept this fact about our minds without abandoning a normative position that focuses on developing virtues. Combining this insight with the Humean account of virtue, wherein a virtue is constituted by a complex set of mental associations (many of which are automatic), allows us to maintain a normatively significant account of virtues.

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First, we have to recognize the extent to which our responses to situations, which direct our behavior, can be automatic. Peter Railton (2014) has argued that our immediate affective responses to certain features of described situations, rather than any objective characterization we give, often explain our judgments of approval and disapproval. These immediate reactions can also, of course, direct our own action. These affective responses are often the products of learned mental associations, and so while immediate and perhaps non-conscious, they are not unexplainable emotive artifacts (Railton 2014: 849–50). These affective responses, while not always to be trusted (since, for example, they can be a product of cultural habituation), ought not be written off as mere emotions that cannot be justified. They can provide important information about ourselves and our environment, helping us understand what features of situations we perceive as salient, and why our behavioral responses or intuitive judgments might be so persistent. Contemporary studies of implicit bias echo the significance of this role of affect, as the product of habitual association, in directing our actions. However strongly we believe that gender or race or orientation should not affect our judgment of a person’s merits, or of her intentions, when making rapid judgments we fall prey to the role of these culturally habituated biases, treating women or minorities as less qualified for jobs, and acting as if African Americans are more likely to be posing a threat.14 Jennifer Saul has argued that though there are localized priming mechanisms that can adjust these biases, there is no broad scope solution short of changing, on a social level, these mental associations (2013: 257–8). I can go through an exercise that reminds me of capable and qualified women or minorities and makes me less likely to devalue their skills on a resume, but the results are localized. The only way to systematically attack this bias is by making it the case that our culture no longer perpetuates these negative associations. If we can do that, then our education and environment will no longer foster these problematic mental associations. Recent literature in psychology resists past attempts to explain our behavior either by appeal to entirely non-controlled or non-conscious factors (e.g., psychoanalysts, behaviorists) or to primarily controlled, rational decision processes. Instead, psychologists are recognizing the extent to which our behavior is the result of automatic, non-conscious processes, while still recognizing that we do make some conscious, intentional decisions, and that these can interact with learned, automated thought processes. For example, we might set conscious goals for ourselves, but over time our behavior in service of these goals becomes automatic: Initially, conscious choice and guidance are needed to perform the desired behavior or to generate what one hopes are accurate and useful expectations about what is going to happen next in the situation. But to the extent the same expectations are generated, or the same

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Automatic behavior results from repetition, and this repetition may or may not be initiated by conscious aims. Where Hume argued that by habits of mental associations we reliably act on certain motives, contemporary psychologists now outline a similar process: The necessary and sufficient ingredients for automation are frequency and consistency of use of the same set of component mental processes under the same circumstances—regardless of whether the frequency and consistency occur because of a desire to attain a skill, or whether they occur just because we have tended in the past to make the same choices or to do the same thing or to react emotionally or evaluatively in the same way each time. (Bargh and Chartrand 1999: 469) Bargh and Chartrand argue that we develop habits of behavior that we have found efficient in pursuing our goals, so when a situation triggers a particular goal, our behavior in response to that situation might be automatic, following the paths we have set in the past. Unfortunately, Bargh and Chartrand also argue that the full account of the kinds of automatic responses triggered in us is much more complicated, and influenced by affect, mood, and other factors over which we may not have full control. For example, while some prescribed activities can result in eliminating stereotyping, the positive effect of these activities can be overridden by seemingly irrelevant factors like having one’s self-esteem recently damaged. They interpret this as a case in which a goal of re-establishing self-worth takes precedence over other mental procedures (Bargh and Chartrand 1999: 470; Spencer et al. 1998). They also offer evidence that our evaluative perceptions can be affected by other, even non-conscious, mental associations. For example, men who are strongly inclined to associate sex and power will perceive a woman as more attractive if they stand in a position of power over her than they would find the same woman in other circumstances (Spencer et al. 1998: 472–3; Bargh et al. 1995). Furthermore, they argue more broadly that the goals that set in motion patterns of behavior can themselves potentially be formed automatically, so there is not always an obvious role for our conscious intention in directing our action. These kinds of automatic mental patterns, which Railton argues sometimes underlie what we call our gut intuitions about certain situations, are developed in a variety of ways. Social and cultural norms, an individual’s experiences, education, parental and familial influence, media

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exposure, and intentional goal-setting are a variety of ways in which certain ideas come to be more salient to us, and by which automatic thought processes can develop. For example, extensive studies on the habits of aggression show many of these factors play a causal role in producing or inhibiting aggressive behavior, behavior which is very often immediate or impulsive and not consciously directed (Berkowitz 1993). In some ways, this evidence is quite unsurprising, though in some cases we are resistant to accept it, such as in the case of implicit bias. If we accept data about the depth and breadth of implicit bias, accepting that we ourselves likely possess biases toward people based on their race, gender, or sexual orientation, we still do not think that this fact about our automatic mental responses is in any way exculpatory, nor do we think that we lack the power to change these mental responses. Exactly how we make these changes is a large question to which I will return in the final section. For now, it is enough to recognize that although we have strong evidence that non-conscious mental habits of the association of certain ideas can cause us to act in certain ways, we hope to maintain a normative account that expects us to actively change or inhibit these automatic processes. This data about our driving motivations, which are often affect-based, intuitive, and relatively immediate, is consistent with the picture of character traits that Hume offers. Our actions are the result of our most vividly perceived ideas, and which ideas come most vividly to mind is a result of our habitual mental associations. Changing those associations will, consequently, change our behavior. In a way, this locates character traits much deeper in us, and makes them perhaps more trenchant. It is very hard to change our beliefs, or to change our mental associations if they are deeply ingrained. On the other hand, it gives us a path forward for understanding what is required to develop character traits, and the extent to which this might involve our social environment. In Section 5, I will outline in more detail what these requirements might be, but first I want to turn to another psychological feature of the virtuous agent. In Section 2, I outlined the Humean account of virtue that makes these traits robust and causally significant in explaining behavior, and here I have argued that we have reason to be optimistic about our ability to cultivate such traits. A reader sympathetic to virtue ethics might find this picture of virtue rather thin, however, so I will now turn to a discussion of another criterion for virtue ethicists that highlights the explanatory power of the Humean position.

4. Spontaneity This Humean account of virtues might appear to be a thinner account than many virtue ethicists strive for, in particular because it seems to supervene on a variety of possible mental attributes, many of which are circumstantial. Unlike an account that describes the virtuous agent as

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one who values honesty or aims to be generous for the sake of generosity, there are other more circuitous routes by which a person can be said to be virtuous. I do not take this feature of the Humean view to be problematic, but in defense of the view as worth taking seriously in spite of such potential worries, I will show that this account easily upholds a further aspiration of virtue ethics, namely that it can explain and justify our valuation of the virtuous agent’s apparent capacity to be spontaneously virtuous. Virtue ethicists typically want to maintain that the virtuous person does not have to pause and deliberate in the process of acting rightly, but instead that she in some way understands intuitively what should be done, and does it. There is an important sense in which virtue is habitual. But even if we could cultivate habitual mental associations that are reliably useful or agreeable, there seems to be a further feature of what it means to be virtuous than what is captured by our habituating ourselves to more reliably respond virtuously. Railton articulates this feature by distinguishing the sometimes requisite spontaneity of virtuous behavior. Even if a person has generally virtuous traits, such that she is reliably virtuous in her action, the idea that she does this automatically, or by matter of rote, does not indicate that she has a proper moral sensitivity, nor does it ensure virtuous behavior in novel situations. As is only more evident with the situationist challenge, we sometimes find ourselves in unanticipated situations, and it is not clear what kind of practice and habituation can sufficiently prepare us to act well in any situation. In addition to being routinely sensitive to the right sorts of factors and desensitized to the distracting ones, we need to possess some means of recognizing novel intervening factors. Railton offers an example of a defense lawyer who abandons her closing argument to speak off the cuff, without knowing why or what to say next, but being aware that the prepared argument was not going to succeed in ensuring that justice was done for her client. (In hindsight, she could understand why, but in the moment she was not aware of the reasons (Railton 2014: 817–21).) This ability to act well in the moment, to see without pause the unexpected but significant factors at play, requires more than simply good habits. This requirement is part of what Aristotelian virtue ethicists call the virtuous agent’s “practical wisdom.” How can we understand this further criterion of virtue in terms of what skills the virtuous person must develop? What does it mean to have practical wisdom? How does one learn to act well spontaneously? When we think of the kinds of skills that require a kind of mental automaticity, we might think of athletes or musicians who perform best when not consciously thinking about each step of their performance. Achieving this level of intuitive responsiveness, like what a baseball player needs to routinely get a ball where it needs to go in the infield, is itself a skill. Similarly, some people might succeed in developing the kinds of mental associations that do, reliably, motivate them in ways useful and agreeable to

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those around them. This is, in itself, an achievement. This further demand of spontaneity, however, might be understood as what the athlete or the musician does in non-routine circumstances. A concert violinist might become very good at playing well under standard concert conditions, even adjusting for a size of venue or acoustical differences. The truly excellent violinist, however, will also have a sense of her audience in the moment, and will know if a performance, though identical to previous performances, is not conveying the emotion she intends. The truly excellent baseball player will recognize, even if unconsciously, if the second baseman is slightly favoring his left knee and will be able to adjust his throws accordingly. And the truly morally excellent (virtuous) person will be similarly attuned to her environment, whereby the habitual mental associations she has that produce the useful and agreeable behaviors do not manifest when something about the situation demands something unusual, as in the case of Railton’s lawyer. But in Hume’s case, this spontaneity is not merely a je ne sais quoi, it is straightforwardly a further feature of the subtlety of our mental associations. That is, it is explained in the same terms in which other character traits are explained—it is a feature of the set of associations we have and how they give rise to motivations. On this picture of virtue, it also seems that a person can have more or less practical wisdom, and so a person can be virtuous in varying degrees of stability and consistency.15 To understand how this process would work on the Humean picture offered here, we first have to understand the kinds of normatively salient factors to which the virtuous person is expected to be attuned. Aiming to be virtuous requires that I consider how useful or agreeable my motives are to the people with whom I interact, and that I work to develop mental associations that will produce the most useful or agreeable motives most of the time.16 If this phrasing sounds more formally reflective than a Humean might require, we might prefer to say that aiming to be virtuous requires an awareness of my general effects on others, and that I work to develop those traits that I admire in others of similar circumstances.17 Taking on board the insight of contemporary moral psychology, we have a clearer picture of the best means for success in this endeavor. If I think that being honest with those around me is praiseworthy, the means for developing an inclination to be honest is not to tell myself that I ought to try to be honest. Rather, it requires that I come to see under what circumstances or via what mental associations I am most likely to be honest, and then develop or reinforce those associations. And though honesty may be a trait quite broadly useful and agreeable, there may be others that, depending on the relationships I hold, might carry different weight for me than for you. If my best friend has confided in me that he is gay, but that he is not ready to come out, then if another mutual friend asks me whether I think this person is gay, it seems loyalty to my best friend is more important than honesty. My being honest might be worse

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in this case—and if our third friend were later apprised of the facts, she might herself value my loyalty even when it meant I was dishonest with her. Similarly, adhering to strict rules of justice might be disagreeable in a household aiming to cultivate generosity,18 where over-valuing generosity might be harmful for a political leader trying to maintain civil order. For this reason, considering the demands of our relationships rather than a list of traditional virtues is primary for understanding what it means to be virtuous. This distinction might seem subtle, and as noted, lists of virtues might function as short-hand guides for developing basic virtuous habits. However, in making primary the needs and expectations of other people—those affected by our actions—we are tuning in to the ideas that we need to be sensitive to in order to fully develop virtue, including our ability to act spontaneously and intuitively. Honesty is a virtue, but the virtuous person, though habitually virtuous, may see that dishonesty is more virtuous in rare circumstances. What is the difference between habitual honesty and having the virtue of honesty? It is a more developed and nuanced network of associations, with a more subtle sensitivity to the number of factors in play. We may start out trying to be virtuous by trying to habituate ourselves to respond to situations with honesty, loyalty, justice, etc., having recognized these traits to be broadly praiseworthy. Similarly, we might start out in a law profession aiming to develop strong rhetorical skills for the courtroom. However, these associations may be too coarse-grained to do the work of producing useful and agreeable motives in some complex situations. We might form deep habitual ruts such that we tend to be honest and loyal, but to have loyalty come to mind more vividly than honesty in a situation like the one described earlier, we need further sensitivity. On the Humean view, this is sensitivity to the individuals involved and our relationships to them. The virtuous agent would be motivated by loyalty in this situation, even if she were strongly habitually honest, if she were attuned to the stakes for the person to whom she bears this relation of friendship. Railton’s lawyer, though possessing all the virtues of a good closer—strong presence, good preparation, rhetorical style, skills in outlining an argument—also possesses a sensitivity to the jurors themselves and to her client, and noticing their mutual reluctance to look each other in the eye, she senses that these usual skills will fail her here. Instead, she proceeds without a plan but with the aim of connecting with the jurors and with her client. Railton maintains that the lawyer’s action was anything but automatic— it was precisely what she did not usually do in the courtroom—and yet it was intuitive and non-conscious. His partial account of her mental processes corroborates the Humean picture outlined here. He describes the coming together of many factors, including “conscious and unconscious elements of her experience in the courtroom with her client over the last few days . . . , her years of legal practice, . . . fundamental social

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and personal skills [that] . . . included a capacity to read others’ faces or behavior,” etc. (2014: 822). Such processes must be non-conscious, he argues, “[g]iven the volume of sensory information we take in at each moment, the varied needs and goals we seek to meet, the complex personal relationships and social environments we inhabit” (2014: 823). Psychologists have also argued that non-conscious processes produce more nuanced and reliable results in complex decisions than do conscious thought processes (Dijksterhuis et al. 2006). The virtuous person will have a web of mental associations—formed by a variety of factors including, for example, broad experience, empathy, and good education—that will non-consciously draw out the motivations most likely to be useful and agreeable. We are now in a position to see that the Humean picture of virtue as described earlier amends slightly what we are aiming for in attributing virtues to individuals. Miller raises the concern that the extent to which we can recognize people’s behavior as stable and reliable requires more than information about a situation, but additionally insight into morally irrelevant features of the person’s affective states, beliefs, and perception of the situation. We do not find people who are always honest, Miller argues, but only people who are always honest when certain other of these conditions hold, and when certain enhancers or inhibitors are in play. Earlier, I offered the suggestion that in determining virtue, the Humean view I am advancing is not looking primarily for specific virtue traits to be exhibited across the board, but is focused instead on whether an individual is reliably useful and agreeable to herself and those around her. In many cases, these considerations will amount to the same thing, since broad honesty tends to meet the latter criteria. However, this section has shown that attention to these social responsibilities complicates the demands of virtue, requiring more than systematic and habitual adherence to specific virtues. When I consider whether a person is virtuous, looking for cross-situationally consistent honesty, generosity, etc. (that is, the consistent manifestation of such traits in spite of variability in morally irrelevant situational factors), is a coarse-grained analysis that fails to appreciate the circumstances in which the virtuous agent will act counter to her typically virtuous habits. Miller’s observations that a person’s actions are influenced by factors like mood, beliefs, and fragrances speaks against the attribution of cross-situationally consistent behaviors in the sense he describes, but it turns out that is not precisely what we are aiming to attribute. Instead, if we are aiming to attribute to a person a quality that is explained by her having a complex and nuanced set of mental associations such that she is attuned to considerations of agreeableness and utility in her relationships, then the influence of a person’s mood and beliefs on her actions gives us critical information for determining her character traits. In the case of the defense attorney, it may even be that the fact that her action is motivated in part by her present

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discomfort is key to its being virtuous. These various mental associations and their non-conscious motivational force are crucial for understanding what it means to be virtuous, and recognizing this allows us to newly appreciate that various methods by which cultivating conditions to produce better behavior are in fact part of what it means to cultivate virtue.

5. Cultivating Virtue In the introduction, I noted Miller’s proposals for how we might attempt to change our traits, which included becoming more aware of influential situational factors, priming our response mechanisms in ways that promote virtuous action (such as contemplating virtuous figures), and in just being more explicit and forthright about our moral expectations in ways that correlate with better behavior. It was not clear that these kinds of influences, while effective in producing apparently virtuous behavior, were doing so in ways that connected up with the mental qualities that virtue ethicists want to attribute to the virtuous agent. If we can improve everyone’s mood sufficiently to incline them to act more virtuously, why should we think that this is sufficient for making them more virtuous in the robust sense? On the Humean account of virtue I have proposed, however, mental associations are constitutive of what it means to be virtuous, so any means by which we cultivate the mental associations that reliably produce virtuous behavior is a means of cultivating virtue. This result diffuses Miller’s “realism challenge” by providing a clear account of how virtues can be developed. In this final section, we can consider in more detail some of these mechanisms for cultivating mental associations, and consider their effectiveness in cultivating virtue. I am taking as a starting point suggestions that Miller offers, since these are responsive to the extensive empirical data he presents. While all of these might have some effect in making some ideas and associations more prominent, not all of them will have the kind of long-term effects we might hope for, nor will they necessarily really get at the virtuous traits we are after. Considering them in light of the Humean position allows us to see why some might be more effective in cultivating virtuous traits. Before looking at the apparently effective mechanisms, we might consider why some might be ineffective. Railton cites data that indicates aiming explicitly to be more virtuous—telling ourselves to be more generous or less biased—is relatively unsuccessful (2011: 322, citing Gollwitzer 2009). An advantage of focusing on virtue, he argues, is that it does not foremost appeal to guiding moral principles: “One must instead find ways—such as modeling, enhancing empathetic responsiveness, mastering coping techniques, internalizing situation-specific patterns of thought and action, and so on—to call upon the resources of affect and habit constructively, lest they be one’s undoing” (Railton 2011: 324). These suggestions by now sound familiar. The best way to change our habitual

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behavior, it seems, is not by explaining to ourselves why it is bad, or generally aiming to be better, but by surrounding ourselves with good examples that draw our minds to better responses, by becoming more aware of the force of our immediate paths of thought, etc. More specifically, the research that indicates that formulating “if–then” directives is much more successful than declarative aims. Instead of telling ourselves, “Don’t get so angry,” we should tell ourselves, “If we feel the anger rising, then count to ten.” Railton also suggests that, based on research in artificial intelligence, these kinds of conditional intentions much more easily become automatic responses, neurologically (2011: 322). In this process, we are creating and strengthening our mental associations. Miller’s most promising suggestions, from the Humean perspective, are those that align with this conditional picture. We can aim to be more aware of situational factors, of our own emotional response patterns, and of the general patterns in human nature such as being more helpful when we are feeling guilty. These require us to recognize some of our automatic response patterns, and to diagnose how they are triggered, so that we might be more attuned to their functioning. To become more aware of our patterns of mental associations, their triggers and their outputs, is no easy feat. Certainly reading the psychological literature and learning about mood effects and situational effects can be somewhat helpful, but given the subtleties and complexities of our own thought processes, this alone will not be sufficient. Still, this discussion brings to mind a number of suggestions for cultivating this kind of self-awareness. Meditation and mindfulness are contemporary practices that aim to help people become more aware of their physical and mental states as if observing them from the outside. Various methods of psychological therapy also aim to help us recognize the source of patterns of thought, and to develop habits of changing their forcefulness in our daily lives. We can broaden our scope of experience to introduce new ideas and ways of thinking, as a means of considering different ideas and associations; this is the work of storytelling and story hearing, and empathizing with people whose experience and thoughts are different from ours. We can avoid over-saturation with stories that confirm our own patterns of thought (including both fictional stories and news reports), and we can limit our exposure to sources of entertainment or information that problematically stir up inhibitors such as anger, aggression, and violence. I can formulate some concrete conditionals, such as, “If I notice growing aggravation when I’m watching the news, I should turn the television off and engage in another activity.” Through such practices, we become more aware of our own triggers and mental ruts, and we prime ourselves to be receptive to alternative patterns of thought.19 To some extent, priming our response mechanisms by means such as contemplating virtuous figures and either being emotionally inspired by them or explicitly aiming to emulate them is also a promising suggestion.

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This kind of modeling has been shown to be effective, but its effectiveness is localized.20 Essentially, in contemplating such figures we are calling to mind certain ideas more vividly—if I read a story of Honest Abe, the recent memory of this story might readily come to mind when I am faced with an opportunity to deceive. For these efforts to have long-term influence over my mental associations, however, they have to remain vivid (close at hand, speaking figuratively). Celebrating Black History Month, where for a short time out of the year students focus on the achievements of African Americans, will not be nearly as effective at changing racial stereotypes than if we rewrite our history books to consistently and frequently discuss the achievements of African Americans alongside and on par with the familiar stories of white Americans. Successfully achieving this kind of parity would move us toward Saul’s imperative for a fundamental social shift in damaging stereotypical associations. Being more explicit and forthright about our moral expectations, such as posting honor codes in schools or in the workplace, can also be somewhat effective for some of the same reasons—certain ideas, in being “in our faces,” are going to be more salient. However, a Humean honor code is not going to be fully reducible to a list of virtuous traits such as honesty, loyalty, and justice, and emphasizing specific behaviors is only going to approximate virtuous behavior. As discussed in the previous section, we might make progress by establishing some patterns of thought and action in this way, but ultimately virtue requires more than having these good habits. And though some traits might be broadly valuable to anyone we encounter, such as honesty, recognizing the value of this virtue is a consequence of considering the needs of those affected by it. To aim at virtue is not first to think, “I ought to be honest,” but to think more broadly about the moral demands of our relationships. Our aim in trying to be virtuous is not primarily to cultivate general helpfulness or generosity but to cultivate our relationships, as a consequence of which we end up developing these valuable traits. Therefore, a Humean honor code would look quite different than one that lists aspirational virtues, emphasizing instead our consideration of the needs of others. Furthermore, as already noted, non-conditional self-directives like “Be more honest” are not especially effective, and this problem would remain even if we had a more Humean code.21 Many of these efforts described are processes an individual can engage in, but there is an essential social role in ultimately changing some patterns of thought. Questions about racial relations in our society cannot be resolved at the individual level—we are sensitive to negative associations in media in ways that personal efforts cannot entirely override. When we see cultural shifts in how people are thinking and behaving, these are opportunities to consider whether these shifts are for the better and, if not, what has caused them and how we might remedy the situation. For example, dramatic increases in the rates of depression and

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anxiety in young people in our country have brought some psychologists to engage in conversations about changes in childhood experience, and in child rearing, that may be responsible for these increases; a parallel increase in the perception amongst young people of an external locus of control gives further insight into the ways in which these patterns of thought may be developing (Twenge et al. 2004, 2010).22 The marked decrease in free self-directed play in recent generations correlates with a lack of a sense of authorship and power that children have in their own lives, which correlates with higher risk of depression and anxiety. Knowing that depression and anxiety are influential in our patterns of thought and behavior, this gives us reason to consider, on a social level, what changes might be needed to provide new generations with better means of developing virtue. Contemporary conversations about race and gender issues in our society, as well as political disputes, all indicate that certain patterns of thought have developed that we may have reason to try to change at the societal level. As suggestions for individual and social growth and development, these ideas are not novel. What is interesting about taking a Humean account of virtue seriously, however, is that the kinds of changes that these processes produce actually constitute changes in our character. They are not merely tools for us to feel better or behave better, but in changing our patterns of thought and emotional response, they in fact change our character traits. In this way, using these tools to develop patterns of behavior that are more useful and agreeable is itself the process of cultivating the virtues. Philosophers interested in virtue might think that this account of virtue, which reduces to facts about our mental associations, in some way thins out the concept of “virtue,” but perhaps we should welcome this re-conception for its empirical and explanatory value as an answer to Miller’s “realism challenge.”

Notes 1. See, for example, Darley and Batson (1973), Doris (2002), Harman (1999, 2000), Isen and Patrick (1983), Milgram (1974), and Miller (2013, 2014). 2. See, for example, Bargh and Chartrand (1999) and Railton (2014). 3. By “traditional” here I, like Miller, mean to indicate broad common conceptions and include neo-Aristotelian conceptions that refer to traits widely considered virtuous, such as honesty, generosity, courage, etc. I take these traditional accounts to hold that being virtuous entails possessing each of the virtuous traits. As will become clear later, I also take many of these accounts to hold that a person’s having a virtue such as generosity entails her acting with the intention of helping others. 4. To talk about moral virtues as normatively significant, each of (a) through (c) seems important. Situationists have leveled criticisms at more traditional neo-Aristotelian conceptions of virtue along some of these grounds, and virtue ethicists have responded in various ways to maintain more nuanced versions of these claims. For example, Doris (2002) argues against a robust conception of “globalist” traits (one interpretation of (a)) wherein a person

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5. 6. 7.

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9. 10. 11.

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Erin Frykholm possessing the trait of honesty, for example, will always be honest; virtue ethicists have responded that this kind of broad singular trait was never what they had in mind (see Kamtekar (2004), Kupperman (2001), and Sreenivasan (2009)). For example, Kamtekar argues that character traits are not viewed by the virtue ethicist in isolation, but as dispositions within a network of beliefs, desires, and values, so to single out a failure to exhibit a virtuous trait in any given situation as evidence of its nonexistence is to fail to appreciate its operation within this larger framework. I intend (a) to be compatible with such views. In attributing these claims broadly to virtue ethicists, I only mean to be making the minimal claim that if virtues are normatively significant, they are identifiable qualities of agents that play a foundational role in determining how the agent acts. These traits are still identifiable parts of such a complex system, even if they must be viewed contextually for their influence to be recognized. By “robust” I mean psychologically deep and persisting over time, but I leave the question of what constitutes these traits open, to be addressed separately (in Section 2). Note the apparently significant influence of pleasant fragrances on helping behavior. The significant influence of pleasant fragrances on helping behavior has been noted by Batson, et al. (1979). For more discussion of this challenge, see Qu (2017), Paxman (2015), Ainslie (2007), Purviance (1997), and McIntyre (1990). To possess a virtue is to possess a certain set of ideas that are related to each other in certain ways such that they produce reliable motivations when brought to mind. (See Frykholm (2012) for more on the nature of these mental qualities.) I take these traits to be dispositional states of mind—a person’s ideas are associated in ways such that if one idea is brought to mind, others are as well. These are durable in that these mental associations hold over time, and I take this view of traits to be neutral on the question of whether the person holds dispositional beliefs or whether these virtuous dispositions give rise to (or make more vivid) occurrent beliefs. Jennifer Smalligan Marušić (2010) argues for an account of occurrent beliefs that makes sense of the automatic associations described here (see especially pp. 181–2). If we want to countenance dispositional beliefs on Hume’s view (e.g., Vitz (2014)), I see no problem for this account of virtues. I use the term “affective” broadly here to parallel its use in contemporary moral psychology. I mean to eschew debates about whether Hume’s textual use of the term “affect” entirely parallels this discussion, or whether there would be other non-cognitive mental states (i.e., conative states) that would be distinguished from affects. For a full argument for this conclusion, see Frykholm (2012). See Frykholm (2016). Neighborliness may not be what one expects of a standard virtue, but I think it is a good candidate of the kind of trait the Humean recognizes as praiseworthy and useful and agreeable to others. If the reader prefers, she can take the term to indicate some combination of thoughtfulness, generosity, and pleasant demeanor. I prefer “neighborliness” here because it does not import implications about the agent’s intentions. Another example of such a virtue might be Julia Driver’s account of the virtue of blind charity (2001: 28–9, 36–7). Surely it is not true that of anyone, regardless of circumstance, we would approve them being charitable and blind to the faults of others, nor would we find such a trait universally useful and agreeable. Nevertheless, in some contexts we might approve of it, such as that of Jane Bennet in Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

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13. Nancy Snow (2010) has also articulated an account of virtue that makes use of the picture of automaticity recent psychology literature provides. There is much in the present account that is compatible with the developed psychology of virtue that Snow provides, but to fully contrast the view offered here with hers is another topic in itself. There is at least one key difference, however, that I will note here. In describing those habits that are taken to be virtuous, Snow explicitly designates goal-directed automatic behaviors that are responsive to accessible “virtue-relevant goals” such as a goal to be just, or to be a good friend (2010: 52–9). As I discuss in more detail later in the chapter, the Humean picture does not require this kind of epistemological framework for the virtuous agent. The agent’s goals in being virtuous are not “virtue-relevant” in this sense; she might be aiming to be honest, or to be the best parent or friend she can be, but she might also be aiming to avoid guilt, and as long as the reliable result of her aims is honesty, she is considered to possess this trait. If it turns out that the most virtuous traits—that is, those that are most reliably useful and agreeable—are those that allow for such virtue-relevant motivations to be primary, this will be an empirical consequence and not a theoretical condition of understanding virtue. 14. Philosophers and psychologists have recently challenged the rigidity of and the functional role of implicit bias, arguing that it may be much more fluid and its effects much less significant than has been thought (Forscher et al. 2017). Without minimizing the significance of this challenge, for present purposes it is sufficient to think that there may at least in some contexts be some implicit bias that is operative—that is, we may have some biases of which we are unconscious that have some influence over our actions—and whether or not this is a robust and widespread influence is not pertinent to considering such bias as one of several factors that might play some non-conscious causal role in automatic actions. If we have these biases, then this model can help us address them. I am initially skeptical about dismissing implicit bias literature based on these challenges, for reasons parallel to why I am willing to embrace situationist data—it may be that as a single factor these biases are not broadly predictive of behavior, but that does not mean that they do not play any causal role in bringing about our action. 15. Robert Adams argues that virtues can be “frail and fragmentary” (2006: 119), and do not require the robust practical wisdom some Aristotelians argue for (such as Kamtekar (2010)). On the Humean view I propose, we can recognize and attribute such virtues while still seeing the significant role of developing degrees of practical wisdom for developing more consistent virtue, and the questions of being virtuous and having practical wisdom are not all-or-nothing matters. 16. As noted earlier, the criteria of being useful or agreeable are descriptive and secondary to being approved by moral sentiments. Also, mere utility does not guarantee moral approval, as the judgments of useful and agreeable to self and others are holistic. But recognizing that moral approval is theoretically primary for Hume, we can treat utility and agreeableness as shorthand in most cases for picking out those qualities that we approve of us virtuous. I do not mean to imply that Hume is suggesting we make utilitarian calculations, and I think that the truly virtuous person will be attuned to more subtle factors and be making more holistic judgments than this would imply. 17. Hume notes that one can act from a sense of morality in mimicking the behavior of one we admire, acting as though we had the motive that we admire in that person (T 3.2.1.8; SBN 479). 18. See Swanton (2003) and Frykholm (2015).

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19. For those interested in the historical question of how Hume’s account of the passions could explain the explicit process of attempting to change our character by changing the strength of feeling attached to some ideas, see Paxman (2015: 589–91). Her account provides a way of understanding, within Hume’s framework, the effectiveness of some of the individual efforts highlighted here. 20. See Blair (2002) and Kang and Banaji (2006) for evidence of effectiveness; see Saul (2013) for analysis of the localized effects. 21. Miller also does not emphasize the context of intimate relationships in his discussion of virtue, as the Humean view offered here does. This is one place where the consequences of this difference bear fruit. 22. See also Gray (2011). The phrase “external locus of control” refers to a worldview in which a person believes on some level that other people (such as parents, when we are young) or cosmic forces (such as fate) determine their life course; in such a worldview, people do not perceive, or fully perceive, themselves to be the directors of their lives.

References Adams, Robert Merrihew. 2006. A Theory of Virtue. New York: Oxford University Press. Ainslie, Donald. 2007. “Character Traits and the Humean Approach to Ethics.” In Moral Psychology (Poznan Studies in the Philosophy of the Sciences and the Humanities), edited by Sergio Tenenbaum, 79–110. New York: Rodopi. Bargh, John A., and Tanya L. Chartrand. 1999. “The Unbearable Automaticity of Being.” American Psychologist 54: 462–79. Bargh, John A., P. Raymond, J. Pryor, and F. Strack. 1995. “Attractiveness of the Underlying: An Automatic Power-Sex Association and Its Consequences for Sexual Harassment and Aggression.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 68: 768–81. Batson, C. Daniel, Jay S. Coke, Fred Chard, Debra Smith, and Antonia Taliaferro. 1979. “Generality of the ‘Glow of Goodwill’: Effects of Mood on Helping and Information Acquisition.” Social Psychology Quarterly 42: 176–9. Berkowitz, Leonard. 1993. Agression: Its Causes, Consequences, and Control. New York: McGraw-Hill. Blair, Irene V. 2002. “The Malleability of Automatic Stereotypes and Prejudice.” Personality & Social Psychology Review 6 (3): 242–61. Darley, J., and C. Batson. 1973. “From Jerusalem to Jericho: A Study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 27: 100–18. Dijksterhuis, Ap, Maarten w. Bos, Loran F. Nordgren, and Rick B. van Baaren. 2006. “On Making the Right Choice: The Deliberation-Without-Attention Effect.” Science V, February 17, 1005–7. Doris, John. 2002. Lack of Character. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Driver, Julia. 2001. Uneasy Virtue. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Forscher, Patrick S., Calvin Lai, Jordan Axt, Charles R. Ebersole, Michelle Herman, Brian A. Nosek, and Patricia G. Devine. 2017. “A Meta-Analysis of Change in Implicit Bias.” Open Science Framework, May 12. Web. Frankish, Keith. 2016. “Playing Double: Implicit Bias, Dual-levels, and Self-control.” In Implicit Bias and Philosophy, Volume 1: Metaphysics and Epistemology,

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edited by Michael Brownstein and Jennifer Saul, 23–46. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frykholm, Erin. 2012. “The Ontology of Character Traits in Hume.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 42 (Supplement 1): 82–97. Frykholm, Erin. 2015. “A Humean Particularist Virtue Ethic.” Philosophical Studies 172 (8): 2171–91. Frykholm, Erin. 2016. “Associative Virtues and Hume’s Narrow Circle.” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 97: 612–37. Gollwitzer, Peter. 2009. “Self-Control By If-Then Planning.” Presentation to the Research Seminar in Group Dynamics, Institute for Social Research, University of Michigan, March 16. Gray, Peter. 2011. “The Decline of Play and the Rise of Psychopathology in Children and Adolescents.” American Journal of Play 3 (4): 443–63. Harman, Gilbert. 1999. “Moral Philosophy Meets Social Psychology: Virtue Ethics and the Fundamental Attribution Error.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 99: 315–31. Harman, Gilbert. 2000. “The Nonexistence of Character Traits.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 100: 223–6. Heubner, Bryce. 2016. “Implicit Bias, Reinforcement Learning, and Scaffolded Moral Cognition.” In Implicit Bias and Philosophy, Volume 1: Metaphysics and Epistemology, edited by Michael Brownstein and Jennifer Saul, 47–79. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hume, David. 2004. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. New York: Oxford University Press. Isen, A., and R. Patrick. 1983. “The Influence of Positive Feelings on Risk Taking: When the Chips Are Down.” Organizational Behavior and Human Performance 31: 194–202. Kamtekar, Rachana. 2004. “Situationism and Virtue Ethics on the Content of Our Character.” Ethics 114 (3): 458–91. Kamtekar, Rachana. 2010. “Comments on Robert Adams, A Theory of Virtue: Excellence in Being for the Good.” Philosophical Studies 148 (1): 147–58. Kang, J., and M. Banaji. 2006. “Fair Measures: A Behavioral Realist Revision of ‘Affirmative Action.’” California Law Review 94: 1063–118. Kupperman, Joel J. 2001. “The Indispensability of Character.” Philosophy 76: 239–50. Madva, Alex. 2016. “Virtue, Social Knowledge, and Implicit Bias.” In Implicit Bias and Philosophy, Volume 1: Metaphysics and Epistemology, edited by Michael Brownstein and Jennifer Saul, 191–215. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marušić, Jennifer Smalligan. 2010. “Does Hume Hold a Dispositional Account of Belief?” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 40 (2) (June): 155–84. McIntyre, Jane. 1990. “Character: A Humean Account.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 72: 193–206. Milgram, Stanley. 1974. Obedience to Authority. New York: Harper and Row. Miller, Christian. 2013. Moral Character: An Empirical Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Miller, Christian. 2014. Character and Moral Psychology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Paxman, Katharina. 2015. “The Movement of Feeling and the Genesis of Character in Hume.” Res Philosophica 92 (3) (July): 569–94.

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Purviance, Susan M. 1997. “The Moral Self and the Indirect Passions.” Hume Studies 23 (2): 195–212. Qu, Hsueh. 2017. “Hume’s Dispositional Account of the Self.” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 95 (4): 644–57. Railton, Peter. 2011. “Two Cheers for Virtue: Or, Might Virtue Be Habit Forming?” In Oxford Studies in Normative Ethics, vol. 1, edited by M. Timmons, 295–329. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Railton, Peter. 2014. “The Affective Dog and Its Rational Tale: Intuition and Attunement.” Ethics 124 (4): 813–59. Saul, Jennifer. 2013. “Skepticism and Implicit Bias.” Disputatio 5: 243–63. Snow, Nancy. 2010. Virtue as Social Intelligence: An Empirically Grounded Theory. New York, NY: Routledge Press. Spencer, S. J., S. Fein, C. T. Wolfe, C. Fong, and M. A. Dunn. 1998. “Automatic Activation of Stereotypes: The Role of Self-Image Threat.” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 24: 1139–52. Sreenivasan, Gopal. 2009. “Disunity of Virtue.” The Journal of Ethics 13 (2/3): 195–212. Swanton, Christine. 2003. Virtue Ethics: A Pluralistic View. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Twenge, Jean M., Brittany Gentile, C. Nathan DeWall, Debbie Ma, Katharine Lacefield, and David R. Schurtz. 2010. “Birth Cohort Increases in Psychopathology Among Young Americans, 1938–2007: A Cross-Temporal Meta-analysis of the MMPI.” Clinical Psychology Review 30: 145–54. Twenge, Jean M., L. Zhang, and C. Im. 2004. “It’s Beyond My Control: A CrossTemporal Meta-analysis of Increasing Externality in Locus of Control, 1960– 2002.” Personality and Social Psychology Review 8: 308–19. Vitz, Rico. 2014. “Contagion, Community, and Virtue in Hume’s Epistemology.” In The Ethics of Belief, edited by Jonathan Matheson and Rico Vitz, 198–215. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Character, Culture, and Humean Virtue Ethics Insights From Situationism and Confucianism Rico Vitz

For nearly two decades, philosophers working in the vein of John Doris (1998, 2002) and Gilbert Harman (1999, 2000) have used evidence from social psychology to suggest that traditional conceptions of virtue ethics rely on an empirically inadequate conception of human nature. I suspect that this “situationist challenge” to virtue ethics has become quite familiar to most philosophers, at least to those who do research on ethics. But so that I can introduce and frame my project in this chapter clearly, let me begin by reviewing, very briefly, some of the key details for those who might be less familiar with this debate. According to character skeptics like Doris, traditional virtue ethics is committed to “globalism,” which consists of three theses. The first is consistency, or the claim that “[c]haracter and personality traits are reliably manifested in trait-relevant behavior across a diversity of trait-relevant eliciting conditions that may vary widely in their conduciveness to the manifestation of the trait in question.” Essentially, the consistency thesis entails that if a person has a particular virtue, then that virtue ought to manifest itself consistently across diverse conditions. The second is stability, or the claim that “[c]haracter and personality traits are reliably manifested in trait-relevant behaviors over iterated trials of similar traitrelevant eliciting conditions.” Essentially, the stability thesis entails that if a person has a particular virtue, then that virtue ought to manifest itself regularly, over time, in similar conditions. The third is evaluative integrity, or the claim that “[i]n a given character or personality the occurrence of a trait with a particular evaluative valence is probabilistically related to the occurrence of other traits with similar evaluative valences.” Essentially, the evaluative integrity thesis is a probabilistic version of a thesis concerning the unity or mutual entailment of the virtues, according to which a person cannot have one virtue without having all the others (Doris 2002: 22).1 The problem, according to Doris and others, is that there is compelling evidence from social psychology that people’s behavior is more probably predicted not in light of their alleged global character traits but in light of various features of their situations—e.g., the extent to which they are in a

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hurry, influenced by an authority figure, influenced by the self-perception of their own authority, influenced by a social group, experiencing an enhanced mood, and so forth.2 Thus, the evidence suggests that the consistency and evaluative integrity theses are false. Hence, there is compelling evidence that globalism is false. Therefore, since traditional virtue ethics is committed to globalism, it is empirically inadequate. Consequently, we ought to look elsewhere for satisfactory guidance on how to live.3 Three things strike me as particularly intriguing about the debate concerning the situationist challenge. The first is that it was originally framed in distinctively Aristotelian terms, such that the participants seemed to assume that “traditional virtue ethics” is identical to “Aristotelian virtue ethics.”4 The second is that a number of scholars doing research on nonAristotelian conceptions of virtue ethics have seemed rather unperturbed by the challenge. For instance, the response from Confucian scholars has been rather subdued. In fact, they tend to suggest that the relevant evidence from social psychology fits quite well both (1) with what classical Chinese moral philosophers like Confucius, Mencius, and Xunzi would expect, and (2) with the behavioral prescriptions of Confucian moral philosophy.5 The third is that one group of non-Aristotelian virtue ethicists have said remarkably little in response to the situationist challenge: namely, Hume scholars.6 This is quite surprising and, really, rather extraordinary given the natural affinities between Hume’s philosophy and contemporary research in psychology and cognitive science—affinities that were recognized early in the development of the situationist challenge.7 My aim in this chapter is to help fill this gap in Hume scholarship. I will do so in three steps. First, I will elucidate insights both from Hume and from his commentators to explain why a Humean conception of character fits well with the kind of social psychological evidence on which the situationist challenge depends. Second, I will analyze insights from recent Confucian responses to the situationist challenge in order to highlight the relationship between culture and character development. I then use these insights to elucidate a similar but underdeveloped aspect of Hume’s virtue ethics. Third, and finally, I will conclude by suggesting the significance of the relationship between character and culture for future research on Humean virtue ethics.

1. Character As I will argue presently, a Humean conception of character is well-situated with respect to situationist evidence from social psychology in two ways. First, Hume rejects the consistency thesis. Second, he likely rejects the evaluative integrity thesis. Thus, he rejects globalism.8 Hence, Humean virtue ethics does not face the kind of threat from situationism that Aristotelian virtue does. In fact, the psychological evidence actually seems to support rather than to threaten Hume’s moral philosophy.

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1.1 Hume’s Rejection of the Consistency Thesis On Hume’s account, virtues are qualities of persons—that is, of actual human beings, not of idealized rational agents. Such persons are evaluated relative to their actual professions, roles, “stations,” and so forth.9 Thus, what constitutes “trait-relevant behavior” associated with various virtues and vices is delineated, in part, by a person’s social relationships, social roles, and social influence.10 Let me begin to illustrate this point by considering one particular virtue in light of two tragic situations. The virtue is courage, and the tragic situations are the murders at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, and at New Life Church in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Let me all-too-briefly describe a few of the details of each. The first tragedy took place on the morning of December 14, 2012, when a young man bent on murder entered Sandy Hook Elementary School. As the tragedy began to unfold, one of the teachers, Natalie Hammond, entered the halls to determine the nature of the initial sounds of the disturbance. When she saw the shooter, she yelled, “Shooter! Stay put!” to alert her colleagues. When Rick Thorne, a janitor at the school, saw what was happening, he ran through the halls of the school, alerting teachers and students of the danger. Some teachers were able to barricade their doors and keep their students safe. Others were not. In one room, substitute teacher Lauren Rousseau tried to hide her students at the back of the classroom and in a bathroom when they were all shot and killed. In another room, teacher’s aide Anne Marie Murphy died trying to shield one of her students from the shooter’s bullets. As all of this was happening, police officers rushed to the school, armed and ready to confront the murderer. The second tragedy took place five years earlier on the afternoon of December 9, 2007. Having murdered two people hours earlier at a missionary training facility in Arvada, Colorado, a gunman came to New Life Church in Colorado Springs with the intention of murdering more. After shooting multiple people in the parking lot, killing two, he entered the church foyer and began shooting the people inside. As he tried to make his way through the foyer into the main gathering area, he was confronted by Jeanne Assam, a former police officer who was working as a security agent for the church. Ms. Assam identified herself and warned the assailant to drop his weapon. When he refused to do so, she drew her gun and shot him. As these events unfolded, police officers rushed to the scene to confront the gunman. In describing these two horrific events, I was careful to identify only five people by name: Natalie Hammond, Rick Thorne, Lauren Rousseau, Anne Marie Murphy, and Jeanne Assam. Among these, only Jeanne Assam acted in a way that one might initially be tempted to classify as a form of courage—or more specifically (on Doris’s account) as “battlefield physical courage.”11 Yet each of these people acted courageously in ways that were appropriate to their social roles, in accordance with their

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training, in the context of what tragically became an urban battlefield. These people’s lives illustrate one important aspect of the social dependence of virtue: even if the affective-motivational dispositions that constitute a particular character trait are similar, the actions by which that trait will manifest itself will vary in accordance with a person’s social relationships, social roles, or social influence. This is an element of situationism with which Hume readily agrees. For the purpose of clarity, let me highlight Hume’s agreement by considering his treatment of the virtue of courage. In “A Dialogue,” Hume reflects on Cicero’s observation that barbarians manifested courage on the battlefield but not in the face of serious illness whereas Greeks “patiently endure the slow approaches of death, when armed with sickness and disease” but flee danger on the battlefield. Hume responds, “So different is even the same virtue of courage among warlike or peaceful nations!” (EMP Dialogue.39, emphasis mine). He makes similar observations about King James VI of Scotland, who later became King James I of England. He identifies James both as a man who possessed noteworthy courage for the way that he prepared for and faced death (HE 5.46.122) and as a man who lacked courage for the way he conducted himself as a politician (HE 5.46.123). These are not isolated instances. Hume readily attributes “the same virtue of courage” to people who manifest the trait in battle, like soldiers (see, e.g., HE 6.60, 6, 30, 42) or the countess of Derby (HE 6.60. 143), in politics, like Oliver Cromwell (see, e.g., HE 6.60.6, 30), or in facing their death, either naturally or by suicide (see, e.g., EMPL 588). Thus, Hume affirms that people can be courageous while failing to manifest the virtue “across a diversity of trait-relevant eliciting conditions that may vary widely in their conduciveness to the manifestation of the trait in question” (Doris 2002: 22). This affirmation holds not merely for courage but for other virtues as well. Therefore, Hume denies the consistency thesis. Part of the explanation for his rejection of the consistency thesis is the fact that he regards virtue not as a threshold concept, such that people must either have virtues or lack them, but as a degree concept, such that people can have virtues to varying degrees. He notes this point in a variety of places. In the Essays, for instance, he notes that political rulers “may have either a greater or less degree of ambition, capacity, courage, popularity” (EMPL I.6.8, emphasis mine). In the History, he makes this very point about King James, noting that he possessed many virtues, “but scarce any of them pure, or free from the contagion of the neighbouring vices” (HE 5.46.122; see also 123). He makes a similar point in the Treatise, both in his observation that a “general who conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of courage” (T 2.3.1.15, emphasis mine) and in his claim that “excessive courage . . . contributes in a great measure to the character of a hero” (T 3.3.2.14). That Hume would regard virtue as a degree concept rather than a threshold concept is understandable in light of his claims concerning

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the similarities between virtues and talents in the second Enquiry (EPM App 4). Thus, Hume doesn’t have the same expectations for the extent to which virtues will be “reliably manifested” as (allegedly) do the globalist targets of situationists. Hence, he would likely not be surprised to find out that ordinary people, whose characters tend to be “to a certain degree, inconstant and irregular” (EHU 8.15; cp. HE 5.542), would fail to exhibit helping behaviors in certain situations.12 What’s more, he would not be surprised by “mood effects” on people’s behavior.13 In fact, his moral philosophy explicitly accounts for such effects. For instance, in the Treatise, he says, “It is difficult for the mind, when actuated by any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without any change or variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of any such regularity. Changeableness is essential to it” (T 2.1.4.3). Consequently, as he notes both in the Treatise and again in the Dissertation on the Passions, when “our temper” is “elevated” with a passion like joy, it “naturally throws itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other resembling affections” (T 2.1.4.3 and DP 2.3.7). Similarly, both in the Treatise and again in the Dissertation on the Passions, he makes the following observation: A soldier advancing to the battle is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with fear and terror when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion, therefore, proceeds from the former, naturally encreases the courage; as the same emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear. (T 2.3.4.3 and DP 6.1.3, emphasis mine) In a related example in the same paragraph, he notes that manipulating human affections—and, consequently, their motivations and behaviors— is “a common artifice of politicians.” Thus, Hume is well aware both of the extent to which people’s emotions vary in relation to their social situations and of the influence of these emotions on people’s behavior. Moreover, he recognizes that even virtuous people can be influenced by such changes in their emotions. Consider, for instance, his comments regarding strength of mind in the Dissertation on the Passions. He notes, What we call strength of mind implies the prevalence of the calm passions above the violent; though we may easily observe, that there is no person so constantly possessed of this virtue, as never, on any occasion, to yield to the solicitation of violent affection or desire” (DP 5, my emphasis) Hence, Hume’s conceptions of moral psychology and of virtue account for the evidence presented in the “mood effect” studies.

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Nor would Hume be surprised by “group effects” on people’s emotions, motivations, and behaviors.14 In fact, his conceptions of “sympathy” and “contagion” anticipate such effects. For instance, in the Treatise, he begins his examination of sympathy by noting that people tend to feel passions “more from communication” than from their own natural tempers and dispositions (see, e.g., T 2.1.11.2; cp. T 2.2.12.8). In a related vein, in the second Enquiry, he makes the following observation: From instances of popular tumults, seditions, factions, panics, and of all passions, which are shared with a multitude; we may learn the influence of society, in exciting and supporting any emotion; while the most ungovernable disorders are raised, we find, by that means, from the slightest and most frivolous occasions. . . . No selfishness, and scarce any philosophy, have there force sufficient to support a total coolness and indifference; and he must be more or less than man, who kindles not in the common blaze. What wonder, then, that moral sentiments are found of such influence in life; though springing from principles, which may appear, at first sight, somewhat small and delicate? But these principles, we must remark, are social and universal: They form, in a manner, the party of human-kind against vice or disorder, its common enemy: And as the benevolent concern for others is diffused, in a greater or less degree, over all men, and is the same in all, it occurs more frequently in discourse, is cherished by society and conversation, and the blame and approbation, consequent on it, are thereby rouzed from that lethargy, into which they are probably lulled, in solitary and uncultivated nature. Other passions, though perhaps originally stronger, yet being selfish and private, are often overpowered by its force, and yield the dominion of our breast to those social and public principles. (EPM 9.9) Thus, Hume is well aware of the fact that social intercourse affects people’s affections, motivations, and consequent behaviors, either for the better or for worse. Hence, Hume’s conceptions of moral psychology and of virtue account not only for the evidence presented in the “mood effect” studies but also for the evidence presented in the “group effect” studies. There is obviously much more one could say about Hume’s moral philosophy, or Humean virtue ethics more generally, as it relates to the consistency thesis and the psychological studies intended to show that it is false. At this point, I would simply like to note that the evidence I have presented previously suggests that Hume rejects the consistency thesis and, consequently, that he rejects globalism. Hence, the psychological evidence on which the situationist challenge relies does not directly target Hume’s moral theory. Rather, it is compatible with, if not supportive of, a Humean conception of virtue ethics.

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So, Hume rejects globalism at least insofar as he denies the consistency thesis. There is, however, also reason to suspect that he rejects the evaluative integrity thesis as well, as I will argue presently. 1.2 Hume’s Position With Respect to the Evaluative Integrity Thesis As I mentioned previously when I introduced the situationist challenge, the evaluative integrity thesis is essentially a probabilistic version of a unity of the virtues thesis, which claims that a person cannot have one virtue without having all the others. Since it is the unity thesis rather than the evaluative integrity thesis with which Hume would have been familiar, let me begin by focusing on that. Although the unity of the virtues thesis, in one form or another, was affirmed by various philosophers in the ancient and early medieval periods, it was also denied by philosophers in, at least, the later medieval period.15 Since Hume lived in an era affected by this fact, it is surprising neither that denying the unity thesis would have been a live option for him, nor that it was an option that he seems to have chosen. That he did so was implied previously in the discussion of Hume’s description of King James, who possessed “many virtues” while evidently lacking others (HE 5.46.122–123). It is even more evident in his discussions of Thomas More and of Oliver Cromwell. In the History, Hume describes Thomas More—the highly accomplished Roman Catholic scholar and statesman who was executed by King Henry VIII—as a man who possessed “the highest virtue, integrity, and capacity” (HE 3.184, emphasis mine) and as “the person of greatest reputation in the kingdom for virtue and integrity” (HE 3.205). He extols More’s humane nobility in the face of adversity, when he resigned as Lord Chancellor, saying, The austerity of [More’s] virtue, and the sanctity of his manners, had no wise encroached on the gentleness of his temper, or even diminished that frolic and gaiety, to which he was naturally inclined. He sported with all the varieties of fortune into which he was thrown; and neither the pride, naturally attending a high station, nor the melancholy incident to poverty and retreat, could ever lay hold of his serene and equal spirit. While his family discovered symptoms of sorrow on laying down the grandeur and magnificence, to which they had been accustomed, he drew a subject of mirth from their distresses; and made them ashamed of losing even a moment’s chearfulness, on account of such trivial misfortunes. (HE 3.197) And yet, in his final assessment of More’s character, Hume claims that even this man of “the highest virtue” whose character “seems to come the

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nearest to the character of a classical author” (HE 3.332), lacked certain doxastic virtues, having succumbed to “weakness and superstition” (HE 3.221–2).16 In this respect, Hume contends that More is like most people whose characters are mixed (see, e.g., HE 5.542; cp. EHU 8.15). Thus, on Hume’s account, a person can possess many virtues without possessing them all. Hence, he rejects the unity of the virtues thesis. What’s more, he suggests that in some instances, it may be necessary for a person to lack one virtue so that he can possess another. To understand why Hume would make such a claim, one must note that on Hume’s account, the moral valence of certain character traits is dependent on the presence of other character traits. In the Treatise, for instance, he says, Courage and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make a tyrant and public robber. It is the same case with judgment and capacity, and all the qualities of that kind. They are indifferent in themselves to the interests of society, and have a tendency to the good or ill of mankind, according as they are directed by these other passions. (T 3.3.3.4) In a related vein, he echoes Cicero’s claim that “A high ambition, an elevated courage, is apt . . . in less perfect characters, to degenerate into a turbulent ferocity” (EPM 2.I.3).17 With these points in mind, Hume notes that in the case of Cromwell, discretion, which “in the conduct of ordinary life” is “the quality . . . most necessary for the execution of any useful enterprise,” could have been “a fault or imperfection” given Cromwell’s courage and ambition (EPM 6.I.8). Thus, Hume seems to think not merely that a person can possess many virtues without possessing them all but that in some cases it is not possible for a person to possess all the virtues. As in the case of the preceding consistency thesis, there is much more one could say about Hume’s moral philosophy, and about Humean virtue ethics more generally, as it relates to the alleged unity of the virtues. Nonetheless, the evidence noted here—especially Hume’s analyses of the characters of King James, Thomas More, and Oliver Cromwell—is sufficient to show that Hume rejects the unity thesis. It is not, in and of itself, sufficient to demonstrate that Hume also rejects the evaluative integrity thesis. This is not particularly surprising, given that this weaker thesis was not a live issue for debate in Hume’s time. At the very least, however, the evidence presented here is sufficient to warrant a reasonable suspicion that Hume is not deeply committed to the evaluative integrity thesis. Hence, Hume’s moral philosophy rejects globalism at least on the grounds that the consistency thesis is false and also, we might suspect, on the grounds that the evaluative integrity thesis is false.

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1.3 Summary In summary, the situationist challenge allegedly poses a problem for virtue ethics for two reasons. First, virtue ethics is committed to globalism and, thus, to claiming that character traits are constant, stable, and evaluatively integrated. Second, the evidence from social psychology shows that character traits are not constant and evaluatively integrated. But, as the evidence presented in this section suggests, Hume’s conception of virtue ethics is not committed to globalism. Therefore, the situationist challenge seems to fail as a criticism of Hume’s moral philosophy. In light of this conclusion, one might be tempted to declare victory for Hume against situationism, but that is a temptation one should resist because declaring victory at this point would be premature. What the evidence in this section shows is simply that the situationist challenge fails as a criticism of Hume’s moral philosophy in theory. Situationists like Doris, however, are not concerned simply with whether virtue ethics offers a theory that is salvageable in light of the evidence from social psychology. They are also, more importantly, concerned with whether a given conception of virtue ethics can provide “realistic and empirically informed ways for most human beings to improve their characters.”18 What remains to be seen is whether there is sufficient evidence to show that Hume’s moral philosophy, or evidence of Humean virtue ethics more generally, can offer an adequate reply to this objection. In other words, we need to assess whether the situationist challenge fails as a criticism of Hume’s moral philosophy, in practice. It is to this issue that I will turn next.

2. Culture In the first—and for quite some time the only—article to develop a direct and sustained Humean reply to the situationist challenge, Maria Merritt argues that Hume’s virtue ethics is better suited than Aristotelian virtue ethics to respond to situationism. She offers two principal reasons for her thesis. First, situationism targets conceptions of ethics which posit an excessively strong conception of what she calls the “motivational self-sufficiency of character,” according to which the motivational structure of virtues, in maturity and under normal circumstances, are independent of factors outside the agent, such as particular social relationships and settings (2000: 374). Given that Hume’s moral philosophy has a more modest and realistic conception of the motivational self-sufficiency of character, she argues, situationism poses a weaker threat to Hume’s account of virtue ethics.19 Second, Hume’s moral philosophy is better suited to account for what she calls the “sustaining social contribution to character.” In other words, people not only develop but also sustain certain character traits20 “in

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great part through [their] continued engagement with a number of social relationships and settings” (Merritt 2000: 376–7; cp. Russell 2009: 328). Of these two points, I would like to focus on the second since Hume scholars have failed to provide substantial and illuminating engagement with Merritt’s insights concerning the sustaining social contribution to character as it relates to the situationist challenge. This failure seems particularly surprising when considered in light of the quantity and quality of engagement that Confucian scholars have made on this issue.21 In this section, I would like to use recent insights from Confucian responses to situationism to elucidate Merritt’s claims regarding the extent to which Hume’s moral philosophy is well-suited to respond to the situationist challenge. In particular, I will focus on one key concept that makes Confucian responses to the situationism particularly intriguing: namely, ritual [li] since, as Eric Hutton notes, [I]f any element of Confucianism is hospitable to situationist psychology, it is most likely to be found in Confucian discussions of ritual. In turn, that means that if any lesson can be gleaned from Confucianism for constructing a situationist-friendly ethics that does not depend heavily on supposedly questionable conceptions of character, it will likely rest in the Confucian emphasis on ritual. (Hutton 2006: 48) My aim is to use Confucian insights regarding ritual and culture to highlight an undeveloped aspect of Hume’s moral philosophy22 and an opportunity for Humean virtue ethicists. 2.1 Ritual and Culture in Classical Confucian Philosophy To do so, I will need to answer three questions concerning Confucian23 virtue ethics: (1) What is ritual [li]? (2) How does it relate to culture? and (3) What is the significance of these two concepts—i.e., ritual and culture—to character development? Let me begin by addressing the first two questions jointly: what is ritual [li], and how is it related to culture? The term “ritual” [li] refers to a set of cultural prescriptions that govern a wide variety of human behavior “involving rite, ceremony, manners, or general deportment, that bind human beings and spirits together in networks of interacting roles within the family, within society, and with the numinous realm beyond” (Schwartz 1985: 67).24 These prescriptions include both (1) more formal and ornate ceremonial rituals, such as li related to family life (e.g., capping, marrying, mourning, etc.), li related to village life (e.g., drinking, banqueting, etc.), and li related to state life (e.g., visiting the Emperor, offering sacrifices to Heaven, etc.), as well as (2) more mundane and

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informal minute rituals, such as li related to manners, li related to decorum, li related to etiquette, etc. (e.g., ways of speaking to and of greeting others).25 The details of these various rituals need not concern us here. What is important, for present purposes, is to note that in classical Confucian philosophy, rituals are the constituents of a “way of life,” as such, they are “the fundamental building blocks of culture and society” (Kim 2016: 481; cp. Slingerland 2011; Olberding 2016). Thus, ritual and culture are essential elements of Confucian virtue ethics. Turning to the third question: what is the significance of ritual and culture to character development? The shorter answer is that ritual and culture are essential for virtues, but that short answer needs to be explained. What I need to show is the significance of ritualistic aspects of culture insofar as these provide sustaining social contributions to character in Confucian (and, consequently, in Humean) virtue ethics. Classical Confucian philosophers differ about the extent to which human nature is essentially good. Mencius tends to have a more positive view of human nature, and Xunzi tends to have a more neutral or negative view. There seems to be a consensus, however, on four general points. First, human beings are not born with fully developed virtues. Second, we are born with the capacity to develop virtues (Hutton 2006; Mower 2013).26 Third, to develop the virtues requires “long-term, intensive training” (Slingerland 2011: 404–5).27 Fourth, rituals are tools for cultivating virtues (Slingerland 2011: 410). Of these, the first three points have correlates in Western moral philosophy, both ancient and modern.28 What makes Confucianism interesting, for the purpose of my argument, is the fourth point, so let me explain in more detail how culture, in general, and ritual, in particular, function to cultivate character in Confucian virtue ethics. On the Confucian view, people are similar at birth. Their characters are built, for better or for worse, “from the steady accumulation of . . . seemingly minor events” (Kim 2016: 479; cp. Olberding 2016: 443). Virtuous people differ from vicious people in how they “borrow” external, situational elements to develop character traits (Olberding 2016: 429, 440).29 In other words, people become either virtuous or vicious depending both on whether and on how they participate in rituals designed to cultivate human excellence. I want to highlight that point again, in order to prevent misunderstanding. On the Confucian account, it is necessary not merely to perform rituals, but to perform the right kinds of rituals and to perform them well, such that in so doing one manifests both the proper external form and also the proper inner disposition (see, e.g., Confucius 2001; 8–9; Xunzi 2001: 280, 284).30 The “inner disposition” with which Confucian philosophers are concerned includes both people’s cognitive and their affective faculties. For instance, as Xunzi notes, li “reach their highest perfection” when both the form and the emotion are rightly ordered (Olberding 2016: 426, 429; cp. Xunzi 2001: 248).

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The essence of the idea is twofold. First, to reform a particular aspect of a person’s character, the person must engage in a practice aimed at reforming that aspect of his or her character. Second, to be effective, the person must not merely “go through the motions” but perform the practice attentively. For the sake of clarity, let me illustrate the idea with a more familiar example: repentance—specifically, attempting to cultivate kindness (in part) by repenting of a previous unkind act(s). Merely verbalizing the words of an apology, like “I’m sorry”—or worse yet offering a sadly all-too-common unapologetic apology, like “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you”—will not be sufficiently effective. The form of the practice and one’s manner of engagement must be much richer. For instance, one should regularly reflect on one’s actions with the aim of coming to a reflective understanding of one’s unkind act(s) both cognitively and affectively. When one identifies an act(s) of unkindness, one should offer an apology, sincerely, to the person(s) who was wronged and seek to make amends with the person(s). One should then take steps to reform one’s way of life in an effort to avoid making similar mistakes in the future. Ideally, such practices would be embedded in a shared way of life, as the practice of repentance is for religious Jews and traditional Christians. Thus, Confucian ritual practice aims to cultivate not merely people’s actions but also their understanding of events, and their corresponding desires, emotions, moods, and motivations (Mower 2013: 118–19).31 In particular, Confucian rituals aim to cultivate “virtuous emotions such as love, reverence, humility, gratitude, faith, and loyalty” (Sarkissian 2010a: 3).32 In essence, Confucian culture is designed to affect every aspect of life and to shape the entirety of people’s character (Mower 2013: 122). Hence, on the Confucian view, the excellence of people’s affective dispositions will be determined, in significant part, by the excellence of the rituals in which they participate (cp. Sarkissian 2010a: 12). So, one way that Confucian li are important in thinking about character development in light of the evidence from situationist social psychology in that they aim to be “effective for moral education precisely because they capitalize on the influence of situational minutiae” (Mower 2013: 122; cp. Hutton 2006: 45). In other words, as Amy Olberding notes, Confucian appeals “to custom, trained emotive and somatic responsiveness, and social emotional contagion all serve as mechanisms through which . . . [li] can simultaneously render us equal to the moral work of ordinary life and alleviate its burdens” (Olberding 2016: 443; cp. 441). Or, in the language of Walter Mischel and his colleagues, li aim to make the affairs of ordinary life easy by conditioning our “‘hot’, automatic, emotional ‘know how’ systems” to do the work that our “‘cool’, conscious, ‘knowing that’ systems” frequently do not seem up to the task of performing reliably in a given moment.33

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But there is a second way that li are perhaps even more important for thinking about character development in light of the situationist challenge. Ritual aims to cultivate not merely affective-motivational dispositions in general but ren in particular. In Confucian virtue ethics, “ren” is a virtuous affective-motivational disposition, commonly translated as “benevolence,” that involves a public-spirited and harmonious attention to caring for the needs of others (cp. Mower 2013: 126–7; Hutton 2006: 40).34 Moreover, it is a virtue that Confucian virtue ethicists aim not merely to cultivate but to “extend” such that it becomes more expansive in scope (see, e.g., Mencius 2001: 118–23; cp. Slingerland 2011: 406–10). In short, Confucian virtue ethics is particularly attentive to the complexities of the ethical life insofar as it insightfully incorporates insights both from human moral psychology and from human sociology. In other words, it is distinctly attentive to two issues at the heart of the debate about conceptions of virtue ethics in light of the situationist challenge: individual dispositions and situational social factors. In this respect, at least, Confucian virtue ethics seems to be a particularly rich resource for research at the nexus of virtue ethics and contemporary psychology. But what interest is any of this for Hume scholarship? For Hume scholars, a number of things should be rather striking about the Confucian engagement with situationism that I described earlier. For instance, both Confucians and Humeans focus on the affairs of “common” life and on cultivating the “hot,” as opposed to the “cool,” psychological processing systems related to moral motivation.35 Both emphasize the significance of habit and of “social emotional contagion.” And both highlight the central importance of humanity or benevolence.36 To the extent that these aspects of their moral philosophies are relevant for developing an adequate response to the situationist challenge, both Confucian virtue ethics and Humean virtue ethics are well-suited to respond to the evidence from contemporary social psychology. Noticeably absent from this list of similarities, however, is the one element of Confucian virtue ethics that, according to Hutton, is likely most apt for responding to the situationist challenge: namely, ritual [li] (Hutton 2006: 48). At first glance, it might seem that there are no Humean correlates to Confucian rituals. In what follows, however, I will argue that there are and that analyzing and developing these aspects of Hume’s moral theory present an important line of research for the future of Humean virtue ethics. 2.2 “Customs and Manners” in Hume’s Moral Philosophy Hume does not offer the type of robust conception of culture that one sees in Confucian philosophy, but he is not silent on the issue either. His discussions of what he calls the “customs and manners” of various groups is similar in, at least, the following three ways.

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Social Practices One way in which Hume’s conception of “customs and manners” is similar to what I am calling “culture” is with respect to the kinds of social practices it includes. On Hume’s account, the “customs and manners” of a group are not simply aspects of their political intercourse—i.e., those widely prevalent features of their distinct form of social life that are essential for communal governance. For example, in his essay “Politics as a Science,” he distinguishes the “customs and manners” of a nation from its laws. Similarly, he distinguishes the “customs and manners” of a people from their language. For instance, in his discussion of the Saxons in the first volume of the History of England, he notes that although their language was “purely Saxon,” their “manners and customs” were German (HE 1.162; App. 1). So, what Hume calls the “customs and manners” of a group seem to be a systemic set social practices that might include, but would certainly not be limited to aspects of their political intercourse, like their laws and language. Such social practices would also include things like a group’s forms of etiquette (e.g., greeting an elder with a low bow), their rites of passage (e.g., marking a girl’s passage into womanhood with a quinceañera, or marking a boy’s passage into manhood with a bar mitzvah), their holidays (e.g., annual commemorations of the departed, like the Dia de Muertos), and so forth. Social Groups A second way that Hume’s conception of “customs and manners” is similar to what I am calling “culture” is with respect to the kinds of social groups it includes. On Hume’s account, it is not only nations that have distinctive “customs and manners.” For example, in his essay “Of National Characters,” he suggests that not only nations but also races, ethnicities, professions, and vocations have varying sets of such social practices. Thus, on Hume’s account, one person could participate in a variety of cultures. Consider Vivaldi, for instance, who participated in his national culture as an Italian, in his professional culture as a musician, and in his vocational culture as a priest. So, now we have a little bit richer picture of Hume’s conception of “customs and manners.” On his account, “customs and manners” are systemic sets of social customs embodied by social groups of various sorts and sizes, some of which might overlap with others. Explanatory Significance A third way that Hume’s conception of “customs and manners” is similar to what I am calling “culture” is with respect to its explanatory significance. Hume’s essay “Of National Characters” is particularly revealing

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in this regard. In the essay, he distinguishes between the moral causes and the physical causes of national characters. Moral causes are those “circumstances, which are fitted to work on the mind as motives or reasons, and which render a peculiar set of manners habitual” to the members of a social group, such as a nation. Among these causes are things such as “the nature of the government, the revolutions of public affairs, the plenty or penury in which the people live, the situation of the nation with regard to its neighbours, and such like circumstances” (EMPL 198). How do these causes explain the emergent character of a social group? According to Hume, the character of a social group depends on moral causes because a social group is “nothing but a collection of individuals and the manners of individuals are frequently determined by” moral causes. These causes are effective in altering even those dispositions that the individuals “receive from the hand of nature” (EMPL 198). In essence, a social group’s “customs and manners” provide both a formative and a sustaining social contribution to people’s character. For instance, according to Hume, “[i]f courage be preserved, it must be by discipline, example, and opinion” (EMPL I.21.28–29). For this reason, military units use “martial discipline,” which employ the “uniformity and luster of . . . habit, the regularity of . . . figures and motions,” and “all the pomp and majesty of war” to help cultivate and sustain courage (T 2.3.4.3; DP 6.1). Some nations, such as “the old Romans,” foster such social practices and promote virtue; others, such as “modern Italians,” do not and, consequently, lack “courage and martial spirit” (EMPL II.2.11). Thus, on Hume’s account, (1) promoting honorable “customs and manners” results in the cultivation of certain virtues, as in the case of the courage of “the old Romans,” (2) failing to promote honorable “customs and manners” results in the failure to cultivate certain virtues, as in the case of the lack of courage in “modern Italians,” and (3) promoting ignoble “customers and manners” results in the cultivation of certain vices, as in the case of the “ignorance and brutality” of the Irish in the sixteenth century (HE 4.312.46). In fact, Hume not only appeals to “customs and manners” to explain character development, but he also identifies at least one prominent aspect of his moral psychology that helps to show why “customs and manners” have this kind of effect. He “runs” his reader “all over the globe” to show that culture functions as a moral cause of character. In doing so, he notes that the “circumstances, which are fitted to work on the mind” in a way that shapes character are able to do so because of a particular mental faculty: namely, sympathy (EMPL 204). Thus, Hume recognizes an important connection between “customs and manners” and “sympathy”—and, consequently, “benevolence.”37 This is interesting since the connections among this cluster of concepts in Hume’s moral philosophy bears a striking resemblance to the connection between li and ren in Confucian moral philosophy. Therefore, the aspect

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of Confucian virtue ethics that is potentially most significant for responding to the situationist challenge is not missing from Hume’s ethics. 2.3 Summary In summary, Merritt is right to note that Hume’s conception of the sustaining social contribution to character is a potentially powerful resource in responding to the situationist challenge. The potential strength of this resource is due not only to his moral psychology but also to what we might call his moral sociology, especially his recognition of the power of “customs and manners” in fostering and sustaining virtues, especially benevolence. Within Hume’s moral philosophy, however, this resource largely remains in potentia, given that he never develops a conception of culture in anything close to the way that Confucian philosophers develop a conception of li as a way of life with one of its principal aims as the cultivation of ren. I am inclined to see this as a distinct weakness of Hume’s moral philosophy, though I suspect others will disagree.38 In any event, an underdeveloped conception of culture is not an intrinsic feature of a Humean conception of virtue ethics. In fact, we might rightly regard it as an interesting opportunity for future research, as I will suggest presently.

3. The Future of Humean Virtue Ethics In an attempt to avoid possible misunderstandings, let me begin these concluding remarks by highlighting a shift that occurred at the end of the last section. In the previous sections, I focused primarily on Hume’s moral philosophy. In this section, I will be shifting to discuss the future of Humean virtue ethics—that is, contemporary conceptions of virtue ethics that draw upon a substantial set of insights from Hume’s moral theory. In other words, I will be using the phrase “Humean virtue ethics” in much that same way that others use the phrase “Aristotelian virtue ethics” to refer to those conceptions of virtue ethics that draw upon substantial sets of insights from Aristotle’s moral theory without being committed to every aspect of his philosophical system. With this clarification in mind, I would like to address three questions regarding the future of Humean virtue ethics: (1) Why should Humean virtue ethics be of particular interest to contemporary ethical debates? (2) How might the things that make Humean virtue ethics interesting in theory be developed to show how it could be important in practice? (3) What would be the benefits of doing research that explains the practical importance of Humean virtue ethics? Regarding the first question, Humean virtue ethics should be of particular interest to contemporary ethical debates for at least five reasons. First, Humean virtue ethics is not directly threatened by the situationist

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challenge because it is not committed to globalism. Second, it is compatible with the evidence from social psychology on which the situationist challenge is built. Third, it prominently features one of the most promising aspects for cultivating helping behavior; namely, what Hume calls “sympathy,” or what Daniel Batson calls “empathic concern” (see, e.g., Batson 2009; 2011). Fourth, Humean virtue ethics has the resources to develop a rich sense of the ways that virtues are developed and maintained by sustaining social contributions to character. For instance, Humean virtue ethicists could develop conceptions of “customs and manners” that could aid in the development and maintenance both of a human sense of sympathy and, consequently, of virtues like benevolence. Fifth, and consequently, Humean virtue ethics has the potential to develop a rich and noble sense of culture—one that would be similar to the Confucian conception of the relationship between li and ren, but without certain distinctively parochial and potentially problematic Confucian political commitments. Regarding the second question, the theoretically promising aspects of Humean virtue ethics could be used to help explain what empirically informed Humean conceptions of “customs and practices”39 could look like. This would require developing cultural prescriptions both at more widely encompassing levels of society (e.g., legislation, linguistic practice,40 religious practices) and—perhaps more importantly—at more narrowly encompassing levels of society (e.g., educational practices). In this way, Hume scholars could help to offer practical guidance for developing systemic social practices that help to “instill” humanity and justice “into the tempers of men” and women (see, e.g., EMPL 25). Regarding the third question, there are likely a variety of benefits, but I will close by mentioning two that strike me as particularly noteworthy. The first is for Hume scholars. By developing empirically informed conceptions of “customs and practices,” those interested in Humean virtue ethics will have to engage collaboratively with a more diverse set of scholars who do research in complementary systems and traditions. These would include, for example, such seemingly unrelated groups as Confucians, feminists working in the ethics of care, and members of traditional religions that emphasize ascetic practice for the cultivation of the affective-motivational aspects of the soul.41 The second is for the societies they serve. By developing empirically informed conceptions of “customs and practices,” those interested in Humean virtue ethics will offer the societies they serve conceptions of common life methodized and corrected (cp. EHU 12.25). In so doing, they will have shown themselves to be philosophers, but amidst all their philosophy, they would have shown themselves to be still human beings (cp. EHU 1.6).42 In short, what I am suggesting is that the future of Humean virtue ethics should be more Humean.

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Notes 1. Cp. Harman (1999, 2000) and Doris (1998). For present purposes, I will set stability aside (cp. Doris 2002: 23) and focus on consistency and, to a lesser extent, on evaluative integrity. 2. For examples of the ways such situational factors affect people’s behavior, see, e.g., Darley and Batson (1973), Haney et al. (1973), Isen and Levin (1972), Latané and Darley (1970), Milgram (1963, 1965, 1972, 1974), and Zimbardo et al. (1973). See also Asch (1951), Baron (1997), Baron and Bronfen (1994), Baron and Thomley (1994), Faber (1971), and Haney and Zimbardo (1977). 3. Doris suggests that rather than conceiving of character as “evaluatively integrated associations of robust traits,” we should conceive of it as a fragmented, “evaluatively disintegrated association of situation-specific local traits” (Doris 2002: 64). Thus, rather than thinking of people as having global character traits like courage, we should think of them as having local character traits like “physical courage” or “moral courage,” or even more specifically, as having traits like “‘battlefield physical courage,’ ‘storms physical courage,’ ‘heights physical courage,’ and ‘wild animal physical courage’” (Doris 2002: 62). 4. See, e.g., Harman (1999), Doris (2002), and Doris and Stich (2005); cp. Doris (1998) and Harman (2000). 5. See, e.g., Hutton (2006), Kim (2016), Olberding (2016), Mower (2013), and Slingerland (2011). 6. Maria Merritt’s “Virtue Ethics and Situationist Social Psychology” (2000) was the first article with the principal aim of offering a direct and sustained Humean reply to situationism. More recently, Frykholm (2012) and Pettigrove (2015) have published articles on Hume’s moral theory in which they note the relevance of their principal line of argument to the situationist challenge. 7. See, e.g., Harman (1999) and Merritt (2000). 8. In this chapter, I argue that Hume denies the consistency thesis and does not think of virtue as a threshold concept. In his chapter, Phil Reed argues that Hume affirms the consistency thesis and does think of virtue as a threshold concept. As I see it, there is a two-part explanation for our apparent difference of opinions. One part of the explanation stems from our interpretation of certain ambiguous passages in Hume’s texts. The other, more fundamental, part of the explanation stems from a disagreement about how Hume uses the term “virtue.” On my reading, Hume treats the term “virtue” like he treats the terms “knowledge” and “identity.” Each term can be used in a “strict” (or “philosophical”) sense, on the one hand, or in a “common” (though not “vulgar”) sense, on the other. What distinguishes these uses is not that the former alone is genuine, or proper. Both uses may be genuine, or proper. Rather, what distinguishes them is that the former has more stringent truth conditions than the latter. So, for instance, on my reading, Hume can grant that people may not have knowledge of some matter strictly speaking (because, e.g., the matter cannot be known with the kind of certainty that the schoolmen require) and still claim, genuinely and properly, that people have knowledge of that matter (cp. EHU 12; T 1.4.7.10ff.). Likewise, he can grant that a mass at t3 may not be identical to a mass at t1 strictly speaking (because, e.g., a small part of the mass was removed at t2) and still claim, genuinely and properly, that the mass at t1 and the mass at t3 are identical (cp. T 1.4.4.8). Similarly, he can grant that some people may not have a particular virtue strictly

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19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

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speaking (because, e.g., they possess the virtue to a lesser degree than more ideal agents) and still claim, genuinely and properly, that those people have a particular virtue. By using terms in this way, he is acknowledging both that (1) there is a sense of various terms that may be of interest to philosophers in certain contexts, and more importantly, that (2) there is a sense of various terms that may be more useful and appropriate for a pragmatically minded philosophy of common life, methodized and corrected. As I understand our arguments, Reed tends to interpret Hume as using the term “virtue” in the first sense, and I tend to interpret Hume as using the term “virtue” in the second sense—cp. Miller’s description of the disagreement between philosophers and psychologists regarding minimal threshholds for possessing character traits (2013b: 16). As with many interpretive disagreements in the history of philosophy, I take it that this is a point on which reasonable people can differ and from which charitable readers can benefit. See, e.g., EPM 6.20; 8.12. See, e.g., Frykholm (2015: 2176–8); see also Merritt (2000: 373–4); Pettigrove (2015); cp. Slingerland (2001) and Swanton (2003 and 2007). See Doris’s description of local traits and the fragmentation of character (e.g., 2002: 62). As in, e.g., Darley and Batson (1973), Haney et al. (1973), Milgram (1963, 1965, 1972, 1974), and Zimbardo et al. (1973). See, e.g., Isen and Levin (1972); cp. Baron (1997), Baron and Bronfen (1994); Baron and Thomley (1994). See, e.g., Latané and Darley (1970); see also Zimbardo et al. (1973), Haney and Zimbardo (1977); cp. Asch (1951). Scotus, for instance, seems to have rejected the view—see, e.g., Langston (2008). For a more detailed discussion of Hume’s analysis of More’s character, especially as it relates to his religious beliefs, see Vitz (2011). For more on the particularist nature of Hume’s conception of virtue, see Frykholm (2015); cp. Pettigrove (2015). This is what Christian Miller calls “the Realism Challenge”—see Miller (2013a: 82–3); cp. Miller (2014: 210ff.). See also Doris (2002) and Sarkissian (2010b). For insight into some of the background details regarding Miller’s claim, see Miller (2013b). That Hume’s conception of virtue ethics would have a more modest and realistic conception of the motivational self-sufficiency of character should not come as a surprise. Given Hume’s naturalism and his methodological empiricism, his conception of virtuous agents is drawn not from a preconceived notion of an ideal moral exemplar but “from careful and exact experiments, and the observation of those particular effects, which result from its different circumstances and situations” (T Intro.8)—see also his comments regarding strength of mind in DP 5, mentioned in Section 1.1. E.g., “compassion, kindness, generosity; fairness, justice, fidelity to trust; loyalty, open-heartedness, consideration, or other excellences of friendship and love; confident self-possession with respect to aggressive feelings, physical and social fears, and sexual desires” (Merritt 2000: 376). See, e.g., Hutton (2006), Kim (2016), Mower (2013), Olberding (2016), Sarkissian (2010a and 2010b), and Slingerland (2011). Or, at the very least, a significantly underdeveloped aspect of Hume’s moral philosophy. By “Confucian,” I have in mind the philosophical views expressed, e.g., in the classic works of Confucius, Mencius, and Xunzi—as opposed, e.g., to related views expressed in the later works of neo-Confucian authors in China, Japan,

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24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38.

39. 40.

Rico Vitz or Korea. For the sake of clarity, in what follows, any use phrases like “Chinese philosophy,” “Confucian philosophy,” and the like will refer to the classical Chinese Confucian philosophy that is expressed in Confucius (2001), Mencius (2001), and Xunzi (2001). Cp. Kim (2016); Slingerland (2011). See, Fan (2012); see also Eno (1990); Hutton (2006: 56n34); Olberding (2016: 438); Slingerland (2011: 410); cp. Eno (1990); Li (2007). See Confucius (2001), Mencius (2001), and Xunzi (2001). Cp. Sarkissian (2010a: 11); Hutton (2006: 53n15); Mencius (2001: 125–9, 149–51). Regarding similar claims about these first three points, see Aristotle (1941), Nicomachean Ethics II.1 [1103a–1104a]. Thus, like their ancient Greek and Roman counterparts, classical Confucian philosophers recognize that virtues are cultivated by habitual practice. Unlike ancient Greeks and Romans, however, Confucian philosophy offers an extensive development of ritual [li] aimed at cultivating and refining people’s character. In this regard, Confucianism has a strength that its ancient Greek-Roman counterparts tend to lack: namely, its attention to and, more importantly, its prescription of situational behaviors that influence human actions and, consequently, help to foster human character traits. Cp. Confucius (2001: 48); Xunzi (2001: 257, 278, 281). Cp. Kim (2016: 480); see also Mower (2013: 122). Cp. Xunzi (2001: 257, 274, 280); Slingerland (2011: 410–11); Sarkissian (2010a: 6). Regarding aretaic obligations to cultivate affective-motivational dispositions, see Vitz (2017); cp. Vitz and Espinoza (2017). Regarding this point, see Slingerland (2011: 415) and his references to Mischel (1968), Mischel et al. (2002), and Mischel (2009); cp. Slingerland (2014); Sarkissian (2010a); Kim (2016). Thus, the concept of ren in Confucian virtue ethics is akin to the concept of humanity in Humean virtue ethics and to the concept of care in certain versions of feminist ethics. Regarding the latter, see, e.g., Pang-White (2009); cp. Li (1994). See, e.g., Hume’s famous description of the motivational roles of “reason” and of “passion” at T 2.3.3.10. E.g., ren in Confucian philosophy, and “humanity,” “extensive sympathy,” and “benevolence” in Hume’s moral philosophy. See, e.g., Vitz (2004 and 2015); cp. Vitz (2002). For instance, some might object that the intentional development of a system of “customs and manners” aimed at cultivating certain virtues is incompatible with Hume’s conception of liberal government. I do not have the space to develop either this line of objection or a related reply here, but let me at least note briefly why I do not find the objection compelling. Even if it rightly identifies certain kinds of problems inherent in, e.g., communitarian-style virtues legislation, it misses a more fundamental point. There is much more to culture than a system of laws. One of the most important things that contemporary studies in social psychology seem to suggest is that our conceptions of ethics ought to be developed with greater attention not simply to the relationships between people and their systems of government but also, more importantly, to the relationships between human beings and the nongovernmental aspects of their culture, in general, and of their subcultures, in particular. I.e., Conceptions of “customs and practices” that are tested by and reformed in light of empirical evidence—e.g., as methods of treatment are in psychology. Cp. the Confucian conception of the “rectification of names.”

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41. Especially, e.g., “Eastern” religions like Orthodox Christianity, Buddhism, and Hinduism. 42. I would like to thank audiences at the fourth annual Oxford Brookes International Hume Workshop—especially Dan O’Brien, Lorenzo Greco, Max Hayward, Peter Millican, and Hsueh Qu—as well as the 2016 Pacific Regional Meeting of the American Philosophical Association—especially Emily Kelahan, Lorraine Besser, Katie Paxman, Lewis Powell, and Jason Kawall—for helpful comments on early versions of this chapter. I would also like to thank Christian Miller for inviting me to think more deeply about the relationship between Hume’s moral philosophy and contemporary psychology, and Phil Reed for offering exceptionally helpful comments on more recent versions of this chapter.

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5

Empathy, Autism, and Hume Katharina Paxman

The sentiments of others can never affect us, but by becoming, in some measure, our own . . . While they remain conceal’d in the minds of others, they can never have any influence upon us: And even when they are known, if they went no farther than the imagination, or conception; that faculty is so accustom’d to objects of every different kind, that a mere idea, tho’ contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, wou’d never alone be able to affect us. (T 3.3.2.3)

David Hume’s philosophy was deeply impacted by his observations of the way that passions are so easily communicated from one person to another. He observed that we find great satisfaction in mutual communication of feelings with one another, and that we tend to seek companionship in order to allow the natural mirroring of feeling to enhance and excite passionate experience.1 In addition to the potential pleasure of shared sentiment, Hume noted its role in motivating other-regarding behavior, and ultimately moral reasoning. For Hume, affective communication is central to his conception of human nature as one that makes moral distinctions. He presents ‘sympathy,’ the mental propensity responsible for our tendency to adopt the passions of others, as a universal principle of human nature. Hume outlines the mechanics of sympathy in Book II of A Treatise of Human Nature, “Of the Passions,” and, perhaps more famously, he goes on in Book III, “Of Morals,” to place our ability to adopt in ourselves the emotions of others at the center of his theories of moral judgment and psychology. What, then, would Hume make of the existence of individuals who do not easily (or perhaps ever) experience this easy communication of emotion? Could such individuals make moral distinctions of the sort Hume purports to explain? Need Hume’s system of mind find a way to accommodate apparent exceptions to his proposed universal mental mechanism of fellow-feeling? Or would examples of individuals who cannot easily adopt the emotions of others serve as an empirical challenge to Hume’s claims about the process and nature of making moral judgments?

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These questions are worth considering because contemporary psychology recognizes categories of individuals who appear to present just this sort of challenge to Hume’s strong claims about the fundamental role of shared sentiment. Prominent among these cases, Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is the name given for a range of developmental disorders with a spectrum of symptoms and manifestations. Among the symptoms taken to be most common and typically experienced by individuals with ASD is difficulty in social interaction and communication, particularly insofar as that communication depends upon recognizing and understanding mental states and emotions. Indeed, in much of the literature and discussion of the various forms of ASD, it is characterized specifically as an empathy disorder. Hume may not have anticipated the reality of such kinds of human experience in his intuitions about the necessary and central role played by shared sentiment. Contrary to much of what Hume has said about the necessity of the communication and reception of shared emotion to human happiness and moral flourishing, many individuals with high-functioning ASD (henceforth, individuals with HF-ASD) lead satisfying, morally informed lives. More particularly, it has been suggested that the case of the individual with HF-ASD may have more far-reaching implications for Hume’s moral theory than the mere need to re-evaluate his views on the importance of shared sentiment to all human experience. In 2002, Jeanette Kennett published a paper on the topic of moral reasoning and individuals with HF-ASD, entitled, “Autism, Empathy and Moral Agency.” Kennett makes the case that the capacity for successful moral reasoning evident in some empathy-impaired individuals, including individuals with HFASD, is empirical evidence against a Humean-style2 moral psychology, which presents the ability to empathize as central to moral judgment. She points out that individuals with HF-ASD are capable of acting as moral agents, meaning they are both capable of moral judgment and find themselves motivated by said judgments, despite being severely limited in their ability to understand and share the sentiments of others. Kennett argues that their moral agency is a result of their intact reasoning skills, which she suggests makes them Kantian-style moral agents, and provides proof that, in contrast to what Hume held, moral judgments3 are products of our capacity to reason, not our capacity for empathy. Since the paper’s publication, it has been cited widely and treated many times in the contemporary literature,4 particularly in debates about the nature of moral reasoning. Her position has been critiqued for both its treatment of autism and its rejection of contemporary Humean-style moral psychologies.5 Given these critiques, we can conclude that whether a contemporary account of moral psychology that is empirically adequate can be characterized as broadly Humean is at least an open question. While contemporary Humean-style moral psychology has been defended from this type of critique, we may still ask, what of the historical

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Hume? Does Hume’s theory of mind and moral psychology as found in the Treatise provide him with the tools he needs to accommodate this type of variation in the human experience? This is a separate and interesting question about the historical Hume in and of itself. In this chapter, I am concerned specifically with Hume’s Treatise account of the sympathy mechanism,6 as opposed to the use that has been made of Humean-style moral psychology in contemporary debate. As we find in the quotation at the beginning of this chapter, Hume takes it that in order for the pains and pleasures of others to inform our moral judgments and influence our actions, we need to feel them ourselves. I ask whether Hume’s account of how it is we come to adopt the emotions of others, and come to not only know but also feel the passions of those around us, can accommodate the contemporary empirical evidence of empathy-impaired individuals who are nonetheless capable of making moral judgments. In particular, I explore the possibility of a Humean account of the function (or failure to function) of the sympathy mechanism in such individuals with HF-ASD. I ultimately argue that on a close reading of Hume’s sympathy mechanism, the apparent empathy impairment of the autistic individual is not an issue with their ability to experience the affective states that result from the operation of his sympathy mechanism (what is called in the contemporary literature, affective empathy) but rather a difficulty in detecting the passionate mental state of another in the first place (cognitive empathy or mentalizing). Once individuals with HF-ASD acquire the belief that someone is experiencing a particular passion, I argue, Hume can explain their subsequent moral judgments with his standard account, including his reliance on shared sentiment.

1. Hume and Exceptions to the Neurotypical It should not surprise us that ASD-type conditions do not appear to be on Hume’s radar in the Treatise. The formal recognition of autism as a psychological condition dates back first to the 1950s, when Kanner and Eisenberg specified the first diagnostic criteria (1956) and then 1980 when it was first listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (APA 1980). Earlier accounts of what we might retroactively identify as cases of ASD are scattered and speculative (Frith 2003: ch. 3). We should not assume, however, that Hume was ignorant of the existence of mental disorders, whether developmental or acquired mental illness. Hume himself was subject to depression in his youth, which a physician at the time diagnosed as “the disease of the learned.”7 It seems likely that an understanding of the way in which the mind might behave atypically informed his account of the typical workings of the mind. Therefore, we may with some hope of an answer ask, how did Hume understand the place of what we might now identify as non-neurotypical conditions in his account of the human mind?

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Interestingly, Hume offers a rather direct acknowledgement of nontypical mental dispositions in his Treatise account of moral reasoning.8 In “Moral distinctions deriv’d from a moral sense,” Hume engages in a discussion of the problems with the category of ‘nature’ and the ‘natural’ when applied to the human mind. He finds typical usages of this distinction unhelpful and ambiguous, but nevertheless offers an understanding of the distinction that he takes to be useful in identifying the kind of typical moral reasoning event that he identifies here with a moral sense. What is ‘natural’ in this case, he says, is that which ‘frequently’ arises in human experience, and it is to be contrasted with that which ‘rarely’ arises (T 3.1.2.8). Thus, of moral reasoning he is able to claim, [I]f ever there was any thing, which cou’d be call’d natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality certainly may; since there never was any nation in the world, nor any single person in any nation, who was utterly depriv’d of them, and who never, in any instance, show’d the least approbation or dislike of manners. These sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and temper, that without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or madness, ’tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them. (T 3.1.2.8) This strong language about the universality of sentiments of morality is reflective of Hume’s general project of characterizing the human mind in terms of universal principles and mechanisms. In developing his account of mind, Hume asserts that ’tis obvious, that nature has preserv’d a great resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the mind, as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in shape or size, their structure and composition are in general the same. (T 2.1.11.5) Such assumptions about the universal nature of the basic structure of the human mind are a necessary foundation for Hume’s project of using observation and experiment to identify principles of mind that “we must endeavor to render . . . as universal as possible” (T Intro.8).9 But when we consider again the last sentence of T 3.1.2.8, we get a sense of potential limiting factors to that universality: “[Moral] sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and temper, that without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or madness, ’tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them” (italics are mine).10 This suggests that along with the typical portrait of mind, which is confirmed by the (near)

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universality of certain principles of mental operation, there are instances of the atypical, which need to be explained. Hume in fact appears to support his claim to the universal nature of the mechanisms of human moral reasoning with reference to exceptions that are only to be found in cases where there has been clear and serious disruption to normal modes of thought, such as in cases of disease and madness. The cases we will consider next, primarily of individuals with HF-ASD and then briefly of individuals diagnosed with psychopathy, fit Hume’s understanding of exceptions to the natural and universal. They are rare, and generally we identify them through observations of apparently nontypical operations of mind. Hume is clearly aware that there are circumstances under which mental mechanisms and principles that he otherwise identifies as ‘universal’ are either not present, or function non-typically, whether from birth or acquired via disease or accident. Hume’s sympathy mechanism as an explanation for the human propensity to adopt the emotions of others—to empathize—is a prime example of the type of universal mental mechanism that Hume takes to be common to all but those who are subject to such rare variations. In order to provide a Humean account of the type of non-neurotypical, empathy-impaired minds that are under consideration here, it is essential to understand what we mean by empathy, how Hume understood the act of empathizing, and in what way he would understand such cases to be a deviation from the norm.

2. Contemporary Characterizations of Empathy Hume offers as a fundamental principle of his moral theory that “sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions” (T 3.3.6.1). Hume’s use of the term ‘sympathy’ differs from our contemporary usage. It is more appropriately understood as a kind of empathic mental propensity.11 However, to say that Humean sympathy is equivalent to our modern concept of empathy is still only helpful in a limited way—primarily because of the variety of trends in contemporary usage of the concept of empathy. In recent years, empathy has been a topic of intense study in a multitude of discussions and disciplines, including moral theory, moral psychology, developmental psychology, neuroscience, and education, among others. Not surprisingly given its broad usage and application, the term is subject to a variety of connotations and meanings. (One paper points out that “there are many definitions of sympathy and empathy, almost as many as there are researchers who study the topic” (Decety and Charminade 2003: 127).) Even a brief look at the literature on the subject reveals that the concept of empathy has had wide and inconsistent application. To shed light on the role that any particular characterization of empathy is playing, I will give a brief outline of what I take to be the main areas of interest, and sometimes conflict, in the way the concept is used in different discussions.

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First, let us consider a distinction between two uses of empathy suggested by Uta Frith, a key theorist in discussions of autism: instinctive empathy and intentional empathy. Instinctive empathy12 is a “basic emotional response that just spills out” (Frith 2003: 111), often accompanied by autonomic (i.e., bodily) responses. For instance, I may see that another person is injured and have an instant emotional, even physiological, response. Importantly, this kind of empathic response does not require an ability to identify and understand the mental states of others. This is empathy as ‘emotional contagion.’ Instances of this type of empathy can be as simple as becoming agitated in a room full of agitated people, without knowing why they are upset, or laughing when you walk into a room filled with laughter, without knowing the joke. It can also account for more complex instances in which we find ourselves feeling (even a mere shadow of) what we are unreflectively perceiving others to be feeling. Crying because someone else is upset, smiling automatically when someone smiles at us, or flinching when a character in a movie is frightened could all be examples of this kind of empathy. By contrast, intentional empathy is “linked to understanding the reasons for another person’s sadness or fear,” or other mental states (Frith 2003: 112). This kind of empathy requires that the empathizer have a ‘theory of mind’13 they can draw on to recognize and make sense of the sentiments of others. In such cases the empathizer attributes to the distressed person certain beliefs and reasons for their mental states. Frith describes it as “the ability to predict relationships between external states of affairs and internal states of mind” (2003: 77). Also called ‘mentalizing,’ empathy understood in this way involves forming beliefs about the mental states of others based on what is observable in their interactions with the world. Empathy characterized in this way is about what we understand. It is “the ability to conceptualize other people’s inner worlds and to reflect on their thoughts and feelings” (Gillberg 1992: 835). Discussions of empathy adopting this characterization often include mention of various theories of how it is we come to cognize the mental states of others.14 The distinction between empathy that is a pre-reflective contagion response and empathy that involves attributing mental states to others, suggests a related distinction: that between empathy as feeling and empathy as understanding. This difference is often noted in empathy discussions by distinguishing between affective and cognitive empathy.15 Affective empathy is “the vicarious affective response to another person,” while cognitive empathy is “the cognitive awareness of another person’s internal states, that is, his thoughts, feelings, perceptions and intentions” (Hoffman 2000: 29–30). Simply put, this is the distinction between feeling and thinking—feeling the mental states we perceive in others versus understanding the mental states we perceive in others. We may experience both in empathizing with someone, but it is also possible to experience

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one without the other. At least, they do not seem prima facie to require each other to function in an individual. I can understand that you are feeling sad and why, without feeling sad myself. On the other hand, I may find myself feeling sad because I perceive your sadness, without understanding how or why you are sad. This distinction has obvious similarities to the instinctive versus intentional empathy distinction, and indeed, there is typically considerable overlap between these suggested categories as we seek to apply them to any particular instance of empathic behavior. But I would suggest there is value in not collapsing them into a single distinction, as the focus of each pair is different. When instinctive empathy is contrasted with intentional empathy, we are noting the difference between an automatic, pre-reflective (perhaps even subconscious) experience of the emotion we perceive in another, versus a reflective attribution to them of a mental state. Application of the affective/cognitive distinction, on the other hand, concerns whether the experience involves feeling, not whether it was a product of pre-reflective contagion. Consider, for instance, the experience of feeling the sadness and pain of another when reading a news report that gives an account of them as a victim of some tragedy. In such a case, my reflection on the information I am reading has allowed me to gain a robust intentional empathy in the form of an understanding of their beliefs, thoughts, and feelings. This understanding may in turn lead me to feel the things I understand them to feel, which would be an experience of affective empathy. Note that a single experience of empathizing may have both cognitive and affective elements (such as the preceding newspaper example), but instinctive empathy and intentional empathy appear to be describing distinct mental events, since the latter distinction determines whether it is an automatic, pre-reflective response, or a mental act of attributing a mental state to another person. Intentional empathy is contrasted with the automatic nature of instinctive empathy, in that it concerns the formation of beliefs in which we attribute particular emotional states to other people. It may or may not be accompanied by affective response. Cognitive empathy also involves belief formation and need not involve affective response, and generally implies not just an ability to attribute a mental state to someone but to understand why she feels that way, what beliefs she is likely to have, what behaviors one might anticipate from someone in that emotional state, etc. Intentional empathy and cognitive empathy generally apply to the same phenomena—though this is not the case for instinctive empathy and affective empathy. All instances of instinctive empathy are affective in nature, but not all cases of affective empathy need be the result of pre-reflective emotional contagion. In addition to these distinctions in conceptual approaches to empathy, we need to consider the forms in which empathy has been posited and observed in the empirical sciences. The reality of vicarious affective

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responses is attested to in research on both development and neurology. For instance, mimicry in babies of facial expression and emotional state can be observed within the first few days of life (Darwell 1998). There is also neurological evidence of a ‘resonance phenomena,’ a neurologically hard-wired, distributed mechanism that causes activity in certain significant parts of the brain upon perception of actions and emotions of another. Effectively, this amounts to the automatic activation of one’s own neurological representation of certain feelings when perceiving those feelings in others (Decety and Charminade 2003). Antonio Damasio has suggested that the brain can automatically and through our imaginative abilities simulate certain emotional states internally (2003). He argues that this occurs through the rapid modification of the ‘body maps’ that our brain constantly provides us with of our physical state. This kind of account of the neurological simulation of perceived sensitive states is also in keeping with literature on the reality of ‘mirror neurons,’ which have been found to activate in individuals merely observing sensitive states, and connected to the experience of affective empathy.16 Two more observations about characterizations of empathy are worth making before moving on. First, in regard to the interaction between the terms ‘sympathy’ and ‘empathy,’ sympathy,17 understood as feelings for another of concern, pity, care, etc., is often taken to play a role in empathizing, but I suggest it is not a necessary component. It might be said that sympathy is present in an empathic experience when one has ‘the right kind of’ or ‘an appropriate’ emotional response. But such a response need not always be present in an empathic experience, since to empathize is to ‘know’ what another feels, whether cognitively or affectively, whereas sympathy has as its object another’s well-being.18 Whether a characterization of empathy does (or should) include this kind of sympathetic response is at times a source of confusion or disagreement in the literature. Second, in characterizing empathy we need to ask ourselves what exactly is being characterized. Discussions tend to move between defining empathy in one of three ways: one, as a particular episode or token of empathy, two, as a skill or ability that is possessed by individuals to varying degrees, and three, as the underlying causes or explanations of empathic phenomenon. Which of these kinds of definitions an author offers will tell us a lot about what they think empathy is. In order to fruitfully apply these observations about how empathy may be treated, I suggest considering the following short list of questions whenever we approach a characterization of empathy:19 1. Does the kind of empathy in question require that the empathizer possess some kind of theory of mind (understood as a robust ability to attribute mental states to others, and predict responses and behaviors)?

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2. Is the empathy in question automatic, like a contagion, or is it a kind of response in which we may or may not choose to engage? 3. Is the empathy in question affective in nature? Is it necessary that an empathic event include an affective response to the (perceived) mental state of the other person?20 4. Is it cognitive in nature? Is it necessary that the empathizer understand the mental state of the other person? 5. Is the phenomena grounded in or to be identified with particular neurological responses? 6. Is concern about well-being (sympathy or compassion) a necessary part of the empathic response? 7. Are we characterizing (a) an event (token) of empathy, (b) the skill or ability to empathize, or (c) an explanation of the underlying cause or process of an empathic experience? In what follows, I will consider, first, the kind of empathy represented in Hume’s sympathy mechanism, and second, the question of whether or in what way individuals with HF-ASD lack empathy. Application of these questions will help determine whether Hume’s claim that his sympathy mechanism plays a necessary role in moral judgment can accommodate the phenomenon of empathy-impaired individuals, such as those with HF-ASD, who nevertheless are capable of both making moral judgments and being motivated by said judgments.

3. Hume’s Sympathy Mechanism Offering an analysis of empathy in Hume is no easy task, and a quick glance at current scholarship on Hume reveals an entire cottage industry of treating his conceptualization of sympathy and the role of empathic phenomena in his moral psychology. The chapters in this volume by Lorraine Besser, Lorenzo Greco, and Annette Pierdziwol all treat the complex role played by Humean sympathy in his moral philosophy. My aim in this chapter is more modest, at least as it pertains to characterizing Humean sympathy. The application of sympathy to his account of moral judgment and motivation that Hume offers in Book III of the Treatise expands the concept beyond the basic associative mechanism of mind introduced in Book II.21 But this complex empathic dimension of his moral psychology is grounded in the basic mechanism with which he first introduces the technical term ‘sympathy,’ and it is this more narrow conceptualization of sympathy that I focus on in this chapter. This I take to be foundational to the empathic mental phenomena necessary for Hume’s account of moral judgment.22 If autism does indeed consist in the absence of this type of empathy, then the ability of the individual with HF-ASD to make moral judgments would present problematic empirical evidence for Hume’s account of moral judgment. But if HF-ASD can be shown to involve a

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distinct kind of empathy impairment from the type of empathy involved in Hume’s sympathy mechanism, there is still potential for it to be determined that individuals with HF-ASD, and everyone else who engages in moral judgment, do so in a Humean manner. Hume first introduces sympathy as a principle of mind in Book II of the Treatise, “Of the Passions.” This mental mechanism is a ‘principle of communication,’23 that Hume offers as an explanation for our tendency to adopt the passions, sentiments, and opinions that we perceive in other people. Hume introduces it with the following claim: No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and in its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to our own. (T 2.1.11.2) This ‘propensity,’ Hume assumes to be universal; found in all people, from the very young to the aged and educated. For Hume, the tendency to communicate sentiments and inclinations is evidenced in the general uniformity of humor between persons with some kind of proximity to one another, whether between two companions or even within a nation. But Hume does not merely describe his observation of this universal disposition to share sentiment, he grounds it in an explanation drawn from his associationist theory of human nature. Hume gives sympathy a technical account, isolating and naming a particular set of mental mechanisms, themselves explained via the most fundamental principles within his theory of mind.24 His account of this ‘sympathy mechanism’ is as follows: First, we become aware of the sentiments of another person from external signs, combined with our own abilities to make inferences from these signs. Once we have judged them to be in a particular mental state we have an idea of that state.25 If this idea should in turn be sufficiently infused with what Hume calls ‘force’ or ‘vivacity,’ it becomes the mental state itself, and we experience it. Thus sentiment, passions, inclination, and even belief can be communicated from one person to another, not merely in terms of knowing (cognitively) what another feels but actually feeling (affectively) the very passion we perceive in them. For Hume, most mental states we perceive in others stand a good chance of being the objects of sympathy. This is for two reasons. First, because the source of the ‘force’ and ‘vivacity’ necessary to turn our mere ideas of mental states into the states themselves is constantly present to us, as Hume argues it is our impression of the self (T 2.1.11.4).26 Insofar as our idea of the self can be associated with the idea we have of another’s mental state we will find that that idea is infused with the vivacity of our current impression of the self. In this way, we come to feel what we perceive others to feel. Second, there is always the potential for me to feel

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the passion I perceive in another because “nature has preserv’d a great resemblance among all human creatures” and “we never remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves” (T 2.1.11.5). Like the human body, the human mind Hume takes to have the same “structure and composition” (T 2.1.11.5), meaning that signs of a passion in another are easily associated with the ideas I have of that passion as I have experienced it myself. The more similarities I perceive between myself and another, the stronger the association, and the easier it is to find my idea of their passion transition into the passion itself. More metaphorically, Hume captures this characterization of sympathy as follows: The minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations, nor can any one be actuated by any affection, of which all others are not, in some degree, susceptible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion of one communicates itself to the rest; so all the affections readily pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movement in every human creature. (T 3.3.1.7) This is Humean sympathy. Starting with the assumption of a generally universal set of human affective experiences, Hume takes the emotional mental content to be as easily communicated between minds as the vibrations of individual strings tuned to the same tone. Should we perceive another to have traits that in some way resemble our current idea of our self, the similar ‘tuning’ of ideas results in shared vivacity via mental association. It is worth noting that the sympathy mechanism introduces no new principles of mind beyond those of association that Hume has developed in Book I of the Treatise.27 Our tendency to adopt the emotions and sentiments of others he takes to be explained by the most fundamental mechanisms in his account of thought. Ideas and impressions, the former copied from the latter, are associated by relations such as resemblance, and transfer vivacity according to these associations. This is noteworthy because it means that to suggest that a mind is exhibiting an impairment to the sympathy mechanism for Hume would be to suggest a much more global defect in patterns of thought than a mere empathy impairment. For instance, assuming Hume’s picture of mind, a failure of associations and the movement of vivacity and feeling between perceptions would impair functions like basic reasoning and belief formation. In short, failures in the operation of the sympathy mechanism we must expect to be accompanied by atypical functionality of all Humean mental mechanisms. We must proceed carefully in order to understand exactly how Hume’s version of empathy maps on to the contemporary distinctions

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we have discussed. Humean sympathy is not a mental process that can be treated in isolation from other Humean operations of mind. If we assume an empathy impairment in the Humean mind, we will have to assume that many other mental functions will be compromised as well. How then does Humean sympathy measure up to the seven questions outlined earlier? Let’s consider each question in turn. 1. Does the kind of empathy in question require that the empathizer possess some kind of theory of mind (understood as a robust ability to attribute mental states to others, and predict responses and behaviors)? Humean sympathy does not require any theory of mind per se, though it does require knowledge of mental states. This is a subtle but important distinction. It can be illustrated by pointing to the difference between attributing sadness to someone based on interactions with them and observations of their behavior, and attributing sadness to someone because we are explicitly told, “She is sad.” Hume’s sympathy mechanism requires an impression of some kind, and a corresponding idea of a mental state, but says nothing about the nature of the impression. We could speculate that, in most instances, for most people, some kind of theory of mind allows us to recognize the mental states of others. This ability to attribute mental states to others is a kind of intentional empathy. But, for Hume’s sympathy mechanism to work, this particular means of obtaining an idea of the mental state of another is not strictly required. However we come to have the idea of a mental state in another, once we have the idea there is the potential for us to come to sympathetically experience the same emotion. 2. Is the empathy in question automatic, like a contagion, or is it a kind of response in which we may or may not choose to engage? Humean sympathy appears to operate more like a contagion, as is suggested by the string metaphor mentioned earlier. In this sense it is a kind of instinctive empathy. The mechanism is a product of our natural and automatic associative thinking, and the corresponding transmission of vivacity between perceptions. Our likelihood of experiencing the passion we perceive in another is a product of the strength of association between our idea of our self and our ideas related to the other person. There may be some room to speak of control of a sort, in the form of our own capacity for reflective thinking.28 For instance, an individual can choose to think about a particular mental state, and actively seek to relate that mental state to her idea of the self, thus enlivening the idea so it becomes the passion itself. Similarly, by focusing on contrasts between oneself and another, one may be able to prevent empathic feelings from arising. But,

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at its core, Humean sympathy is primarily ‘automatic,’ a product of habits of thought and association we typically experience passively. Even in cases where we have sought to influence our empathic response by associating certain ideas, or seeking to enhance the vivacity of certain perceptions, these would be efforts meant to trigger the sympathy mechanism, not gain outright control of it. We may try to tune the strings to better match, as it were, but the transference of vibration itself is a product of the structure of our minds and will happen automatically when the right conditions obtain. 3. Is the empathy in question affective in nature? Is it necessary that an empathic event include an affective response to the (perceived) mental state of the other person? 4. Is it cognitive in nature? Is it necessary that the empathizer understand the mental state of the other person? The third and fourth questions may be treated together, and the answer is straightforward. Humean sympathy is affective in nature. While we require an idea of the mental state of another, no deeper understanding of their mental state is necessary. No account need be given or even cognitively available to the empathizer. Our empathizing is a function of whatever vivacity-transferring associations we may happen to have. Of course, this doesn’t mean that the degree to which we have an understanding of the mental state of the other person won’t have an effect on whether or not, to what degree, and even in what way we will empathize with another. A more robust account of the mental state may well increase the likelihood of a strong association with my idea of myself (and, on the other hand, may increase the distinction I see between myself and the other person). The sympathy mechanism is a mechanism of mental association, so mental content will predictably have an influence. But, despite the potential causal role of cognitive content, the mechanism’s output is an affective mental state—an impression, in Hume’s terminology—making Humean sympathy best understood as essentially affective in nature. 5. Is the phenomena grounded in or to be identified with particular neurological responses? This question also has a straightforward answer, given that it is anachronistic. Hume did not have the physical accounts of empathy we have now, and besides which did not provide a physiological account of the phenomenon even in the anatomical language of his time.29 We might note, however, that his impulse toward characterizing the sympathy mechanism as both natural and universal to humans might suggest that he would have been open to contemporary findings that give empathic

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experience a physiological basis. Nevertheless, his characterization is a description of mental mechanisms that can explain empathic phenomena, not a reference to physical events in the brain. 6. Is concern about well-being (sympathy or compassion) a necessary part of the empathic response? 7. Are we characterizing (a) an event (token) of empathy, (b) the skill or ability to empathize, or (c) an explanation of the underlying cause or process of an empathic experience? The question of the role played by sympathy (understood here as care for well-being of another) in Humean sympathy is also easily answered. Hume’s sympathy mechanism is not the same as pity or compassion, which he discusses quite separately (see T 2.2.7, “Of Compassion”). It is, of course, possible for these passions to be informed by our affective passions generated via the sympathy mechanism, but they do not derive directly from them. This answer seems to help focus the answer to the next question as well. Humean sympathy is generally not characterized in terms of tokens of empathic experiences. The mechanism is also not an explanation of a skill or ability possessed to varying degrees by individuals who appear more or less empathic. Rather, Humean sympathy offers an account of the underlying reasons and causes for the (more or less) universal experience of contagious passions, regardless of how often we find the mechanism working in particular individuals, or what kind of action or response it tends to cause, beyond that initial affective component.30 In short, Hume’s account of sympathy is an explanation of the mental causes that result in the transference of affectivity being a standard part of human experience.

4. Autistic Empathy The question now is whether Hume’s sympathy mechanism suggests a kind of empathic engagement that is available for individuals with HFASD, or a kind that is noted to be encompassed in their empathic limitations? To answer, I will first apply the preceding questions to the types of empathic limitations and abilities attributed to individuals with HF-ASD. I will then offer a comparison with the analysis of Hume’s sympathy mechanism offered earlier, and draw conclusions concerning the potential for individuals with HF-ASD to access the tools of this basic form of Humean sympathy in moral judgment. 1. Does the kind of empathy in question require that the empathizer possess some kind of theory of mind (understood as a robust ability to attribute mental states to others, and predict responses and behaviors)?

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The characterization of autism as including a lack or impairment of theory of mind is a popular and apparently fruitful approach to the condition.31 Whether or not it turns out to be the key deficit in autism, it seems that individuals on the spectrum who are identified as empathy-impaired are typically challenged in their ability to apply a theory of mind. They find mentalizing a challenge, which is to say that they find it difficult to develop a picture of another’s beliefs and reasoning, even when they might recognize the emotion the other is experiencing. Insofar as individuals with HF-ASD are capable of empathy under some description, it is unlikely to involve robust intentional empathy of this sort. 2. Is the empathy in question automatic, like a contagion, or is it a kind of response in which we may or may not choose to engage? On the surface of it, there is a challenge in determining whether individuals with HF-ASD experience emotional contagion, given that a lack of theory of mind as discussed earlier may well interfere with their ability to detect an emotion in another. Most emotional contagion arguably involves some recognition of the behavior being observed as being linked to some privately experienced mental state, in order for the perception to trigger the feeling of that emotion. But assuming that the HF-ASD individual successfully recognizes an emotion in another person, is there the potential for them to feel the perceived passion themselves in this automatic, instinctive manner? Frith suggests, using her own distinctions, that individuals with HF-ASD have instinctive empathy, despite the lack of intentional empathy or mentalizing. She points out that, Instinctive [empathy]32 . . . is not dependent on the ability to mentalize. Many people with autism have the capacity for these responses, and are not indifferent to other people’s distress. . . . When the difference between own and other minds can be ignored, autism is no barrier to feeling a similar emotion. (2003: 111–12) That individuals with HF-ASD are susceptible to emotional contagion is also evidenced in neurological response to the perception of emotions.33 For instance, functional magnetic resonance imaging has been used to show that HF-ASD individuals exposed to video clips of facial expressions of people experiencing pain experience brain activation in areas involved in the embodiment of pain. The evidence suggests that such emotional contagion occurs even in instances in which the individual does not demonstrate typical behavioral responses, such as appropriate caring behaviors in the case of feeling pain due to emotional contagion with someone experiencing pain. Non-typical responses to emotional contagion, therefore, cannot be used as evidence of a lack of

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such affective responses in individuals with HF-ASD. Indeed, those who work with individuals on the autism spectrum are quick to point out that “autism cannot be primarily a basic disturbance of emotions” (Gillberg 1992: 834). Generally speaking, when an individual with HF-ASD perceives an emotional state they are capable of feeling a correspondent emotional state, demonstrating “intact affective empathy” (Jones et al. 2010: 1196). 3. Is the empathy in question affective in nature? Is it necessary that an empathic event include an affective response to the (perceived) mental state of the other person? 4. Is it cognitive in nature? Is it necessary that the empathizer understand the mental state of the other person? That the emotional contagion individuals with HF-ASD are susceptible to is affective in nature was made clear in the preceding section. Those with HF-ASD can feel “profoundly upset by the idea of suffering” and often are motivated to act according to such responses (Frith 2003: 112). But, as also was made clear earlier, they are frequently impaired in their ability to understand the emotions they perceive in others, both in terms of recognizing and appropriately attributing them, and making sense of complex emotions in others once they are aware of them.34 In short, those on the autism spectrum demonstrate compromised cognitive or intentional empathy, but they are typically susceptible to affective empathy. They can have similar feelings brought about by the perception of those feelings in others, despite the perception step often presenting a challenge, given the role frequently played by theory of mind. It is increasingly clear that insofar as ASD involves an empathy deficit, the compromised empathic ability is most appropriately understood as cognitive in nature. 5. Is the phenomena grounded in or to be identified with particular neurological responses? 6. Is concern about well-being (sympathy or compassion) a necessary part of the empathic response? As mentioned earlier, there is neurological evidence of empathy experience for ASD individuals in the form of emotional contagion. But this evidence has been enlightening in some cases exactly because that observed behavior does not necessarily include the types of reactions we typically take to be indicative of the experience of emotional contagion, such as taking action to comfort or otherwise show compassion. Though individuals with HF-ASD may respond with sympathy or compassion, it is best to not conflate this response with whether or not they have experienced affective empathy. It has been suggested that non-typical responses to the experience of the empathic adoption of another’s emotion may be

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due to challenges that those with HF-ASD face in mentalizing/cognitive empathy,35 and potentially other challenges in mental processing.36 7. Are we characterizing (a) an event (token) of empathy, (b) the skill or ability to empathize, or (c) an explanation of the underlying cause or process of an empathic experience? While we could choose to analyze empathic phenomena in individuals with HF-ASD from any of these three angles, I would suggest it is most fruitful to consider whether they have the capacity for the process(es) that supports empathic experience. Kennett uses the case of individuals with HF-ASD to challenge accounts of moral judgment that require the ability to empathize. Therefore, for the purposes of this discussion we need to be asking whether or not differences in cognition due to ASD include a limitation on mental mechanisms responsible for empathic experience. Attitudes and behaviors that we typically associate with empathic experience are often compromised, or not present in those with ASD. But recent studies have allowed for a distinction to be made between the experience of affective empathy, and the associated behaviors and attitudes.37 And while individuals with HF-ASD may not take the actions or form the beliefs that those not on the spectrum typically would adopt due to empathic experience, they nevertheless have the mental mechanisms that result in emotional contagion and affective empathy. With the answers to the preceding questions in mind, we can make the following claims about empathy and HF-ASD. If individuals with HF-ASD have an empathy impairment, it is best understood as an impairment in mentalizing, i.e., intentional or cognitive empathy. It may also be the case that they do not display typical behavioral responses to empathic experiences. But when we consider, on the other hand, what type of empathic phenomena they do have a capacity for, we can find evidence for an empathy that does not depend on a robust theory of mind, and is appropriately identified as instinctive and affective in nature. How then does this positive empathic capacity compare to Hume’s sympathy mechanism? Hopefully the similarities are clear. Both Humean sympathy and autistic empathy do not directly involve theory of mind. Both Humean and autistic empathic responses are at their cores not voluntary but rather automatic, like emotional contagion. For both, empathy is affective in nature, not cognitive. In the case of autistic empathy, we can discover correlation with particular neurological responses, and I have suggested that though Hume does not support his picture of the human mind with a physiological account, such physical evidence is at worst neutral to his account and at best could work in support of his claims. Both characterizations of empathy are frequently found to lead to sympathetic feelings, though neither characterization includes particular behavioral or attitude

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response as a necessary part of the (narrowly construed) empathic experience. In short, it would appear that Hume presents a picture of an empathic mental mechanism that could act as a Humean explanation for the type of empathic experience had by individuals with HF-ASD. As stated earlier, my aim here has been to show that the kind of empathy represented in Hume’s sympathy mechanism—which Hume tells us is the foundation for moral judgment in that it makes the passionate states of others relevant to us—is present in individuals with HF-ASD. If the case I have made here is correct, it is inaccurate to offer individuals with HF-ASD as examples of moral reasoners who lack the kind of empathic ability necessary for Hume’s account of moral judgment.38 In fact, Hume offers one of the better ways to characterize empathy if we want to hold that individuals with HF-ASD are capable of an empathy relevant to the detection of moral distinctions. Individuals with HF-ASD may struggle to understand the mental states of others. But insofar as they perceive another’s pain or pleasure, they are susceptible to the emotional contagion that Hume requires in order to produce moral judgments, judgments that consist in a distinctive felt response to the passions of others because they have become “in some measure, our own” (T 3.3.2.3).

5. Final Thoughts: Hume, Moral Reasoning, and the Curious Cases of Empathy Impairment In this chapter, I have considered variation in usages of the concept of empathy and suggested guiding questions that can help clarify how we should understand particular characterizations or usages. I have offered an application of these questions to Humean sympathy, in an effort to clarify his conceptualization, and then given a parallel treatment of empathy as studied in individuals with HF-ASD. I would suggest that the case of the individual with HF-ASD requires particular attention be paid to cognitive empathy and affective empathy, the former capacity being largely absent for individuals with ASD, and the latter capacity intact. I have argued that it is this latter type that Hume is presenting in his sympathy mechanism, and that on this basis we can assume that individuals with HF-ASD are not barred from this type of empathic experience. Before concluding, I propose to do two things: first, address the issue of the large amount that remains to be said about sympathy in Hume’s moral theory, and second, consider briefly how this chapter has responded to the Kantian alternative to Humean moral psychology that Kennett championed in her paper on autism and empathy. First, then, a short note about the role that the sympathy mechanism plays in Hume’s moral psychology. More than a superficial treatment of this complex issue will not be possible here, not the least because of the active debate in the secondary literature (including chapters in this

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book) concerning the exact nature of the role played by the sympathy mechanism, and empathic phenomena more broadly, in Hume’s account of moral judgment. My goal for this chapter has been quite modest: I have assumed that the successful functioning of the sympathy mechanism is necessary for making moral judgments on Hume’s picture, and then argued that individuals with HF-ASD are indeed capable of the relevant type of empathy. But of course there is more to Hume’s moral psychology than the sympathy mechanism, and therefore questions remain about the degree to which individuals with HF-ASD actually do engage in the type of moral reasoning that Hume suggests. One particular concern that may be raised is that in practice Humeanstyle moral judgment would often require some form of cognitive empathy. For instance, it is often only through the practice of appropriately attributing beliefs and attitudes to other people that we come to understand their current or potential emotional states. Having an idea of the other person’s passion is the starting place of Hume’s sympathy mechanism. We may therefore expect, on a Humean picture, that individual’s with HF-ASD, due to missing or misinterpreting important information about the emotions of others, may not demonstrate the appropriate moral response, despite the capacity for affective empathy. Additionally, my discussion has focused on Hume’s account of affective contagion, which he posits as essential for making moral judgments. But the role of sympathy for Hume does not end there. Aside from acting as “the chief source of moral distinction” (T 3.3.6.1), sympathy is also credited by Hume with a role in appropriate moral motivation. This claim comes at the end of his discussion of moral reasoning, in which he has covered the artificial virtues, the natural virtues, and the approval and disapproval of various virtues and vices. Moral evaluations of this sort start from the perspective of the observer, who makes judgments by considering the effects of behavior and character on others. Sympathy is used by Hume to explain how the spectator can perform these evaluations, but additionally moral judgment must be rooted in sentiment for Hume because on his picture said judgments need to be potentially motivating (and for Hume passion is necessary to motivate us to action—see T 2.3.3 and 3.1.1). Our moral sentiments avoid being limited to being responses to our own emotions only via our human propensity for sympathetic adoption of the passions of others. Sympathy is central to this account of moral judgment because we have no such extensive concern for society but from sympathy; and consequently ’tis that principle, which takes us so far out of ourselves, as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of others which are useful or pernicious to society as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss. (T 3.3.1.11)

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Hume calls this expansion of our awareness of morally relevant emotions ‘extensive sympathy’ (see T 3.3.1.23 and T 3.3.6.3). And while it is Hume’s basic sympathy mechanism that is at the core of this morally relevant sympathy, it should be noted the basic affective empathy it produces is only one component of Humean moral psychology. The question of whether Humean sympathy is present in a morally motivating form for individuals with HF-ASD is an important one, but it is beyond the scope of this chapter. So, too, is a more robust consideration of the role affective empathy plays in moral judgments involving extensive sympathy. What I have presented here is meant to pave the way for a Humean account of moral psychology that accommodates cases such as that of those with HF-ASD. Contemporary Humean accounts hold that moral considerations are the result of certain kinds of emotions, with empathy playing a large role, providing moral considerations, motivating us to act morally and providing us with morally relevant information. Showing the potential for individuals with HF-ASD to experience empathic phenomena in keeping with the output described in Hume’s basic sympathy mechanism is a step in the direction of making the case for the plausibility of an empathy-based Humean moral psychology. This step is, of course, a step away from a Kantian or rationalist approach to moral agency, which holds that an individual is a moral agent if and only if they have rationality. Irrational individuals are amoral; their lack of rationality cannot be compensated for, and they are not capable of acting as moral agents. Moral considerations are rational considerations, and the constraints they tend to offer on how we act are likewise to be understood as rational constraints.39 Kennett defended a Kantian style moral reasoning by pointing out that individuals with HF-ASD can be quite capable moral agents (2002). She suggests that their moral reasoning appears to be grounded in rules and learned moral maxims that they apply consistently, and indeed studies have noted that individuals with HF-ASD are often comfortable making moral judgments via the application of rules.40 Kennett concludes from this that moral agency must have more to do with rationality than it does with empathy. Heidi Maibom strengthens Kennett’s case by responding to a potential argument in favor of empathy-based moral reasoning: the case of psychopathy. She argues that the amoral nature of the psychopath, another example of a condition characterized as an empathy impairment, can be presented as a result of a rationality deficit, just as easily as it can be presented as the result of an empathy deficit (2005). The conclusion that seems to follow is that cases of individuals with empathy impairment, as found in psychopathy and autism, show that rationalism can account for empirical instances of moral reasoning, while, particularly given the case of those with HF-ASD, the empathy-based account falls short. My response to this line of attack on Humean moral reasoning is probably clear at this point. The minimal kind of affective empathy that Hume’s

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moral psychology requires for moral judgment is the operation of his sympathy mechanism, and this type of empathy is not typically impaired in the case of individuals with HF-ASD. As noted, much research has emphasized the importance of the distinction between affective empathy and cognitive empathy (sometimes understood as mentalizing or perspective taking),41 and noted the necessity of the former for moral reasoning over the latter.42 It has also been argued that, contrary to Kennett’s claims, Kantian moral reasoning can’t accommodate the individual with HF-ASD, given that it requires a highly cognitive empathy in the evaluation of motivation when applying the categorical imperative (Jaarsma 2013). Both Humean and Kantian moral evaluation require some form of empathic mental ability, but Humean moral judgment requires affective empathy, which is available to individuals with HF-ASD, while Kantian moral judgment requires mind-reading abilities that pose a challenge for HF-ASD.43 It should also be noted that the grouping of individuals with HF-ASD with psychopaths in discussions of empathy impairment is inappropriate. Though I have not offered a detailed account of a characterization of empathy in the context of psychopathy here, there is evidence that it differs greatly from that of individuals with HF-ASD.44 While individuals with HF-ASD experience impairment with theory of mind or cognitive empathy, but are typically capable of shared affective states, those with psychopathy have functioning theory of mind or cognitive empathy, but fail to exhibit affective empathy, even at the level of brain-imaging tests (Frith 2003: 112–14). Thus, the psychopath may be able to accurately attribute mental states to others, and even anticipate how others would reason morally on the basis of their knowledge of the perspectives of others, but fail to find this information morally motivating, or even morally relevant. A Humean treatment of psychopathy is beyond the scope of this chapter, but it clearly would look very different from the accommodation of the individual with HF-ASD that I have suggested here. In particular, the psychopathic failure to experience affective empathy would make Humean moral judgment impossible, as it would amount to a failure of the sympathy mechanism. Additionally, the failure to naturally adopt the passions of others affectively would be a serious mental impairment on a Humean theory of mind, and, for reasons I mentioned earlier, would likely result in impairments in reasoning and belief formation beyond strictly moral reasoning. In this chapter, I set out to determine whether Hume’s account of empathy in the form of the sympathy mechanism is sufficiently robust and nuanced to deal with the contemporary empirical evidence of empathyimpaired individuals with HF-ASD who nevertheless are able to make sound moral judgments. Hume believed that it was a fundamental part of human nature to adopt the passions of others, and proposed that this natural propensity provided a foundation for our ability to make moral

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judgments. ASD certainly qualifies as an exception to some of Hume’s ‘universal’ human propensities, in that it presents great challenges to the ability to easily perceive the emotions of others, a mode of human perception that Hume may have taken for granted. But this does not necessarily exclude them from the morally rich experience of Humean shared sentiment as it is acquired via his sympathy mechanism. Further, ASD as we understand it now does not provide an example of a profoundly un-Humean experience of moral judgment. Rather, as Hume’s moral account would predict, we find individuals with HF-ASD to be capable of making moral judgments, though perhaps challenged in their application. In short, individuals with HF-ASD may be impaired in their ability to easily acquire the information about mental states necessary to bring about affective empathic responses. But they are certainly not impaired in their ability to share in feelings, once they are understood, nor to find them morally relevant, and engage in making emotion-based moral distinctions.45

Notes 1. Consider for instance the following passage from the Treatise: “[Man is] the creature of the universe, who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. We can form no wish, which has no reference to society. A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoy’d a-part from company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable . . . Let all the powers and elements of nature conspire to serve and obey one man: Let the sun rise and set at his command: The sea and rivers roll as he please, and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him: He will still be miserable, till you give him some one person, at least, with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy.” (T 2.2.5.14) 2. Though she does consider Hume explicitly, I take it that in her paper Kennett is primarily interested in problematizing contemporary Humean-style moral theory, as opposed to a close reading of the historical Hume. This is a difference in our approaches, given that my primary aim is to consider this contemporary empirical case of empathy-impairment in light of the characterization of the sympathy mechanism suggested by Hume in his Treatise. 3. It is worth noting that Kennett frames her discussion in terms of moral agency, while I will tend to treat the question of whether individuals are capable of moral reasoning. This is in part because that while talk of a moral agent in a Kantian discussion is appropriate, it is not clear that Hume has anything quite like the category of moral agency assumed there. Rather, Hume is inclined toward a descriptive project that focuses on questions of how we come to make moral evaluations, and how these evaluations come to influence our actions. Sympathy, of course, plays a role in each of these for Hume. 4. Google Scholar estimates the citations of her paper at over 150 [https:// scholar.google.com/scholar?cites=16291414470287110355&as_sdt=5,45& sciodt=0,45&hl=en, retrieved January 31, 2017]. 5. See for instance McGeer (2007), Jaarsma (2013), De Vignemont and Singer (2006), Damm (2010), Hirvela and Helkama (2011), and Felletti (2016).

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6. I have made the conscious choice to limit my treatment of Hume on shared sentiment to his account of the sympathy mechanism in the Treatise, as opposed to looking at his treatment in his work more broadly. I do this primarily because it is unclear (and a point of active debate in Hume scholarship) whether he continues to assume the same associationist understanding of shared sentiment that is presented in his rather mechanistic account of mind in the Treatise in his later work (particularly his An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals). For more on this debate, see for instance Abramson (2000), Debes (2007a), Debes (2007b), Taylor (2015), and Vitz (2016). 7. See Hume’s “Letter to a Physician” (Hume 1932: 12–18). For a detailed account of Hume’s activities leading up to and following his diagnosis of ‘the disease of the learned,’ see Harris (2015: ch. 1). 8. Similar mention is also made in his essay “The Sceptic,” in which Hume acknowledges that one who is “born of so perverse a frame of mind” as to be without sympathy for others (among other things) “must be allowed entirely incurable” of vicious inclinations (EMPL 169). Such an individual Hume claims (in the voice of the Sceptic) will not follow the rules of morality, no matter the reasoning presented to them. 9. Note that Hume does not take the universality of certain principles of mind to apply only to humans but also to any animal life that displays similar mental patterns. At T 2.2.12.2, Hume argues for the presence of the same mechanisms for hate and love in animals as are found in humans by first making the general claim that “Every thing is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man, or any one species of animals.” 10. I will ultimately make the case that for Hume the individual with HF-ASD that does not fit this description of a lack of moral sense due to disease or madness, precisely because they demonstrate the ability to make and be motivated by moral judgments. The case of the psychopath, on the other hand, may be precisely the kind of atypical mental disease that results in a compromise to otherwise universal operations of mind, and a lack of appropriate moral sentiments. This is not to say that Hume would not find in the case of the individual with HF-ASD some kind of deficit in otherwise universal principles of mind. Rather, my claim is that he would not find these deficits in their capacity to make moral judgments. (Though their ability to do so consistently may be compromised by other impairments—I say more about this later.) 11. This is an oversimplification, as will be noted in more detail later. Interpretations of Humean sympathy vary, and there is good reason to think that Hume actually presented several conceptualizations of his own as we track the different discussions in which he is applies the term. (See the chapters in this volume by Greco, Besser, and Pierdziwol for different approaches to Humean sympathy from my own.) My own take focuses on the mental mechanism presented in Book II of the Treatise. This is a narrow treatment of Humean sympathy, exhausted by Hume’s explanation for our mental tendency to come to feel the passions we perceive in others. It is not a conceptualization that expands the principle to include an explanation of a particular kind of moral response, as the term often is taken to imply in Hume’s later discussions of moral psychology (including parts of Book III and the EPM). 12. Instinctive empathy is also referred to by Frith as instinctive sympathy, but for the sake of clarity here I will use instinctive empathy. 13. Theory of mind is used here as it is used in discussions of cognitive science and psychology that investigate our ability to attribute mental states to others, including the prediction of behaviors and reactions.

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14. For instance, simulation theory vs. theory-theory debate (see Robert M. Gordon’s SEP entry, “Folk Psychology as Mental Simulation,” https://plato. stanford.edu/entries/folkpsych-simulation/). 15. A good discussion of this distinction is found in Hoffman (2000). 16. See Frith (2003: 96–7). 17. I am here concerned with contemporary usage of ‘sympathy,’ as opposed to Hume’s usage, which (we shall see) I take to be more appropriately identified with a kind of empathy in contemporary discourse. 18. Barnes and Thagard (1997) draw the distinction along these. 19. Several of these questions are overlapping, but I take them to be different enough to be asked on their own. In addition, the answers given in each case may not be a simple yes or no, and in some cases may fall somewhere in the middle. 20. We could ask, in addition to this question, whether the affective response need be similar to, or even the same as, the perceived mental state with which one is empathizing. This turns out to be a tricky question for Hume, given that the sympathy mechanism appears set up to provide us with “the very passion” (T 2.1.11.3) we perceive in another, but his applied use of the principle does not always appear to yield this result. 21. Hume himself signals both the re-introduction and fresh presentation of sympathy when he begins his Book III application by noting that we need to “compare some principles, which have been already examin’d and explain’d,” and then suggests we “begin with considering a-new the nature and force of sympathy” (T 3.3.1.6–7). 22. Hume’s re-introduction of sympathy in T 3.3.1 is framed as part of his pursuit “to discover the true origin of morals,” specifically the “peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure” that qualify as indicators of vice and virtue respectively, i.e., moral distinctions (T 3.3.1.6 and T 3.3.1.3). He goes on to explain in this section how sympathy “is the source of esteem, which we pay to all the artificial virtues” (T 3.3.1.9) and that it “produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial virtues” and “also gives rise to many of the other virtues” (T 3.3.1.10). 23. At T 2.3.6.8, Hume refers to the mechanism as “the principle of sympathy or communication,” emphasizing his understanding of empathy in terms of the communication of emotion from one person to another. 24. See T 2.1.11 for his complete account. 25. The terms ‘idea’ and ‘impression’ are, of course, technical terms for Hume, and I am here assuming familiarity with their usage. The key distinction is that while an impression is a felt perception, typically a sensation or a passion, ideas are less vivid copies of these feelings. See T 1.1.1. 26. Some have questioned whether Hume is contradicting himself in claiming in his discussion of sympathy that we have an idea of the self, given his arguments of Book I for the claim that we have no idea of the self as such, but only a bundle of individual perceptions, which we perceive as related by resemblance and causation (T 1.4.6). I will not address this debate in detail here, but only suggest that Hume is explicit at T 1.4.6.5 that there are at least two ways of thinking about how we might have an idea of the self: We may consider “personal identity, as it regards our thought and imagination” or self “as it regards our passions or the concern we take in ourselves.” The former is identified as the target of his skepticism in Book I, the latter, I suggest, is the conception at play in his account of sympathy. 27. Hume takes it to be a strength of this explanation that it depends entirely on the principles of mind he has defended in the first book of the Treatise, and

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even suggests that the principle of sympathy acts as a kind of ‘confirmation’ for his system of the understanding. See T 2.1.11.7–8. I am thinking here of passages where Hume suggests that we may choose to do things to manipulate our ideas and impressions, such as the poet seeking to describe the Elysian fields who “prompts his imagination by the view of a beautiful meadow or garden” or “may by his fancy place himself in the midst of these fabulous regions, that by the feign’d contiguity he may enliven his imagination” (T 1.3.9.5). Whether through making changes in our physical environment, or sheer force of imagination, Hume here observes that we can take steps to influence the vivacity of our own ideas and impressions. Though Hume explicitly distinguishes his project from that of the anatomist, it is clear that he was aware of theories concerning the physiological underpinnings of associationist mechanisms of mind, particularly in the Cartesian tradition, and on occasion is inclined to use the language of brain physiology to support his accounts of mental events. (For instances in which Hume explicitly references the physiological underpinnings of mental events, see T 1.2.5.20, T 1.3.8.2, T 1.3.10.9–10, T 1.4.1.10, T 1.4.2.45, T 1.4.7.10, T  2.1.5.11, T 2.2.4.4, T 2.2.8.4, T 2.3.4.2–5, T 2.3.5.2–3, among others.) With this in mind it is not a stretch to assume that Hume would have been willing to acknowledge not only a physiological account of the sympathy mechanism but also some atypical mental dispositions as the product of variation in the physiology of mind, whether inborn or as a result of disease or accident. My treatment here might be a bit too brief, as a look at the text reveals that in the Treatise Hume appears to make use of the term ‘sympathy’ in more than one way. Rico Vitz tracks three distinct types of usage: reference to a principle or mechanism of mind, reference to the actual event of sharing sympathy between ideas/impressions, and reference to the sentiment produced by the mechanism (2016). Lou Agosta also distinguishes between multiple meanings of ‘sympathy’ in Hume (“Empathy and Sympathy in Ethics”). For my purposes, I am interested in identifying the Humean mechanism for producing an emotion with the affective content of a passion we are perceiving. See Frith (2003: ch. 5) for an account of the nature of theory of mind limitations in individuals with HF-ASD. Frith uses the term instinctive sympathy here, but as noted earlier, she uses the phrase synonymously with instinctive empathy. See for instance Hadjikhani et al. (2014, esp. 343). Many studies address this distinction between affective and cognitive empathy, and find individuals with HF-ASD to be capable of the former and significantly impaired in that latter. See, for instance, Krahn and Fenton (2009), Jones et al. (2010), and Felletti (2016). Nouchine et al. note that “increased reappraisal, probably to overcome overarousal and personal distress, leads to failure of appropriate empathic behavior” (2014: 8). Take for instance the ‘executive function hypothesis’ presented by Frith, which suggests that part of the cause of atypical behavior and thought patterns in individuals with ASD is challenges in processing information, making scenarios that are out of the ordinary for the individual with ASD particularly challenging to respond to appropriately. See Frith (2003: ch. 10). See, for instance, Jones et al. (2010) and Felletti (2016). At least, insofar as it involves the sympathy mechanism. Whether the practical application of Humean moral judgment additionally involves something more akin to cognitive empathy, and whether this in turn would present

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39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

Katharina Paxman challenges in practical terms for individuals with HF-ASD, is a separate question, which I say a little more about later in the chapter. Heidi Maibom (2005) offers a nice discussion of the distinction between rationalists and sentimentalists in this debate as it pertains to the evidence offered by the case of psychopaths. See, for instance, Gleichgerrcht et al. (2013) and Jaarsma (2013). See, for instance, Krahn and Fenton (2009), De Vignemont (2007), Felletti (2016), and Blair (2010). See, for instance, McGeer (2007). For a version of the argument that the case of autism acts as empirical support for the claim that affective empathy is central to moral reasoning, see Aaltola (2014). See, for instance, Aaltola (2014), De Vignemont (2007), Damm (2010), Jones et al. (2010), Felletti (2016), and Blair (2010). Special thanks go to Robert Stainton, who first inspired and supported me in the project of asking questions about Hume and autism in grad school. Thanks also to Donald Ainslie and the attendees of the 2007 International Hume Conference in Boston, who provided excellent commentary and wonderful discussion of an early version of this chapter, respectively. Finally, I am very grateful to Rico Vitz for his continuous interest and encouragement, without which this chapter may have remained a fascinating but half-finished project.

References Aaltola, Elisa. 2014. “Affective Empathy as Core Moral Agency: Psychopathy, Autism and Reason Revisited.” Philosophical Explorations 17: 76–92. Abramson, Kate. 2000. “Sympathy and the Project of Hume’s Second Enquiry.” Archiv fur Geschichte der Philosophie 83: 45–80. Agosta, Lou. “Empathy and Sympathy in Ethics.” In Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. www.iep.utm.edu/emp-symp/. Accessed 21 June 2017. American Psychiatric Association. 1980. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 3rd edition. Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association. Barnes, A., and P. Thagard. 1997. “Empathy and Analogy.” Dialogue: Canadian Philosophical Review 36: 705–20. Blair, R. J. R. 2010. “Fine Cuts of Empathy and the Amygdala: Dissociable Deficits in Psychopathy and Autism.” The Quarterly Journal of Experimental Psychology 61: 157–70. Damasio, Antonio. 2003. Looking for Spinoza. Orlando: Harcourt Books. Damm, Lisa. 2010. “Emotions and Moral Agency.” Philosophical Explorations 13: 275–92. Darwell, Stephen. 1998. “Empathy, Sympathy, Care.” Philosophical Studies 89: 261–82. Debes, Remy. 2007a. “Has Anything Changed? Hume’s Theory of Association and Sympathy After the Treatise.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 15: 313–38. Debes, Remy. 2007b. “Humanity, Sympathy and the Puzzle of Hume’s Second Enquiry.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 15: 27–57. Decety, Jean, and Thierry Charminade. 2003. “Neural Correlates of Feeling Sympathy.” Neuropsychologia 41: 127–38. De Vignemont, Frederique. 2007. “Autism, Morality and Empathy.” In Moral Psychology, Volume 3: The Neuroscience of Morality, edited by Walter SinnottArmstrong, 273–80. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

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De Vignemont, Frederique, and Tania Singer. 2006. “The Empathic Brain: How, When and Why?” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 10: 435–41. Felletti, Flavia. 2016. “What Autism Can Tell Us About the Link Between Empathy and Moral Reasoning.” Phenomenology and Mind 11: 222–30. Frith, Uta. 2003. Autism: Explaining the Enigma. Oxford: Blackwell Scientific Publications. Gillberg, Christopher L. 1992. “Autism and Autistic-like Conditions: Subclasses Among Disorders of Empathy.” Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry and Allied Disciplines 33: 813–42. Gleichgerrcht, E. et al. 2013. “Selective Impairment of Cognitive Empathy for Moral Judgment in Adults With High Functioning Autism.” Social Cognitive and Affective Neuroscience 8: 780–8. Gordon, Robert M. “Folk Psychology as Mental Simulation.” In Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. plato.stanford.edu/entries/folkpsych-simulation/. Accessed 1 September 2017. Hadjikhani, Nouchine et al. 2014. “Emotional Contagion for Pain Is Intact in Autism Spectrum Disorders.” Translational Psychiatry 4: 343. Harris, James. 2015. Hume: An Intellectual Biography. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hirvela, Shari, and Klaus Helkama. 2011. “Empathy, Values, Morality and Asperger’s Syndrome.” Scandinavian Journal of Psychology 52: 560–72. Hoffman, Martin L. 2000. Empathy and Moral Development. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hume, David. 1932. “Letter to a Physician March or April, 1734.” In The Letters of David Hume, vol. 1, edited by J. Y. T. Greig, 12–18. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 1987. Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, revised edition, edited by Eugene F. Miller, xxxi–xli. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Classics. Hume, David. 2009. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jaarsma, Pier. 2013. “Cultivation of Empathy in Individuals With High-Functioning Autism Spectrum Disorder.” Ethics and Education 8: 290–300. Jones, A. P. et al. 2010. “Feeling, Caring, Knowing: Different Types of Empathy Deficit in Boys With Psychopathic Tendencies and Autism Spectrum Disorder.” The Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry 51: 1188–97. Kanner, Leo, and Leon Eisenberg. 1956. “Early Infantile Autism 1943–1955.” American Journal of Orthopsychiatry 26: 55–65. Kennett, Jeanette. 2002. “Autism, Empathy and Moral Agency.” The Philosophical Quarterly 52: 340–57. Krahn, Timothy, and Andrew Fenton. 2009. “Autism, Empathy and Questions of Moral Agency.” The Journal for the Theory of Social Behavior 39: 145–66. Maibom, Heidi. 2005. “Moral Unreason: The Case of Psychopathy.” Mind & Language 20: 237–57. McGeer, Victoria. 2007. “Varieties of Moral Agency—Lessons From Autism (and Psychopathy).” In Moral Psychology, Volume 3: The Neuroscience of Morality, edited by Walter Sinnott-Armstrong, 228–54. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2015. Reflecting Subjects: Passion, Sympathy, and Society in Hume’s Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vitz, Rico. 2016. “The Nature and Functions of Sympathy in Hume’s Philosophy.” In The Oxford Handbook of Hume, edited by Paul Russell, 312–32. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

6

Cultivating Empathic Concern and Altruistic Motivation Insights From Hume and Batson Annette Pierdziwol

What leads us to feel empathic concern and altruistic motivation to help those in need? Clearly, when faced with the suffering of others our emotional and motivational responses do not always follow this trajectory. We are familiar with how easily avoidance and excuse-making come (Shaw et al. 1994; see also Batson 2011: 165). Research has also shown that our intuitive reactions to people in need fare worse when we are faced with large numbers of suffering persons, as in famines, civil wars or earthquakes. As the number of persons affected increases, sensitive concern for individual lives and willingness to help decreases (Slovic 2007; Slovic 2010). Yet many of us also find these responses inadequate, if not blameworthy, and wish we could do better. We tend to think that where lives are at stake, we ought to feel empathic concern and motivation to help, and in cases where more lives are at stake, we should feel more concern and do more to help.1 And even if we don’t think such responses are normative, it seems obvious that emotions and motives of this sort are of vital importance for our communal lives. At a practical and social level, they seem like things worth cultivating. In recent decades, the link between empathic concern and altruistic motivation has been subjected to extensive empirical investigation. Most notably, contemporary social psychologist C. Daniel Batson has proposed the empathy-altruism hypothesis, which states that feeling other-oriented emotion elicited by and congruent with the perceived welfare of another person in need (i.e., empathic concern) produces a motivational state with the ultimate goal of increasing that person’s welfare by having the empathy-inducing need removed (i.e., altruistic motivation). (2011: 29) Batson contends that there is now a remarkable amount of evidence supporting this causal link. He also argues that on balance the evidence suggests that empathy-induced altruism benefits society and thus the idea that cultivating it could have significant implications.

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This chapter takes as its focus the practical question of how to cultivate increased empathy-induced altruism and argues that Hume’s work has significant insights for us on this front. In the first section I explain some of the ambiguities that have surrounded the question of cultivation in the philosophical and psychological literature. I contrast these with Batson’s more recent empirical findings and the challenge he poses concerning their practical implications. In the second section I establish the link between Batson and Hume by showing that, long before Batson posited his empathy-altruism hypothesis, Hume had already made a remarkably similar claim in his account of pity and benevolence in the Treatise. Following this, in the third section and drawing on key passages from the Treatise’s account of sympathy, I extrapolate several Humean avenues for cultivating pity and benevolence (or empathic concern and altruistic motivation). I focus in particular on the phenomenon Hume terms ‘acquaintance’ and highlight contemporary psychological evidence from Batson and others which could support and refine this strategy. I seek to show that while Hume’s explicit focus was not on offering therapeutic advice about cultivating the passions or augmenting the effects of sympathy for various social or moral ends, his rich descriptive accounts contain more material than is often recognised for addressing such questions. I argue that Hume points the way to an empirical, pragmatic and indirect approach to the task of cultivation. And I show in conclusion that on these fronts Batson’s approach to cultivating altruistic motivation, as well as his more recent work on moral cultivation, remains essentially Humean.

1. Batson and the Question of Cultivation Although it may seem obvious that empathic concern and altruistic motivation are vitally important for our communal lives and worth cultivating, the question of ‘doing better’ on this front is one that has been surrounded by a degree of ambiguity, as well as a certain note of fatalism about whether such improvement is possible at all. As a result, the practical question of cultivation—of the ways in which we might augment or habituate our emotional and motivational responses to those in need— has been neglected in both the philosophical and psychological literature. The ambiguity surrounding the question of cultivation derives from a variety of angles. In the first instance, there has been lengthy debate about the specific psychological phenomena at stake. To take one example, the term empathy has been used in up to eight distinct ways (Batson 2011: 11–20). Scholars also debate distinctions between terms such as compassion, concern, care, pity, empathy, sympathy, altruistic motivation, moral motivation and so on, as well as the causal links between these phenomena. Given this imprecision, it is no surprise that discussion of the practical implications has been deferred—it is difficult to discuss methods for cultivation if it is unclear what one is intending to cultivate.

144 Annette Pierdziwol Secondly, questions have been raised about whether such prosocial emotions and motivations are in fact morally or socially beneficial. For example, some critics argue that increased empathy could in fact be detrimental for morality, insofar as it fosters partiality towards particular individuals in ways that can violate moral principles of fairness, justice and the common good.2 Others question whether emotion-based motivation can even help with many of our most pressing issues, since it may not be possible to feel empathy for non-personalised or abstract social categories such as, for example, populations facing mass starvation or those affected by climate change.3 Similar worries have been raised about the liabilities of altruistic motivation. Critics question whether it leads to more harm than good, citing, for example, cases of international aid gone wrong, as well as noting the dangers of paternalism in creating dependence in various contexts. They also note that altruism can harm the person providing help, since helping behaviour often involves costly sacrifice.4 Taken together, criticisms such as these challenge the idea that empathic and altruistic responses to those in need are the sorts of thing we should be seeking to cultivate. Perhaps they are more of a hindrance than a help—both morally and socially. Thirdly, there is debate about whether various prosocial emotions and motives are in fact possible for human beings and, if so, whether they are the kinds of things that are amenable to cultivation. Here the question is not just whether such responses are possible for a few shining exemplars or in rare moments of heroism, but whether they lie within the normal range of the human psychological repertoire. This worry has been repeatedly raised regarding altruistic motivation across centuries of philosophical and psychological debate. Many have argued that despite what appear to be everyday examples of human beings genuinely caring for others, ultimately all human motivation reduces to egoism. And, so long as the jury remains out on whether we have any truly altruistic impulses, there is little impetus for investigating how to cultivate them. A note of fatalism is also evident in many treatments of empathic feelings. This tendency may stem in part from modernity’s entirely novel “category of emotions, conceived as a set of morally disengaged, bodily, non-cognitive and involuntary feelings” (Dixon 2003: 3).5 Philosophers and psychologists have thus tended to portray our emotions and motives, as well as the psychological processes behind them, as things over which we have little to no control. Empathy, for instance, is depicted as something that just happens to us—or, in the case of those thought to be deficient in this area, such as narcissists and psychopaths, as something that doesn’t happen to us. Likewise, the observably biased nature of our automatic empathic reactions—our tendency to empathise more with those near us and like us—is portrayed as inevitable. To the extent this picture has been dominant, the choices individuals might make to modify their empathy have been downplayed. Attempts

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to intentionally extend empathic feelings towards, for instance, larger numbers of people or people from different ideological groups, are viewed as a losing battle, pushing against the grain of human psychology. Interestingly, though, research has suggested that such beliefs about the nature of our emotional reactions and processes, as well as the rhetoric we use to describe them, can itself have a significant practical influence.6 “Conceptualizing empathy as a passive, depletable resource”, as Cameron, Inzlicht and Cunningham have argued, can undermine empathic effort; “language about limits can create a self-fulfilling prophecy” (2017: 39). A similar effect can perhaps be observed in the literature: to the extent that our capacity for empathy has been viewed as inflexible, there has been little reason to devote time to investigating how to cultivate it. The preceding debates suggest some reasons for the relative neglect of the question of cultivation in relation to certain prosocial emotions and motives. This lacuna is, however, particularly glaring and problematic for contemporary psychologist C. Daniel Batson who argues that we now have sufficient empirical evidence to address many of the preceding issues. Batson’s work in this area, collected together in his books The Altruism Question (2016a), Altruism in Humans (2011) and the recent What’s Wrong With Morality? (2016b), began as an attempt to use empirical science to settle philosophy’s centuries old egoism-altruism debate. At the heart of this debate, he writes, is the question: “Are we humans ever, in any degree capable of valuing another’s welfare as an end in itself, or only our own?” (2011: 228–9). Batson has devoted the past four decades to testing one affirmative answer to this question—one based on the most commonly asserted source of altruism, namely, empathy.7 As noted in the introduction, he proposes his own theoretical formulation of this claim in the empathyaltruism hypothesis, which states that “empathic concern produces altruistic motivation” (2011: 11). In short, Batson seeks to know specifically whether empathy-induced altruistic motivation “is within the motivational repertoire of most humans” (2011: 21). Given the definitional problems noted earlier, a significant part of Batson’s work has consisted in carefully defining his terms. He has avoided reference to empathy in general, highlighting its eight quite different uses (2011: 11–19), and instead focussed on the phenomenon he calls empathic concern. Batson thus uses the term empathy to refer specifically to “other-oriented emotion elicited by and congruent with the perceived welfare of someone in need” (2011: 11). He also argues that the definition of altruism at stake in the preceding debate is a motivational one (2011: 228). Again, he distinguishes his own use of the term altruism from four other possible uses (2011: 20–9), clarifying that he means “a motivational state with the ultimate goal of increasing another’s welfare” (2011: 20).

146 Annette Pierdziwol In the most recent articulation of his project in Altruism in Humans, Batson seeks to develop a comprehensive theory of empathy-induced altruistic motivation, explicating the core of the hypothesis, but also laying out its antecedents and consequences. He outlines the antecedents of empathic concern as perception of need and intrinsic valuing of the other, and argues that altruistic motivation can lead to three possible behavioural consequences (when combined with the usual cost-benefit analysis): helping, having another person help or not acting (2011: 80). In Part II of the book, Batson uses this conceptual framework to design and assess empirical research that tests the empathy-altruism hypothesis against several other egoistic hypotheses that have been proposed to account for the motivation produced by empathic concern.8 Summarising the results of over thirty experiments, Batson concludes that “the results are remarkably consistent and clear in their support of the empathyaltruism hypothesis” (2011: 230). He writes: Pending new evidence or a plausible egoistic explanation of the existing evidence, the empathy-altruism hypothesis appears true. And, given the diversity of the existing evidence, the likelihood of finding a plausible new egoistic explanation seems quite low. It is time to accept—at least as a working hypothesis—the proposition that empathic concern produces altruistic motivation. It is also time to consider the implications of this proposition. (2011: 231) In view of the weight of evidence now undergirding the empathy-altruism hypothesis, Batson argues it is time that more explicit attention was paid to weighing the specific benefits and liabilities of increasing empathyinduced altruistic motivation. Surveying research on these practical implications in Part III of Altruism in Humans, Batson acknowledges many of the problems that critics highlight. However, he also argues that altruistic motivation can produce more help and also “more sensitive, and less fickle help for individuals in need” (2011: 187). On top of this, Batson uncovers “at least preliminary empirical evidence” for a host of other possible benefits, including, for example, “increased cooperation in conflict situations”, “more positive attitudes towards stigmatised groups” and “increased willingness to help these groups” (2011: 187).9 These are significant practical implications for anyone with an interest in building “better interpersonal relations and a more caring, humane society” (2011: 161). On the balance of the evidence then, and so long as we stay alert to its liabilities and “tap its power responsibly” (2011: 187), Batson thinks that “the potential benefits to others are sufficient to justify attempting to increase altruism in the society” (2016a: 224). In short, he thinks it is something worth cultivating. It is certainly not a panacea for all our problems, but the evidence implies that our communal lives could benefit from more of it.

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In contrast to the list of debates and ambiguities outlined earlier with regard to prosocial emotion and motivation, Batson’s oeuvre mounts a compelling case that we now have sufficient empirical evidence to conclude that altruistic motivation is both possible and, on balance, beneficial, as well as to claim that one chief source of this motivation is empathic concern. He thinks this should push new questions into sharper relief. What is needed from philosophers and psychologists is not another century debating egoism versus altruism, but rather an acceptance that empathy-induced altruistic motivation is indeed one of a “pluralism of prosocial motives” human beings have (2011: 234) and a stocktaking of the practical implications of what has been discovered on this front. We need attempts to capitalise on what we already know, drawing on its potential to contribute solutions for the practical problems confronting us today. For those sympathetic to Batson’s project, the next question is the large, practical one of how we can go about this task of cultivation. If empathic concern for someone in need produces altruistic motivation to reduce that need, and if such motivation on balance benefits society, then how can we cultivate increased empathic concern? What sort of intentional efforts can be made to foster empathy-induced altruism towards those in need, either when we are in such situations or in advance of them? In this chapter I focus on this neglected practical question of cultivation and consider the significant insights Hume’s work has for us on this front.

2. Comparing Hume’s Account of Pity and Benevolent Motivation With Batson’s Empathy-Altruism Hypothesis The focus of this section is to compare Hume’s account of how we come to feel pity and benevolence towards those in need with Batson’s empathyaltruism hypothesis. I argue that, despite using different terminology and telling somewhat different causal stories, both describe the same overall trajectory or ‘bent’ of emotional and motivational response to perceiving another person in need. In Treatise 2.2.6 Hume defines the passion of benevolence as consisting of “a desire of the happiness of the person belov’d, and an aversion to his misery”, making clear that what is distinctive about this passion is that it is a desire or appetite (and so, as we later learn, a direct passion),10 one “immediately exciting us to action” (T 2.2.6.3; SBN 367). Benevolence is a passion with a goal: it has a “direction or tendency to action” (T 2.2.9.2; SBN 382). We could say then that benevolence is a motivating passion: it is “a desire of making happy the person we love” (T 3.3.1.31; SBN 591) that motivates us to act—i.e., “[t]he WILL exerts itself”— whenever we form the belief that “any action of the mind or body” can aid in promoting their well-being and preventing their misery (T 2.3.9.7; SBN 439).11 In view of this, I also use the term ‘benevolent motivation’ to capture what Hume means by benevolence in these sections.12

148 Annette Pierdziwol On this first point then, it seems that what Hume denotes by the term benevolence here is the same as what Batson calls altruism. Batson defines altruism as “a motivational state with the ultimate goal of increasing another’s welfare” (2011: 20). Here, the other person’s welfare is an end in itself, and not just a means to some other end goal, for example, to increasing my own welfare. As we’ve seen, Hume too defines benevolence in motivational terms, as a desire for the other’s happiness and an aversion to their misery. Both then are concerned with a motive aimed at benefiting the other’s welfare. I turn now to the more significant claim Batson puts forward in his empathy-altruism hypothesis, namely, that altruistic motivation of this sort can arise from feelings of empathic concern. Does Hume say anything like this about benevolence? To answer this question, we need to look at his view on the sources of benevolence. When Hume introduces benevolence in T 2.2.6, he presents it as that passion which is always conjoined with love “by a natural and original quality” (T 2.2.9.3; SBN 382), such that whenever we love someone, we also feel a desire of their happiness and aversion to their misery. According to Hume, the passionate ‘trajectory’ of love always ends in benevolence.13 However, having expounded love as the source of benevolent motivation, Hume starts the following section in T 2.2.7 by suggesting that there may be yet another cause: But tho’ the desire of the happiness . . . of others, according to the love . . . we bear them [i.e., love-induced benevolence], be an arbitrary and original instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. (T 2.2.7.1; SBN 368–9)14 Immediately following this, Hume makes clear that the secondary principle he has in view is that of sympathy, particularly sympathy with those suffering “affliction and sorrow”, which produces the passion of pity or compassion (T 2.2.7.2; SBN 369). According to Hume then, just as love causes us to feel a desire of the happiness and aversion to the misery of our loved ones, so too can sympathy give rise to the same benevolent motives with regard to “even strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us” (T 2.2.7.1; SBN 369). Hume’s claim is that sympathy with those in need can serve to ‘counterfeit’ or ‘imitate’ the effects of love, namely, its ability to induce benevolence (T 2.2.8.1; SBN 372). It sounds then as if Hume is claiming that sympathising with “the misery of others”, which gives rise to the passion of pity, also produces benevolent motivation. To determine what he means by this, and how similar it is to Batson’s claim that empathic concern produces such motivation, we need to take a closer look at how Hume proceeds to explicate and defend this assertion. In the first place, Hume claims that it is “easy

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to explain the passion of pity, from the precedent reasoning concerning sympathy” (T 2.2.7.1; SBN 369). Sympathy, as Hume uses it, is not itself a passion but is rather the name he gives to that crucial psychological mechanism which enables us to share in the passions of others; “to receive by communication their inclinations and sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to our own” (T 2.1.11.2; SBN 316). Via sympathy, we feel joy at the joy of others and grief at their grief. Hume explains how this process of sympathy works as follows. It begins when we observe the sensible signs of another person experiencing a certain passion and we form an idea of the passion they are feeling. However, merely having an idea of another’s passion is not yet to sympathise with them. Sympathy is when this idea is “converted into an impression” (i.e., a passion) such that one comes to feel a passion that is roughly the same (corresponding in its valence and magnitude) to the passion one takes the other to be feeling (T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317). What causes this conversion? Hume offers his solution by clarifying that “these two kinds of perceptions differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity, with which they strike upon the soul” (T 2.1.11.7; SBN 319). The key then to converting an idea into an impression is simply to up the degree of force and vivacity attending that idea—for it to “be so inliven’d as to become the very sentiment or passion” (T 2.1.11.7; SBN 319). I will say more about the factors which contribute to this ‘vivacity’ later in the chapter.15 How then does sympathy explain pity? When we witness someone in “affliction and sorrow”, Hume thinks their grief tends to strike upon us with such a strong influence that the imagination forms a lively idea of it, i.e., an idea which is “easily converted into an impression” and thus produces in us “an emotion similar to the original one” (T 2.2.7.2; SBN 369). This sympathetically induced feeling of grief in the spectator, i.e., grief felt at the perceived grief of another, is what Hume labels the passion of pity or compassion.16 But if Hume’s “precedent reasoning concerning sympathy” explains pity, it doesn’t yet give any hint as to how benevolence could enter the picture. And there are other aspects of Hume’s account that make this look even more unlikely. According to Hume’s ‘double relation’ principle, a passion can only transition into other passions with which it shares an association of impressions, i.e., the same affective valence (T 2.1.4.3; SBN 283). This would lead us to expect that the passion of pity, defined as a painful feeling of sympathetically induced grief, would engender only further painful feelings, including contempt or hatred.17 Hume also argues that hate is always followed by the motivating passion of anger, defined as a desire for the misery of the other and aversion to their happiness (T 2.2.6; SBN 366–8). In short, on Hume’s reasoning thus far, we would expect pity to produce the exact opposite of benevolence. How then can sympathy with grief also sometimes be a source of benevolent motivation, as Hume seems to assert at the start of T 2.2.7?

150 Annette Pierdziwol Hume only addresses this question a full two sections later in T 2.2.9, in the context of an attempt to solve a slightly different puzzle about how pity mixes with love, for which he requires the premise that pity produces benevolence.18 Significantly, to defend this premise and develop an explanation for how pity could produce benevolence, Hume alters his preceding account of sympathy with a new direction. On top of his account of the ordinary workings of sympathy in which one comes to feel what the other is presently feeling, Hume adds the claim that sympathy sometimes ‘extends’ beyond this present passion, such that the spectator sympathises not only with the other’s present passion but with their whole person.19 This happens, he contends, when one’s idea of the other’s passion is so vivacious that this vivacity “diffuses” or “transfuse[s]” to all the ideas related to it, thus giving us “a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or future; possible, probable or certain” (T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386). In extensive sympathy one thus finds oneself concerned with the other person as a whole, sympathising not only with their present painful grief, but also with their potential future happiness (T 2.2.9.13; SBN 385–6). For this reason, Hume refers to extensive sympathy interchangeably as a “double” or “compleat sympathy” (T 2.2.9.18; SBN 388). On his account, the key contrast between ordinary, ‘limited’ sympathy and ‘extensive’ sympathy is that in the former we sympathise only on ‘one side’ (the painful), whereas in the latter, we sympathise on ‘both sides’ (the painful and the pleasurable).20 The second step in Hume’s explanation is his claim that this double sympathy, namely, one’s feeling both a pain proceeding from another’s pain and a pleasure from their (“future and contingent”) pleasure, produces benevolent motivation. He states that from this double “correspondence of impressions there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain” (T 2.2.9.15; SBN 387, emphasis added).21 He concludes: “from that compleat [or extensive] sympathy there arises pity and benevolence” (T 2.2.9.18; SBN 388). This then is Hume’s explanation for how sympathy with another’s present painful passion, which usually only communicates a corresponding painful passion and thus gives rise to pity, can instead, when my idea of the other’s passion is sufficiently lively, extend farther to give “a secondary sensation” on the pleasurable side of the equation (T 2.2.9.11; SBN 385), thus generating that double correspondence of sentiments which gives rise to benevolent motivation. The adequacy of Hume’s explanation is not my focus here but rather the way it demonstrates his commitment to, and helps clarify, his earlier assertion at T 2.2.7 that sympathy with those in need, giving rise to the passion of pity, could be a source of benevolence. We are now in a better position to draw some conclusions about the parallels between Hume’s account and Batson’s empathy-altruism hypothesis. First, how similar is Hume’s ‘pity’ and Batson’s ‘empathic concern’, which recall Batson defines as an “other-oriented emotion elicited by

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and congruent with the perceived welfare of someone in need”? Most obviously both emotions occur as a response to perceiving another in a situation of need, pain or suffering of some kind. It must be noted, however, that each thinker tells a slightly different causal story about how this occurs. Batson emphasises the significance of perception of need, while Hume emphasises perception of grief.22 Yet, there are overlaps here too in that, for Batson, perceiving the other’s emotion can factor into our perception of them as in need, while for Hume our perception of the other’s situation can, via the operation of general rules, factor into our perception of them as experiencing grief—even when they are not, we infer from past experience that this is what is usually felt in such situations (T 2.2.7.5–6; SBN 370–1). The more significant point of difference in their causal stories is that, on Hume’s account, pity arises via sympathy and this means that feeling pity involves the spectator coming to feel as the other feels. By contrast, Batson argues that this is neither necessary nor sufficient for empathic concern. He acknowledges that feeling as the other feels can function as a “stepping-stone” to perceiving their need (and thus impact on empathic concern), simply because it is one strategy we can use to come to know what other people are feeling (2011: 17). But, for Batson, this knowledge suffices, whereas for Hume sympathy requires the conversion of an idea of the other’s passion into the passion itself. Despite these different causal accounts, significant parallels are also evident. As noted, both Hume’s pity and Batson’s empathic concern are felt in response to perception of negative well-being or negativelyvalenced emotion. Both are also ‘congruent’ with this perception in the sense that the valence of the empathic emotion is likewise negative, i.e., painful (for example, one’s feeling sad, concerned, upset, or distressed). Both then are roughly a kind of grief. Furthermore, both are otheroriented in the sense that this grief is elicited by a threat to the other’s welfare, not one’s own. Both Batson’s account of empathic concern and Hume’s account of pity also emphasise the significance of perception or imagination in the genesis of this emotion, as well as a variety of factors that impact on it. As Batson puts it: “the perception at issue is by the person feeling empathy, not the person in need” (2011: 33). He highlights that “cognitive and situational factors—such as being led by the reactions of other bystanders to misinterpret the situation” can affect one’s perception of the reality and severity of others’ needs (2011: 34). Hume emphasises multiple times that pity arises “from the imagination, according to the light in which it places its object” (T 2.2.9.1; SBN 381). This framing includes, for instance, whether the spectator considers the other’s grief directly or comparatively (T 2.2.9.1; SBN 381) and whether they take it to be reality or fiction, as in the theatre or if we suspect someone is exaggerating.23 Hume also highlights other factors that affect the liveliness of the ideas the imagination forms such

152 Annette Pierdziwol as, for example, knowledge of the particularities of the other’s situations and eloquent rhetorical presentation of their plight (T 2.3.6; SBN 424–7). I discuss these imaginative efforts further in the next section. The final and most significant point of comparison concerns Batson’s contention that feelings of empathic concern produce altruistic motivation. Having clarified Hume’s preceding account, I think it is evident that he makes a similar claim about feelings of pity. As we saw, pity arises through a process of sympathising with the grief of another person, which induces a corresponding feeling of grief in the spectator. It is this sympathetically induced feeling of grief that Hume first labels pity or compassion. However, Hume also makes clear that this isn’t the end of the story for the passion of pity on his account. As he puts it, “these are only the first foundations” of the affection of pity (T 2.2.9.1; SBN 381). His lengthy account of extensive sympathy seeks to show that when our sympathy with those in need is very strong (i.e., when the imagination forms especially lively ideas of another’s pain), sympathy can ‘extend’ in such a way that one comes to feel both pity and benevolent motivation. It is also Hume who schools us in the idea that to properly understand our emotional and motivational responses, we must attend to their entire ‘trajectory’. As he sums up this maxim: “’tis not the present sensation alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end” (T 2.2.9.2; SBN 381).24 Hume states explicitly that this maxim “is absolutely necessary to the explication of the phaenomen[on] of pity” (T 2.2.9.11; SBN 384). In doing so, he emphasises again that pity in its “first foundations” of sympathetically induced grief is not the “whole bent” of this passion, but that its tendency towards benevolent motivation is crucial for understanding the passion in its fullest sense.25 In this section I have sought to show that Hume describes the same basic trajectory of emotional and motivational response to perceiving another in need as Batson. Both are interested in a response that begins as an other-oriented, negatively valenced feeling of grief and ends in motivation to help. In other words, we can say that Hume too provides an account of how we come to feel empathic concern and altruistic motivation towards someone in need. In the next section, I push into the details of his account to extrapolate some suggestions about possible avenues for intentionally cultivating this response where it does not automatically occur.

3. Humean Avenues for Cultivating Empathic Concern and Altruistic Motivation In T 2.2.9 Hume gives an example of a case in which sympathy fails to get very far off the ground, remaining weak and limited. He writes: A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This

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deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy with the inhabitants, as has been already observ’d; but it is only a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, which is disagreeable. (T 2.2.9.17; SBN 388) Assuming one had an interest in cultivating a more ‘extensive sympathy’ with these inhabitants—the sort that Hume thinks will produce both pity and benevolence (or, in Batson’s terms, empathic concern and altruistic motivation)—how could this be done? Here I move beyond interpretation of Hume’s arguments to draw out insights that I think his texts offer on the practical question of cultivation. I consider some of the specific tactics for intentional efforts they point us towards, as well as how these fare in relation to the contemporary psychological research of Batson and others. To explore possible Humean avenues for cultivating our emotional and motivational responses to those in need, we need to return to Hume’s explanation of sympathy and extensive sympathy. By clarifying the factors that are crucial for their successful occurrence, we can determine whether there might be any openings for intentional efforts. Recall that, on Hume’s account, extensive sympathy, like sympathy itself, depends on the vivacity or liveliness of one’s initial idea of the other’s grief: only when this reaches a sort of ‘critical mass’ will sympathy extend and so produce both pity and benevolent motivation.26 This implies that the key to cultivating this passionate trajectory in response to those in need would lie in making efforts to increase the vivacity with which one conceives of their grief. Given this, it seems that virtually any material we find in the Treatise on factors that modulate the liveliness of the ideas the imagination forms would be relevant for our inquiry. Hume’s discussions related to this topic, which occur in various sections, could be pieced together to construct a map of where intentional efforts might best be directed to help create the conditions for extensive sympathy to occur.27 On my reading, two of the main avenues I think Hume’s texts allow for with regard to increasing the vivacity of the ideas we form of others’ passions are: (i) the creation of associative relations between one’s idea of oneself and one’s idea of the other; and (ii) imaginative efforts to vividly represent the other’s passion to oneself. The latter avenue derives from comments Hume makes in the context of his discussion of how we come to feel pity and benevolence for strangers in need in T 2.2.9 (SBN 381–9), where he states that this can occur when the other’s passion either “appears very great, or is painted in very lively colours” (T 2.2.9.16; SBN 387). This phrase links with comments he makes later in T 2.3.6–8 (SBN 424–38) where he outlines a variety of factors that determine the vivacity of the ideas formed by the imagination. For example, Hume notes that eloquence can be used to represent others’ passions in their “strongest and most lively colours” (T 2.3.6.7; SBN 426), thus

154 Annette Pierdziwol implying that efforts to represent them in eloquent and compelling terms (or efforts to seek out others who can do this for oneself)28 could serve to increase the liveliness of the ideas one forms of their passions and hence strengthen sympathy in cases where it is weak or limited. As he puts it in one passage, when considering the scenario of some strangers being tossed about on a ship in a storm: “I must think on the miserable condition of those who are at sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as strong and lively as possible” (T 3.3.2.5; SBN 594). Such a “great effort of imagination” (T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386) to vividly conceive the grief experienced by those in need could then be one method for fostering empathic concern and altruistic motivation. Interestingly, Batson’s contemporary psychological investigations support the claim that intentional efforts at vivid depiction can increase empathic concern as they “give us a lively sense of what the other is thinking and feeling” (2011: 17). These efforts are primarily cast as imaginative acts of perspective taking. Following upon the work of Stotland, and then of Batson, Early and Salvarani, ‘imagine other’ perspective taking seeks to vividly imagine the thoughts and feelings of the other, and attempts to adopt their perspective (Batson 2011: 17).29 Indeed, evidence for this is now sufficiently well-established that perspective-taking instructions are standardly “used to induce empathic concern in participants in laboratory experiments” (2011: 18). Instructions to remain objective and neutral, versus instructions to vividly imagine the situation of the other, are used to produce low-empathy and high-empathy scenarios. More could be said in exploring this avenue for intentional efforts, but it is on the first avenue mentioned earlier that I want to focus in this section, namely, the possibility of creating new relations of ideas. This possibility I extrapolate from Hume’s account of sympathy. Recall that Hume’s account involves the conversion of an idea of the other’s passion into the passion itself via increasing the vivacity of that idea. But where does this extra vivacity come from? Hume’s infamous answer is that it comes from the exceptional vivacity that always accompanies your idea— or rather, impression—of yourself (T 2.1.11.4; SBN 317). He claims that this vivacity is transferred via the three basic types of associative relations that can exist between one’s idea of oneself and one’s idea of the other person, namely, those of causation, contiguity and resemblance.30 These relations form highways, as it were, which “convey the impression or consciousness of our own person to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes us conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner” (T 2.1.11.6; SBN 318), thus making these ideas more likely to convert into passions. This is the reason why, on Hume’s account, I am more likely to feel grief at witnessing the grief of my brother crying in my presence, than I am to feel grief at the misery of distant strangers. The implication of this for our question is that it suggests that one way to cultivate empathic concern and altruistic motivation would be

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to increase the associative relations between one’s idea of oneself and one’s idea of the person to whom one wishes to respond in this way, i.e., to create new and stronger relations of contiguity, causation or resemblance between those ideas. While it might be suspected that the idea of intentional efforts to create new such relations sounds very ‘un-Humean’ in moving away from the merely descriptive, Hume’s own descriptions frequently highlight the fluid nature of some of these relations and the ways in which we augment them—both consciously and unconsciously— to modify the effects of sympathy. For example, considering proximity, Hume notes that it “always produce[s] a relation of ideas” (T 2.2.8.13; SBN 378). Whenever I am near another person, there emerges a “bond or connecting quality” joining together in the imagination my idea of myself with my idea of this person. Hume also makes clear that it is possible to create and break these associations of ideas by increasing or decreasing our proximity to others (T 2.2.8.13–17; SBN 378–9). He highlights how this can be deliberately manipulated in his example of “men of good families, but narrow circumstances” who “seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers, and at a distance from relations” (T 2.1.11.15; SBN 322). By foregrounding how altering relations of proximity can impact sympathy’s operations, Hume’s account implicitly allows that his readers too could intentionally make efforts of this sort. In exploring potential Humean avenues for creating new relations of ideas, we could investigate Hume’s comments on any of the three main relations—those of proximity, resemblance or causation. Batson has, however, been critical of the idea that either proximity or resemblance play a crucial role in generating empathic concern.31 Given this, and that my focus in this chapter is on a comparison with Batson, I will prioritise a consideration of relations of causation and of those relations that Hume thinks mimic them, namely, relations of acquaintance. It is in Hume’s treatment of acquaintance that some particularly interesting intersections with Batson’s account emerge. Hume argues that “relations of blood, being a species of causation” produce the strongest tie of which the mind is capable between the related ideas (T 2.1.11.6; SBN 318). If I am a father, then my idea of myself will be very closely tied to my idea of my child. The imagination easily makes the transition from the former to the latter, conveying “to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we always form the idea of our own person” (T 2.1.11.5; SBN 318), and thus facilitating sympathy. But while Hume thinks the relation of blood between parents and children produces exceptionally strong ties of this sort, he also suggests that our other relations have a similar, if lesser, effect. He writes “our countrymen, our neighbours, those of the same trade . . . Every one of these relations is esteemed some tie” (T 2.2.4.2; SBN 352).

156 Annette Pierdziwol Given that the preceding relations all seem largely fixed—we rarely get to choose our family, neighbours or colleagues—it may seem odd to raise the prospect of intentional efforts. Yet, Hume himself explicitly discusses the human capacity to create new, parallel relations of this sort through experience and learning (his “education and custom”), that is, our natural tendency to develop ‘acquaintances’.32 Hume depicts it as part of the usual course of life that “[o]ur situation, with regard both to persons and things, is in continual fluctuation; and a man, that lies at a distance from us, may, in a little time, become a familiar acquaintance” (T 3.3.1.15; SBN 581). He points to the way we contract “a habitude and intimacy” with a person by “frequenting his company” (T 2.2.4.3; SBN 352). And he clearly states that this phenomenon of acquaintance has “the same effect” and “operates in the same manner” as relations of blood—both make us form lively ideas of the passions of others and so grease the wheels of sympathy (T 2.1.11.6; SBN 318). Interestingly, and this will become relevant later on in considering Batson’s research in this area, Hume highlights that what blood relations and acquaintances have in common, is that both give rise to love and affection.33 Whether a relative or a long-time acquaintance, Hume thinks we cannot help “preferring” them over strangers and valuing them more highly (T 2.2.4.3; SBN 352). He sums this up saying: whoever is united to us by any connection is always sure of a share of our love. . . . Thus the relation of blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable in the love of parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection, as the relation lessens. . . . There is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that acquaintance, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and kindness. (T 2.2.4.2; SBN 352) While it is true that forming acquaintances via habit is something that often happens to us passively, it also seems to be something to which we could presumably become more attentive and intentionally orchestrate. The crucial ingredient would be frequent contact and “considerable time” (T 2.2.4.8; SBN 354). Clearly, this would not be the sort of intentional effort that could be taken in a particular moment of failed or weak sympathy as an immediate remedy. Rather, it is something one would have to cultivate long in advance of situations in which one hopes to feel empathic concern. But, given Hume thinks that acquaintance operates in a manner “parallel” to blood relations, the path of using habitual bodily exposure, familiarity and interaction to make strangers into acquaintances would arguably be one of the most profound ways to augment our patterns of sympathetic engagement. If we sympathise most with those to whom we are closely related and who we love and care for, then one way to cultivate empathic concern and altruistic motivation would be to create new affectionate bonds.

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Batson’s contemporary psychological account offers empirical support for this Humean tactic. Batson argues that current research indicates there are two necessary threshold conditions for empathic concern to occur: perception of need and intrinsic valuing of the other’s welfare. The latter is particularly relevant here since, as Batson notes, we don’t value the welfare of all persons equally, rather, “valuing of another’s welfare is most likely to occur in close and enduring relationships (e.g., family relationships, friendships)” (2011: 44). Following Rokeach, Batson defines intrinsic valuing as when the other is valued in their own right (2011: 45). He explains the effect: Such valuing not only produces a lively response to events that affect this person’s welfare, but it also produces vigilance. It leads us naturally to adopt his or her perspective, imagining how this person thinks and feels about events. His or her welfare becomes part of our own value structure. This might be called a sympathetic orientation. (2011: 42) Batson also notes that we use a range of other terms for this intrinsic valuing, such as caring, loving or being close (2011: 46). He notes that although “[c]ognitive processes such as perceived similarity, familiarity, and attractiveness can contribute to love . . . its basic character seems to be affective and evaluative”.34 This is particularly interesting given that, as we saw earlier, Hume highlights love as the key effect of both blood relations and relations of acquaintance. Batson’s account likewise puts forward the idea that relations in which one loves or is in some way close to others—i.e., in which one intrinsically values them and so cares about threats to their welfare—are the sort of relations in which empathic concern is most likely to be evoked. Batson, Eklund, Chermok, Hoyt and Oritz also provide support for the idea that the affective or emotional processes involved in intrinsic valuing are crucial for cultivating empathic concern. Noting the variety of strategies that are thought to help, they write: Typically, cognitive processes are assumed to mediate the beneficial effects of such strategies. The effects are attributed to reduced stereotyping, more inclusive self-categorisation, and so on. Our analysis suggests that emotional processes may mediate at least some of these effects. Benefits may occur because we feel for those we care for. (Batson et al. 2007: 73–4; emphasis added) Like Hume then, Batson thinks that close relationships foster increased empathic concern. The basic claim is that if you could come to intrinsically value—feel love or be close to—another person in the same sort of way that we typically do with our blood relations, then you would

158 Annette Pierdziwol greatly increase your chances of feeling empathic concern and altruistic motivation for that person when you perceive them to be in need. Is there any contemporary psychological evidence to support the idea that we are capable of intrinsically valuing the welfare of non-kin—or, in Hume’s terminology, of forming ‘acquaintances’ with strangers, for whom we thus also come to feel a kind of affection?35 On this front, Batson has sought to rehabilitate and subject to empirical testing the idea, which was popular a century ago, that valuing the welfare of non-kin is linked to parental nurturance. This is the idea that “the genetically based caring of parent for child may provide a biological substrate for all intrinsic valuing of another’s welfare and, thereby, for all empathy-induced altruism in humans” (2011: 46). Batson argues that preliminary research on this area suggests the intriguing possibility “that feelings of tenderness and compassion, even for strangers, are grounded in the strong impulse for mammalian parents to provide care for their vulnerable and dependent offspring” (2011: 46). Recent research, he claims, indicates that it is at least plausible to entertain William McDougall’s 1908 hypothesis that the generalisation of parental nurturance is the basis for all empathic concern: The human parental instinct and associated tender emotion have a range of applicability that extends well beyond parent-child relations. Through cognitive generalisation based on learning and experience, this instinct and emotion come into play in many if not all cases of intrinsic valuing of another’s welfare. (2011: 48) For Batson, then, there is some promising evidence to support the idea that people are “capable of caring about the welfare of non-kin—even strangers—in something like the same way, if not the same degree, that they care for their own children” (2011: 48, emphasis added). In this, we hear echoes of Hume’s claim both that “the relation of blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children” and his use of this causation relation as the model which all other relations, as well as newly created relations of acquaintance, parallel in their effects: “and a lesser degree of the same affection, as the relation lessens” (T 2.2.4.2; SBN 352). Furthermore, Batson’s account of McDougall highlights the emphasis placed on the “proactive, cognitively flexible and emotionally mediated” (2011: 48) nature of the parental instinct and associated empathic feelings. It is because it is “modifiable by experience and learning” that empathic concern can be “generalised not only to other children but also to adults in need” (2011: 47) and we can “adopt” non-progeny (2011: 51), as is seen in “the tender care typically provided by nannies and workers in day-care centers, by adoptive parents, and by pet owners” (2011: 52). In these allusions to flexibility and modification,

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we also hear echoes of Hume’s constant emphasis on the powerful effects of habit. Of course, none of this yet tells us whether attempting to increase our affectionate valuing of the welfare of those in need would be an effective strategy for increasing empathy with them. One worry might be that it is much too inefficient to seek to become acquainted with and to feel for persons whose needs we’d like to empathise with. Another worry could concern the possible scope of such a strategy. There are surely many people in need for whom we might like to feel empathic concern and altruistic motivation, but are we capable of affectionately caring for all of them? Here contemporary research suggests some possible tactics. One strategy is the ‘imagine other’ perspective-taking mentioned previously. The reason this works is because intrinsic valuing usually gives rise to perspectivetaking spontaneously; we constantly imagine how events affect the welfare of those we love. It is then this causal relationship between intrinsic valuing and perspective taking that explains why the latter “can effectively induce empathic concern for someone in need.” It does so because “[e]ven in the absence of prior valuing, it activates the valuing path” (Batson 2011: 44). The result is that active efforts to imagine how the other feels can lead to increased valuing of that person’s welfare, which as we’ve seen is a key antecedent for feeling empathic concern for her. Furthermore, some research suggests that this sort of intentional effort at perspective-taking (in order to foster increased valuing of another’s welfare), if made with respect to one person, could have further ripple effects through being generalised to other members of groups to which that person belongs.36 The idea here is that inducing perspective taking, as we saw earlier, can “be used to arouse empathic concern for the needs of a member of the stigmatized group”, i.e., a person whose welfare one does not already value (Batson 2011: 178).37 This increased valuing of a group member is then generalised to the group(s) they belong to as a whole, thus improving attitudes to stigmatised groups and “producing more positive beliefs about, feelings towards, and concern for the group” (Batson 2011: 178).38 According to Batson, the research indicates that this kind of generalisation is possible “as long as membership in the stigmatised group is a salient aspect of the need for which empathy is induced” (2011: 178).39 Furthermore, the preceding sort of perspective taking is also something that can be induced via fictional works, media and other pedagogical strategies (Batson 2011: 177).40 And it is something that can be taught via socialisation: we can be trained in it such that it becomes a habitual way of relating to unfamiliar others.41

4. Conclusion In conclusion, I want to take a step back from considering specific tactics to briefly outline the broad features characteristic of a distinctively

160 Annette Pierdziwol Humean approach to cultivation and its contemporary relevance through a final comparison with Batson. To begin with perhaps the most obvious feature, any Humean approach to cultivating empathic concern and altruistic motivation (or, in Hume’s terminology, the sort of extensive sympathy that produces pity and benevolence) would have to be rigorously empirical. It will need to be grounded in an adequate explanatory account of human psychology—its resources, tendencies and limits. And while Hume’s causal explanations of various passions and psychological processes may seem less than satisfactory today, part of his enduring significance lies in pointing us to this method: his ‘experimentalist’ approach to human nature. Moreover, the perceptive detail of his observations of our emotional lives means they remain ripe for extrapolating practical insights. Secondly, any broadly Humean approach would also have to take a rather pragmatic tone: it would have specific things to say about the most strategic avenues for intentional efforts. Hume’s account of the workings of sympathy, through pinpointing the crucial role of the liveliness of the ideas we form of others’ passions, furnishes a structured map of options for such efforts. In this sense, a Humean approach takes the guesswork— and excuses—out of attempts to increase the strength of sympathy. An inability to sympathise extensively, and so to feel empathic concern and altruistic motivation, in response to the inhabitants of Hume’s “barren or desolate country” is not mysterious and inexplicable. It is simply because one lacks a sufficiently vivid conception of their grief. Assuming I wanted to remedy this and, assuming I was willing to make efforts towards this end, a Humean account will want to offer targeted, pragmatic suggestions about how to go about this. This leads to another significant characteristic of a Humean approach to cultivation, namely, that it involves only an indirect form of control. We cannot make ourselves feel increased empathic concern toward another person—whether by a command of reason, a decision of will or even a concerted flight of imagination in the moment. Rather, one must make indirect efforts of the kinds outlined earlier—efforts that involve our bodies, passions and imaginations, and that take time. In this regard, a Humean account emphasises that we cannot circumvent nature. Sympathy, on Hume’s account, is a psychological mechanism that operates according to certain reliably observed rules. If one wishes to augment and extend its automatic operations, then it will be necessary to learn the art of cooperating with it, including the effort and risks involved in doing so.42 Turning to Batson, he too insists on an explicitly empirical approach. It might be thought that this goes without saying for a contemporary psychologist in the business of conducting laboratory experiments, however, Batson contends that even today psychology is not always empirical enough. Too often, he writes, it remains focussed on “the surface

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observation of behaviour” and ignores the underlying psychological process, thus failing to develop explanatory models which could generate predictions for empirical testing (2011: 95).43 In contrast, Batson emphasises the importance of focussing on the complex “interplay of values, emotions, and motives that underlie our behavior” (2016b: 216). He argues that we need an understanding of what leads to helping behaviour in various everyday situations in all the “nuances, complexities, and contradictions” with which they appear there (2016b: 25), if we are to be able to diagnose the causes of our behavioural failings to help those in need and propose effective treatments. As he glosses a point made by Kurt Lewin, those interested in practical solutions, institutions and cultivation programs “need to base their work on good theories from the behavioural and social sciences” (2011: 233). Such theories, like Batson’s proposed theory of empathy-induced altruism, provide “a first step toward development of viable programs and institutions that take advantage of what we now know” (2011: 234). As noted in the introduction, Batson points to the substantial amount of evidence that has now been amassed in support of this theory. He argues that if we capitalise on this knowledge there is potential to develop more effective cultivation programs. Like a good Humean then, Batson considers it worthwhile investing time and resources into attempts to empirically study the emotional and motivational repertoire shared by most humans. The better we understand this, the more strategic and targeted our efforts at cultivation will be. And given the work of contemporary psychology on this front, Batson is optimistic that we have increasingly better data to work with. A focus of his own writings has been to challenge our failure to make use of it. Some of these Humean motifs can also be seen more explicitly in Batson’s recent work on specifically moral cultivation in What’s Wrong With Morality? Here Batson argues that it is crucial for such accounts to make a realistic accounting of the strengths and weaknesses, the potential and limitations, of various aspects of our moral psychology. He implies that previous approaches have settled for making “indiscriminate appeal to any and all possible motives for acting morally”, without paying sufficient attention to the effects of their proposals, for example, of “motives conflicting with and undercutting one another” and of the way certain treatments can be ultimately counterproductive (2016b: 224). In contrast, Batson argues that “we need to attend to detail” in order to become more discriminating and strategic with our recommendations for intentional efforts. In What’s Wrong With Morality? Batson chooses the key metaphor of orchestration to depict the cultivation process. What he has in mind is the idea of intentionally “orchestrating motives” in such a way that the strengths of our nonmoral motives, such as altruism, collectivism or even egoism, can be used to help overcome the weaknesses of our moral

162 Annette Pierdziwol motives. Leaving to one side the specifics of this proposal, the Humean echoes can be heard in the notion of seeking to cooperate with our natural psychological processes—of seeking to tap strengths and compensate for weaknesses. Cultivation, on Batson’s model, is about a strategic attempt to capitalise on the resources we have. It takes a more pragmatic tone than has been characteristic of many traditional philosophical and psychological approaches to moral cultivation. It is also less tolerant of excuse-making, seeing this too as a pervasive psychological tendency that must be managed as part of the cultivation process.44 Appeal is not being made to the highest levels of altruistic and moral motivation, which many view as out of reach and thus as justifying inaction. Rather, recommendations for intentional efforts are based on empirically tested, pragmatic avenues. Batson concludes What’s Wrong With Morality? by suggesting that, through intentional efforts at this sort of orchestration, “we may find ourselves” gradually being transformed; “[w]e too may be able to look back and say, ‘[s]omething in me began to change’” (2016b: 225). Interestingly, his choice of phrasing here evokes that same combination of activity and passivity characteristic of a Humean approach to the cultivation process—one where our mode of control is indirect. Thus, while he thinks we cannot directly make ourselves more empathic, altruistic or moral, Batson implies there are indeed efforts that we can make over time to orchestrate and habituate our emotions and motives. In the preceding respects then, Batson’s approach remains essentially Humean and points to the continued relevance of Hume’s work for both philosophical and psychological investigations on the practical question of cultivation.45

Notes 1. See the study by Dickert et al. (2015) which suggested that on average, when asked about their normative and subjective preferences, participants prefer a linear valuation function, where each additional life at risk should increase helping behaviour and resource allocation to the same extent. 2. See, for example, Jesse Prinz (2011b, 2011a), Paul Bloom (2016) and Peter Goldie (2011), discussed by Lorraine Besser’s chapter in this volume (Chapter 9). Batson outlines criticisms related to empathy-induced altruism producing immoral action and posing a threat to the common good in 2011: 195–205. 3. Batson raises these criticisms of empathy-induced altruism in 2011: 193–5. 4. Batson summarises these two lines of criticism in 2011: 188–91 and 205–6. 5. For an overview of this argument, see Dixon (2003). 6. See Schumann et al. (2014). They write that “Across 7 studies, we found that people who held a malleable mindset about empathy (believing empathy can be developed) expended greater empathic effort in challenging contexts than did people who held a fixed theory (believing empathy cannot be developed)” (2014: 475). 7. Batson highlights that this does not rule out other possible sources of altruism. But his focus is merely on testing the hypothesis that empathic concern

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is one source of altruistic motivation. He also acknowledges the basic idea of this theory is not original and lists precedents, including among them, Hume. See Batson (2011: 9). Batson (2011: 230). See also 4–5 for Batson’s explanation of why laboratory experiments are necessary. Batson also notes a whole range of other possible benefits, see 2011: ch. 7. See T 2.3.9.1–8; SBN 438–9. For a helpful summary of the role of belief in the standard Humean motivational story, see Karlsson (2006: 236). Here I am referring to benevolence as a passion or sentiment. However, it is important to note that Hume, at times, also refers to benevolence as an instinct, tendency or disposition that is natural to human beings (for example, T 2.3.3.8; SBN 417); indeed he increasingly refers to it this way in the second Enquiry, where he speaks interchangeably of the principle of benevolence or of humanity. For further on this, see Debes (2007), as well as Radcliffe (2004: 647 fn 28); Radcliffe argues that Hume’s two ways of speaking of benevolence requires a distinction between occurrent and dispositional benevolence. In T 2.2.6 (SBN 366–8), Hume highlights that love and hate are unique indirect passions in that, unlike the “pure emotions” of pride and humility, they “are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion, which they produce, but carry the mind to something farther” (T 2.2.6.3; SBN 367). And benevolence, according to Hume, is the “something farther” to which the ‘trajectory’ of love consistently takes us. Note that, although Hume thinks love and benevolence are linked “by the original constitution of the mind” for human beings (T 2.2.6.6; SBN 368), they are not identical, since benevolence arises “only upon the ideas of the happiness or misery of our friend . . . being presented by the imagination” (T 2.2.6.5; SBN 367). That is, a feeling of benevolence is provoked on occasions where a friend or loved one is experiencing pleasure or pain. For a summary of benevolence in terms of its cause and object, see Vitz (2002: 272–3). Note the reference to secondary principles is in the plural here since in this context Hume is also concerned with how the opposite passion of benevolence, namely, anger (a desire for the misery and aversion to the happiness of others) can be counterfeited. He will argue that while the secondary principle of sympathy with grief (pity) counterfeits love’s production of benevolence, it is the secondary principle of comparison with grief (malice) that counterfeits hate’s production of anger (for further on malice, see T 2.2.8; SBN 372–80). The meaning of Hume’s notion of vivacity has also been subject to much critical debate. For discussion of positions in the debate over what Hume means by vivacity, see Traiger (2011: 44–6). Broughton provides a helpful summary of the various things Hume seems to mean by liveliness (force, violence, vivacity and the like) and questions whether “all these ways of thinking about liveliness can be combined into a single, satisfying view” (2006: 45). Samuel C. Rickless’ reconstruction of Hume’s account of pity is helpful here. His conclusion is that, on Hume’s account, “Pity is a kind of grief that arises sympathetically from perception of another’s grief” (2013: 20). See also his comments on Hume’s use of grief, sorrow and concern as synonyms, 12–15. Hume summarises this as follows: “as pity is an uneasiness . . . arising from the misery of others, pity shou’d naturally, as in all other cases, produce hatred” (T 2.2.9.1; SBN 381, see also T 2.2.9.11–12; SBN 384–5). Also, note that sympathy gives us “a contempt for meanness and poverty” since by

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18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

“the principle of sympathy . . . we enter into the sentiments of the . . . poor, and partake of their . . . uneasiness” (T 2.2.5.14; SBN 362). Hume defines contempt as a species of hatred (T 2.2.5.1; SBN 357). In T 2.2.9, Hume wants to solve the puzzle of how there can be a mixture of pity and love, given this faces similar problems to those noted earlier (i.e., an association of impressions is not possible; since pity is a negatively valenced feeling, it should give rise to hate). On my reading, to solve this conundrum, Hume requires the premise that pity produces benevolence—this is why we find him defending this claim here. If he can establish this premise, then he will have succeeded in identifying a similarity between the passions of pity and love, namely, both produce benevolence, i.e., they share what he calls a ‘similarity of direction’. The final step in the solution is Hume’s claim that a transition can occur between two passions that, though not sharing a “resemblance of sensations” (T 2.2.9.15; SBN 387), nonetheless have “a conformity in the tendency and direction” of their desires (T 2.2.9.12; SBN 385). Hume uses term the term ‘extensive’ in two different ways: Annette Baier highlights that “Sympathy in the Treatise can be more or less ‘extensive’ (both in the Book 2 sense of extending over a fair stretch of a person’s life, and in the Book 3 sense, of extending to many people)” (Baier and Waldow 2008: 68). In this chapter, I focus on the former Book 2 sense noted by Baier, in which Hume introduces extensive sympathy as having to do with an extension of sympathy beyond the present moment, particularly to sympathize with the future pleasures and pains of a person. Extending sympathy to the future in this way thus seems to have to do with being concerned with the other as a whole, temporally extended person rather than simply as a locus of a presently felt passion. For further on this idea, see Herdt (1997: 47–9). Hume emphasizes this double correspondence aspect multiple times in his descriptions. He says extensive sympathy causes us to “feel these double impressions, correspondent to those of the person, whom we consider” (T 2.2.9.15; SBN 387). Or that extensive sympathy “gives a double tendency of the passions” (T 2.2.9.15; SBN 387), that in it “we there enter so deep into the interests of the inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel their adversity” (T 2.2.9.17; SBN 388). Or that in it we feel “an equal concern for the future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil . . . we become so interested in the concerns of the person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune” (T 2.2.9.18; SBN 388). Or that in it “we carry our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are sensible of his affliction” (T 2.2.9.19; SBN 389, emphasis added in all the preceding citations). Or that “we rejoice in their pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows” (T 2.2.10.20; SBN 389). Hume thinks this production of benevolent motivation via a double “correspondence of impressions” can occur in other cases too. It can arise from the principle of interest in cases where our self-interest is dependent on that of another. Hume uses the example of a business partner whose success will determine one’s own success and whose losses will also be one’s own (T 2.2.9.5–9; SBN 383–4). Here, in virtue of one’s concern for one’s own interest, in witnessing the pain of one’s business partner, one will feel a corresponding pain, and in witnessing his happiness, one will feel a corresponding joy. On Hume’s account, this double correspondence of sensations—“a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in the pain of a partner” (T 2.2.9.9; SBN 384)—gives rise to a desire for our business partner’s happiness and aversion to his misery, i.e., it produces benevolent motivation. For Batson, perception of need involves “perceiving a negative discrepancy between the other’s current state and what is desirable for the other on one or more dimensions of well-being” (2011: 33). For Hume, one perceives the

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24. 25.

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sensible marks of the other’s passion of grief or sadness (such as crying) and forms an idea of their passion, which is then converted into an impression. For Hume’s comments on the comparative vivacity of fiction versus reality see T 1.3.10.5–12; SBN 121–23; T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386; T 2.3.6.10; SBN 427. These imply that the less real the other’s pain seems to us, the less lively our conception of their pain will be. For further on the way aesthetic frames can create a sort of un-reality around others’ suffering, see Herdt (1997: ch. 3), where, in the context of Hume’s discussion of the pleasures of tragedy, she considers the relation of fiction, reality and belief, and the dangers of detachment in life outside the theatre. This maxim is repeated at T 2.2.9.11; SBN 384–5. In interpreting T 2.2.9, much confusion is generated by the fact that in these passages Hume seems to switch between using the term ‘pity’ to refer both to pity in its “first foundations” and to refer to the “whole bent” of the passion, as also including benevolence. In the latter usage, Hume thus speaks of pity having an influence or direction as “a desire of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery” (T 2.2.9.3; SBN 382). On my interpretation then, Hume is not so much embroiled in irresolvable definitional contractions (as Rickless argues in his 2013 article) as he is using the term pity in two different ways, which he doesn’t always signal but which are usually clear in context. Note, also, a further point not considered here: Hume thinks that benevolence is not the final end-point, but that pity, having produced benevolence, will go on to mix with love, since both share “a conformity in the tendency and direction” of their desires, i.e., both pity and love produce benevolence (T 2.2.9.12; SBN 385). Hume is clear that the occurrence of extensive sympathy “depends upon the force of the first sympathy” (T 2.2.9.15; SBN 387), i.e., upon “the vivacity of the first conception” or idea I form of the other’s passion (T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386). If this vivacity is great enough, “it diffuses its influence” or “transfuse[s] the force of the first conception into my ideas of the related objects” and so to the person as a whole. In Hume’s metaphor, the vivacity of my idea of the other’s passion is thus the “fountain” or source that powers extensive sympathy: “If I diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at the fountain” (T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386; see also T 1.3.10.7; SBN 122 for a similar usage of this metaphor). Given this, Hume’s account of extensive sympathy shares an important continuity with his original account of sympathy: both crucially depend upon the liveliness of one’s idea of the other’s passion reaching a certain threshold, though that threshold appears to be even higher for the occurrence of extensive sympathy. For other comments in the literature on Hume’s subtle shift to allow for a more intentional and active notion of sympathizing in the Treatise and beyond, see Ainslie (2005: 148–50), and for an extended argument with regard to the idea that Hume’s account of sympathy undergoes important modifications and development through the Treatise and on into his later works, see Herdt (1997: ch. 2). Hume writes: “We may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object is valuable, and such another odious; but ’till an orator excites the imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble influence either on the will or the affections” (T 2.3.6.7; SBN 426–7). Baier highlights the importance of the interpersonal and social elements at work here in determining our patterns of attention and what appears salient to us (see Baier 2009: 171–2). For further comments on eloquence from Hume, see T 1.3.10.8–11; SBN 123, 631–2 as well as the essay “Of Eloquence” in EMPL: 98–111.

166 Annette Pierdziwol 29. This is contrasted with an “imagine-self” perspective wherein one tries to imagine how oneself would feel in the other’s situation (see, for example, Adam Smith). 30. See T 2.1.11.4–6; SBN 317–18; T 2.1.11.8; SBN 320; T 2.1.11.15; SBN 322. 31. Batson does not seem to think that distance inhibits empathic concern in a significant way. He writes that “[a]s long as the level of awareness of the other’s need is held constant, distance per se does not pose a serious limit on empathic concern” (2011: 193). Other research suggests that with proximity, a great deal hinges on the nature of the contact. As Batson writes, drawing on Pettigrew’s work on intergroup contact theory (1998), studies highlight that where there is prior conflict or antipathy, “mere contact is likely to invite further hostility and aggression” (2011: 173). The face-to-face contact then must be “carefully orchestrated”: it must be positive and it must be personalising—I must deal with the other “on a personal basis, not simply as one of them” (Batson 2011: 173). With regard, secondly, to perceived similarity, even though this is “one of the explanations most frequently offered by personality and social psychologists for why we feel empathy for strangers” (Batson et al. 2005: 15), Batson et al. seem the least enthused about this avenue for cultivating empathic feelings. They argue that in their experiments, they found “no evidence that perceived similarity accounts for the variability in empathy felt for strangers”, suggesting instead that it may play a more modest role as a moderator rather than a source of empathic concern. They hypothesise that nurturant tendencies present a more plausible explanation for empathy than does similarity (Batson et al. 2005: 23). 32. The full exposition of this notion of acquaintance as a phenomenon parallel to causation relations is contained in T 2.2.4 (SBN 351–7). 33. The reason for this, on Hume’s account, is because both make us form particularly strong and lively ideas of the other’s passion. See T 2.1.11.6; SBN 318; T 2.2.4.5; SBN 353; T 2.2.9.20; SBN 389. 34. Batson also notes that while love is often portrayed as a passive emotion, “it may be more appropriate to think of love as a form of valuing”, thus involving active elements (2011: 46). This is a particularly interesting comment for my focus on the possibility of intentional efforts in relation to motivational and emotional processes, which have often been perceived as immediate and unreflective. 35. Interestingly, Batson suggests that research on this question has been skewed by a prior assumption that such valuing couldn’t be possible because it would be “a violation of the principles of natural selection”, which has tended to be combined with an egoistic “theory of rational choice” (2011: 41, 45; see also 51–5). 36. See Batson (2011: 173ff.). 37. Alternatively, some researchers have suggested that explicit instructions or intentional attempts at perspective taking may not even be necessary, since imagine-other perspective taking “may be adopted without instruction when nurturant tendencies are aroused.” As such, they suggest that “to the extent that variation in empathy for strangers is a function of nurturance . . . the best strategy to increase empathic feelings is very different from the one usually recommended . . . it may be more effective to evoke protective, nurturant concern” where the target is “perceived to have some need for care and protection” (Batson et al. 2005: 24). 38. See Batson et al. (1997). For an overview of experiments in this area, see Batson (2011: 178–9). 39. In other words, the key thing to watch out for is “sub-typing”, “whereby attitudes improve only toward one or a small subset of ‘exceptional’ members of

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41. 42.

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the group”. To address this “membership in the stigmatized group” must be “a salient feature of the need for which empathy is induced” (2011: 180). However, Batson suggests that these sorts of media-generated experiences and perspective-taking exercises, while very pragmatic in being “low-cost, low-risk” and easily controlled, can only ever be the first step, “lest one simply understand and feel for imagined or abstract outgroup members, not real ones” (2011: 180, 181). Batson argues they must be followed by direct, live face-to-face contact. In this, we perhaps hear echoes of Hume’s emphasis on the significance of relations of proximity. Though contemporary research also suggests important provisos on the nature of this contact, it must be personal (personalising) and cooperative (e.g., via the introduction of superordinate goals). See Batson (2016a: 224–9) (the section on socializing for empathy and altruism). Drawing from Hume’s account, for instance, one would need to be attentive to the risks of a failure of extensive sympathy, where one managed only ‘comparison’ or even ‘limited sympathy’—both of which yield passionate and motivational products quite far from and even opposite to empathic concern and altruistic motivation. See also the distinction Batson draws between Aristotelian and Galilean science, which he borrows from Lewin, who borrowed it from Cassier (2011: 91–6). See Batson’s recent work on moral hypocrisy in his 2016b. I would like to acknowledge the editors of this volume, Rico Vitz and Phil Reed, for their helpful feedback on earlier versions of this chapter.

References Ainslie, Donald. 2005. “Sympathy and the Unity of Hume’s Idea of Self.” In Persons and Passions: Essays in Honor of Annette Baier, edited by Joyce Jenkins, Jennifer Whiting, and Christopher Williams, 143–73. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Baier, Annette. 2009. A Progress of Sentiments. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Baier, Annette C., and Anik Waldow. 2008. “A Conversation Between Annette Baier and Anik Waldow About Hume’s Account of Sympathy.” Hume Studies 34: 61–87. Batson, C. Daniel. 2011. Altruism in Humans. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Batson, C. Daniel. 2016a [1991]. The Altruism Question: Toward a SocialPsychological Answer. New York: Routledge. Batson, C. Daniel. 2016b. What’s Wrong With Morality?: A Social-Psychological Perspective. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Batson, C. Daniel, J. H. Eklund, V. L. Chermok, J. L. Hoyt, and B. G. Ortiz. 2007. “An Additional Antecedent of Empathic Concern: Valuing the Welfare of the Person in Need.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 93: 65–74. Batson, C. Daniel, David A. Lishner, Jennifer Cook, and Stacey Sawyer. 2005. “Similarity and Nurturance: Two Possible Sources of Empathy for Strangers, Basic and Applied.” Social Psychology 27: 15–25. Batson, C. Daniel, Marina R. Polycarpou, Eddie Harmon-Jones, Heidi J. Imhoff, Erin C. Mitchener, Lori L. Bednar, Tricia R. Klein, and Lori Highberger. 1997. “Empathy and Attitudes: Can Feeling for a Member of a Stigmatized Group Improve Feelings Toward the Group?” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 72: 105–18.

168 Annette Pierdziwol Besser, Lorraine L. “Empathy, Interdependency, and Morality: Building from Hume’s account.” In current volume. Bloom, Paul. 2016. Against Empathy: The Case for Rational Compassion. New York: Ecco Press. Broughton, Janet. 2006. “Ideas and Impressions.” In The Blackwell Guide to Hume’s Treatise, edited by Saul Traiger, 43–58. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. Cameron, Daryl, Michael Inzlicht, and Wil Cunningham. 2017. “Deconstructing Empathy: A Motivational Framework for the Apparent Limits of Empathy.” PsyArXiv, March 18. psyarxiv.com/d99bp. Debes, Remy. 2007. “Humanity, Sympathy and the Puzzle of Hume’s Second Enquiry.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 15: 27–57. Dickert, Stephan, Daniel Västfjäll, Janet Kleber, and Paul Slovic. 2015. “Scope Insensitivity: The Limits of Intuitive Valuation of Human Lives in Public Policy.” Journal of Applied Research in Memory and Cognition 4: 248–55. Dixon, Thomas. 2003. From Passions to Emotions: The Creation of a Secular Psychological Category. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goldie, Peter. 2011. “Anti-Empathy.” In Empathy: Philosophical and Psychological Perspectives, edited by A. Coplan and P. Goldie, 302–17. New York: Oxford University Press. Herdt, Jennifer A. 1997. Religion and Faction in Hume’s Moral Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hume, David. 1978. A Treatise of Human Nature, 2nd edition, edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge, revised by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 2000. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by David F. Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hume, David. 2007. Essays: Moral, Political and Literary. New York: Cosimo. Karlsson, Mikael M. 2006. “Reason, Passion, and the Influencing Motives of the Will.” In The Blackwell Guide to Hume’s Treatise, edited by Saul Traiger, 235–55. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. Pettigrew, T. F. 1998. “Intergroup Contact Theory.” Annual Review of Psychology 49: 65–85. Prinz, Jesse. 2011a. “Against Empathy.” The Southern Journal of Philosophy 49 (Supplement 1): 214–33. Prinz, Jesse. 2011b. “Is Empathy Necessary for Morality?” In Empathy: Philosophical and Psychological Perspectives, edited by Amy Coplan and Peter Goldie, 211–29. New York: Oxford University Press. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 2004. “Love and Benevolence in Hutcheson’s and Hume’s Theories of the Passions.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 12: 631–53. Rickless, Samuel C. 2013. “Hume’s Theory of Pity and Malice.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 21: 324–44. Schumann, Karina, Jamil Zaki, and Carol S. Dweck. 2014. “Addressing the Empathy Deficit: Beliefs About the Malleability of Empathy Predict Effortful Responses When Empathy Is Challenging.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 107: 475–93. Shaw, Laura L., C. Daniel Batson, and R. Matthew Todd. 1994. “Empathy Avoidance: Forestalling Feeling for Another in Order to Escape the Motivational Consequences.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 67: 879–87.

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Slovic, Paul. 2007. “‘If I Look at the Mass I Will Never Act’: Psychic Numbing and Genocide.” Judgment and Decision Making Journal 2: 79–95. Slovic, Paul. 2010. “The More Who Die, the Less We Care.” In The Irrational Economist: Making Decisions in a Dangerous World, edited by E. MichelKerjan and P. Slovic, 30–40. New York: Public Affairs. Traiger, Saul. 2011. “Hume on Memory and Imagination.” In A Companion to Hume, edited by Elizabeth S. Radcliffe, 58–71. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Vitz, Rico. 2002. “Hume and the Limits of Benevolence.” Hume Studies 28: 271–95.

7

Preserving Practicality In Defense of Hume’s SympathyBased Ethics Lorenzo Greco

As is well known, for Hume, ethics is inherently practical, i.e. it moves people to action. If practicality is removed from the picture, ethics cannot literally be recognized as such: “Extinguish all the warm feelings and prepossessions in favour of virtue,” says Hume, “and all disgust or aversion to vice: render men totally indifferent towards these distinctions; and morality is no longer a practical study, nor has any tendency to regulate our lives and actions” (EPM 1.8; SBN 172). This practical element, according to Hume, cannot be provided by reason, since “reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent or produce any action or affection” (T 3.1.1.8; SBN 458). It depends, rather, on our being creatures of sentiment, and is related to our being affected by each other’s sentiments thanks to sympathy.1 In this chapter I want to analyze the scope of practicality in Hume’s ethics and the role played by sympathy in preserving it. I believe that practicality is crucial in Hume not only because it is related to the motivational aspect of ethics, but also because it informs the very normativity of moral judgments, and, with this, of the common point of view of morality from which they are established. I shall therefore offer a reconstruction of how moral judgments are formed for Hume that pivots on the conservation of practicality thanks to the principle of sympathy. I proceed by first considering some of the criticisms laid against Humean sympathy, focusing in particular on Jesse Prinz. As my positive case flows from his misunderstanding of the role that Hume attributes to sympathy in ethics, I describe how the principle of sympathy works, and its part in determining a common point of view of morality. The interpretative considerations I make are in the service of the more substantive point for which I am arguing concerning the significance of sympathy for moral motivation, and in turn for a proper understanding of moral judgment. So I shall then maintain that for Hume the process of the determination of the point of view of morality via sympathy is reflective in a way that makes it overlap with the perspective of the agent who acts morally. This bears consequences for the Humean notion of ethical objectivity. I conclude by indicating that such an understanding of sympathy in Hume favors an internalist reading regarding the normative status he recognizes moral reasons as having.

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1. The Dimensions of Humean Sympathy Various philosophers today claim to be inspired by Hume in developing their moral theories. However, it is interesting to note that some of these present-day Humeans turn against Hume because of the place occupied by sympathy in his ethics. This is the case, for example, with Jesse Prinz. In the Preface of The Emotional Construction of Morals, Prinz openly declares that the views he defends “owe a tremendous debt to Hume.” But immediately after he continues thus: “I depart from Hume in various ways, but the basic thrust of the theory is Humean, and, in this respect, my proposals are footnotes to Book III of the Treatise” (2007: vii). One of the most important ways Prinz departs from Hume is precisely on the role of sympathy in ethics. By contrast, I think that without the principle of sympathy one can hardly be said to be a Humean. So let me start my defense of Hume’s sympathy-based ethics by suggesting that criticizing Hume for the role he attributes to sympathy in ethics seriously misrepresents his perspective. In doing so, important points of substance about moral motivation go missing, and with those the correct understanding of the very nature of moral judgment. Note that nowadays those philosophers who follow in the lead of psychologists do not speak in terms of sympathy, but rather in terms of empathy. The notion of empathy is receiving a good deal of attention and is considered by many to be the basic element in ethics.2 Experimental psychology seems to confirm this. It is our being sentimentally activated when in the presence of someone else’s sentiments that apparently activates the process of moral assessment.3 However, Prinz, and recently Paul Bloom, have advanced an array of arguments against the connection between empathy and morality. According to them, empathy is intrinsically biased, and it is prone to prejudices. It is also selective; it addresses only those who are physically closer to us. Empathy’s perspective is limited; we are engaged by what we see, and we fail to reason about longterm consequences. Moreover, empathy is easily manipulated, is partial, ineluctably local, and leads to unequal treatment. Finally, empathy does not make allowance for the number of those who are involved, and it focuses on individuals, not on moral events. For all this, empathy cannot account for proper moral judgment. Instead, Bloom thinks that what we really need is reason, while Prinz refers to a set of basic emotions such as anger, disgust, guilt, and admiration.4 Prinz addresses Hume explicitly (2011a).5 According to him, Hume was the pioneer of an ethics based on empathy, and as his followers fail in their attempt to base ethics on empathy, so did Hume. Yet Hume did not speak in terms of empathy, but of sympathy. I shall contend that this is not a merely terminological issue. Typically, by empathy it is meant the capacity human beings possess to put themselves in someone else’s shoes, to feel what others feel, and to react accordingly. Empathy, however, is an umbrella concept. Empathy can

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be considered as emotional contagion, i.e. as our reacting automatically to other people’s feelings without being aware that others are feeling in those ways. Empathy may also be affective empathy, by which we share someone else’s emotions realizing that we and others are different people. Moreover, empathy can be taken as sympathy, understood in this case as that emotion whereby we feel concern for another, and are moved in their favor. Finally, in empathy there can also be an element of personal distress.6 On the face of it, Hume’s use of the term “sympathy” in the Treatise and in the second Enquiry may appear to be rather loose; sympathy can mean different things, and some of these meanings partially correspond to the contemporary understanding of empathy. Humean sympathy can mean emotive contagion.7 With sympathy Hume also points to that considerate care for others, which represents the source of pity and compassion, but also of malice and envy.8 And he talks in terms of “an extensive sympathy with mankind” (T 3.3.6.3; SBN 619. See also T 3.3.1.23; SBN 586–7), as well as of a disinterested “general benevolence, or humanity, or sympathy” (EPM App. 2, footnote 1; SBN 298). Notwithstanding that all these different meanings of “sympathy” are indeed present in Hume, and the similarities that can be drawn between them and empathy, interpreting Humean sympathy the way Prinz does is misleading.9 The main reason for opposing empathy is that it works only in the presence of those with whom we are supposed to connect at the level of sentiments. We are sentimentally triggered when we see the expression of other people’s sentiments, but if we are not exposed to them, empathy remains silent. It is this understanding of empathy that Prinz has in mind. Conversely, it would appear evident that ethics reaches well beyond those who are near to us, and empathy cannot make sense of this. Prinz criticizes Hume’s sympathy for the same reasons. Like empathy, Hume’s sympathy would make ethical discourse too narrow, losing an element that many find to be more basic than practicality in specifying the concept of ethics: its objectivity. However, sympathy does have a technical sense for Hume that goes missing in Prinz’s view, preventing him to fully grasp what Hume is aiming at when he presents ethics as a consequence of human sympathy. In strictly philosophical terms, the description of sympathy provided by Hume is normatively neutral; sympathy works as a principle of sentimental communication that is derived from empirical scrutiny.10 In this usage, the principle of sympathy is a generalization from the fact that human beings react to each other’s sentiments and emotions due to the “great resemblance among all human creatures” (T 2.1.11.5; SBN 318).11 In his attempt to offer an anatomy of human nature based on associationism, Hume appeals to sympathy when he observes that an idea of someone else’s sentiment can turn into an impression of that sentiment in us.12 Notice that Hume is not asserting that by sympathy human beings read each other’s minds. He does say that “the minds of men are mirrors to one another” (T 2.2.5.21; SBN 365), so one might think that for him reading each other’s mind is precisely what sympathy stands for.

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However, sympathy is really a mechanism of emotive communication rather than a device to look into someone else’s head. In fact, Hume proceeds by saying that people’s minds mirror each other “not only because they reflect each other’s emotions, but also because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions may often be reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees” (T 2.2.5.21; SBN 365). The proper analogy to explain how sympathy functions is with the strings of an instrument that vibrate together when only one is being plucked.13 Sympathy makes intelligible the discernible fact that human creatures are naturally attuned with each other, and capable of being affected by others’ sentiments and passions in a non-mediated way.14 What matters for our purposes here is that for Hume this mechanism allows us both to approve and disapprove of people simpliciter, and to do so in a persuasive, moral way. Prinz believes that there cannot be a proper moral judgment based on sympathy. On the contrary, I believe that without sympathy it is not possible to explain what human approbation and disapprobation are, and, consequently, what specifically moral approbation and disapprobation are. Humean sympathy makes intelligible both how it is possible to have a proper moral judgment and why this moral judgment can move people to act accordingly. But let’s proceed gradually.

2. Sympathy and Approbation According to Hume, our approval and disapproval, and then our speaking in terms of virtues and vices, rest on the basic fact that human beings can feel, and are moved by, pleasure and pain. We approve of what gives us pleasure, and we call it virtuous; we disapprove of what gives us pain, and we call it vicious.15 This is the result of plain observation; we “must pronounce the impression arising from virtue, to be agreeable, and that proceeding from vice to be uneasy” (T 3.1.2.2; SBN 470). It is sympathy that determines our feelings of pleasure or pain when faced with the expression of emotions by someone else. We feel approval or disapproval because we react sympathetically to these emotions in ways that are pleasant or painful to ourselves: An action, or sentiment, or character is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a reason, therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain the vice or virtue. (T 3.1.2.3; SBN 471) To be precise, the proper objects of our moral approval or disapproval are only personal traits composing human characters. Actions must depend upon durable principles of the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into the personal character. Actions

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What we assess morally are other people’s characters, and we assess them because the relevant pleasures and pains are conveyed to us by sympathy. The problem, however, is that sympathy seems to be variable, while moral judgment is not. Hume was well aware of this, and in T 3.3.1 it seems as if he already posed to himself the same objection that is being raised against him today: We sympathize more with persons contiguous to us, than with persons remote from us: With our acquaintance, than with strangers: With our countrymen, than with foreigners. But notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we give the same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in England. They appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally to the esteem of a judicious spectator. The sympathy varies without a variation in our esteem. Our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from sympathy. (T 3.3.1.14; SBN 581) Hume is, of course, considering an objection to his view and believes he has the resources to show how sympathy has in itself the capacity to escape this alleged impasse. This becomes apparent when dealing with his explanation of properly moral approval and disapproval, and thus of moral judgment itself. According to Hume, when we approve or disapprove of a person’s character and conduct, more importantly we sympathize with the “narrow circle” (T 3.3.3.2; SBN 602) of those dealing with him or her whose character and conduct are under judgment. By sympathizing with the people who have a direct relation with the person whose character we are taking into consideration, we judge in a way that allows us to put aside our own immediate interests and desires. It is not our interests and desires that matter, but those of the people who are directly affected by that person’s behavior. Character evaluation does, therefore, depend on sympathy. It is still us, with our personal framework of sentiments, who sympathize with those who have a connection with the person under scrutiny, but we evaluate that person primarily by considering the viewpoint of those of their narrow circle, not ours. This preserves the practical strength of our own sentimental involvement, and provides a way of avoiding partiality in our judgment. However, Hume’s explication does not stop here. By focusing on the narrow circle of those immediately connected with the one we are judging, we bracket our own interests. But one might object that the narrow circle itself can be more or less close to us, thus affecting our sympathetic

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responses in stronger or weaker ways.16 Nonetheless, Hume observes, it is plain that we do understand each other and converse in ethical terms. It is empirically ascertainable that our admiration for certain virtues and our contempt for certain vices do not change with the variation of sympathy experienced; on the contrary, they remain stable. We recognize a virtue or a vice as such, independently from our position. We understand what it means that a certain trait of character is a cause of pain and so is blamable, and another is a source of pleasure and so is laudable, and we express this in a shared moral vocabulary. It is in fact the case that to avoid the contradictions that our different perspectives, and our different personal temperaments, can create, and to be able to communicate with each other, “we fix on some steady and general points of view; and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever may be our present situation” (T 3.3.1.15; SBN 581–2). Given that the particular pleasures and interests of individuals are different, it would be impossible to find agreement among judgments on them unless there is recognition that the object of such judgment is the same for everyone. Thanks to the appeal to a steady and general point of view, what appears as the same thing to all spectators in evaluating characters is the pleasure or interest of the person themselves, or of those connected in some way with them. These pleasures and interests may mean less to us than our own, or they may mean nothing at all to us. They may also be the pleasures and interests of persons totally extraneous to us. Nonetheless, once they are seen to be more constant and universal from the general perspective, they are able to counterbalance the pleasure and interest that we feel for ourselves or for those close to us.17 Therefore, when judging morally it is not simply the case that we put ourselves in someone else’s shoes by abstracting from our personal condition. We adopt a steady and general, or common, point of view from which to express virtues and vices that can be recognized as such by everybody.18 It is the adoption of this common viewpoint that permits us to define virtues and vices, and to recognize them as such. When we pronounce our moral judgments we detach from the sentiments we feel here and now for those closer to us, and we allow ourselves to be guided by what we would feel if we were to view the situation from a point of view accessible to anyone. This is how Hume expresses himself in the Treatise; something very similar goes on in the second Enquiry as well. There, Hume observes that it is one thing to say that someone is our enemy, rival, antagonist, or adversary; it is quite another to blame him or her for being vicious, odious, or depraved. In the first case we are talking the language, and we are expressing the sentiments, of self-love. In the second case we are talking the language, and expressing the sentiments, of morals,19 that is, we have converged on a common point of view.20 So Hume does admit that our sentiments of praise and blame can be inconstant, since they depend on the kind of relation we have with the person judged and on our own frame of mind. However, this does

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not give rise to Prinz’s negative conclusions regarding the relationship between sympathy and moral judgment. It is because of the inconstancies of our sentiments of praise and blame that for Hume we need to abstract from our personal preferences and share a standpoint that allows us not to take these inconstancies into account. It is from this standpoint that we can establish if someone is deserving of moral approval or disapproval. That is, once the common point of view is in place, we may move from simply feeling approval or disapproval for someone to judging that someone is morally approvable or disapprovable. This latter judgment does not correspond to the idiosyncratic preferences of individuals, but results from people adopting a communal standard. As I shall argue, though, for Hume this very standard is not external to the sympathetic process, but, on the contrary, is directly produced by it.

3. From Motivation to Moral Judgment It is in principle possible for Hume to distinguish between a shared judgment, formulated from the common point of view, and the specific sentiment felt by a single individual in a given circumstance. “In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable,” Hume admits, according to our situation of nearness or remoteness, with regard to the person blam’d or prais’d, and according to the present disposition of our mind. But these variations we regard not in our general decisions, but still apply the terms expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same manner, as if we remain’d in one point of view. Experience soon teaches us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least, of correcting our language, where the sentiments are more stubborn and inalterable. (T 3.3.1.16; SBN 582) A little further on Hume carries on affirming that “tho’ the heart does not always take part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools” (T  3.3.3.2; SBN 603. See also EPM 5.42; SBN 229).21 Nevertheless, it does not follow from this that moral judgments take place on a separate level from that of the sentiments of these individuals. Recall that virtues and vices depend entirely on our feelings of pleasure and pain. Even if the single individual himself or herself may not eventually keep to the dictates of the common point of view, the practical force of our judgments regarding virtue and vice is the same as that which moves us to action when we feel pleasure and pain: As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, ’tis an evident consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. These sentiments

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produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original constitution of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger: that is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and miserable the person we hate. (T 3.3.1.31, SBN 591) Pleasure and pain give rise to volition, desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, which consequently generate action.22 Since “moral distinctions depend entirely on certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure” (T 3.3.1.3, SBN 574), moral distinctions have in themselves the capacity to move us to action. If this is the case, then I want to underline that this correspondence between individual judgments and moral judgments affects the very common point of view from which the latter judgments are formulated, and it is sympathy that is ultimately responsible for that. The common standpoint of morality does not correspond to a dispassionate perspective. Nor does the same judicious spectator—i.e. the one who places himself or herself from the common point of view and evaluates accordingly—correspond to an impartial, perfectly rational and informed observer. On the contrary, there can be no common point of view for Hume, and, with it, no judicious spectator, if one does not begin with sentimentally configured individuals whose capacity to approve and disapprove of people is the expression of their feeling favorable or unfavorable sentiments with regard to their qualities of character. This might sound to some as a controversial assertion in relation to Hume. However, even if Hume’s texts are indeed open to different interpretations, I believe that reading them along these lines represents a convincing way of understanding Hume’s outlook,23 and a powerful answer in and of itself to make sense of the common point of view with regard to its practical hold on those who abide by its dictates. The Humean spectator is not a distant ideal figure, but, as a rule, it involves imagining oneself as a concrete agent, or, better said, an amalgam of the views of a variety of concrete agents. Nor does Hume speak of the common point of view as an abstraction. Rather, it is more correct to see it as the result of continual modifications due to sympathy, thanks to which the multiple points of view of different individuals come together and, when this process is successful, harmonize. The imaginative commitment of these individuals finds expression in the common point of view, together with the distilled past experience of their repeated interactions: Here is the most perfect morality with which we are acquainted: here is displayed the force of many sympathies. Our moral sentiment is itself a feeling chiefly of that nature, and our regard to a character with others seems to arise only from a care of preserving a character with ourselves; and in order to attain this end, we find it necessary to prop our tottering judgment on the correspondent approbation of mankind. (EPM 9.11; SBN 276)

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As such, the common point of view is not a position that can be determined in advance, but it is rather the outcome of a historical process resulting from the juxtaposition of differing positions, the balancing of which requires the active exercise of the passions of those involved. This process allows us to correct our individual local sentiments by comparing them to alternatives that would not be available to us were we to stay sympathetically untouched. In other words, in Hume the distinction between two planes, that of the moral observer and that of the individual agent, is merely apparent. The perspective of the observer can be explained by tracing it back to the perspective that results from sentimentally distinct human beings engaging with each other through sympathy. The practical dimension of agency remains fundamental to the whole process. There can be no judicious spectator who expresses moral judgments unless, in the first instance, there are emotively engaged agents, reflecting together in a common enterprise: He must here, therefore, depart from his private and particular situation, and must choose a point of view, common to him with others; he must move some universal principle of the human frame, and touch a string to which all mankind have an accord and symphony. (EPM 9.6; SBN 272) In a way, it is correct to say that sympathy is partial, insofar as it consists in a form of communication among individuals. However, for Hume sympathy is not restricted within the limits of that “first sympathy” (T 2.2.9.15; SBN 387)—that is, emotive contagion—which can be partial in the seemingly problematic way that Prinz suggests: When the present misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is not confin’d merely to its immediate object, but diffuses its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or future; possible, probable or certain. By means of this lively notion I am interested in them; take part with them; and feel a sympathetic motion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at the fountain. (T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386) The common point of view is itself an outcome of this sympathetic process. In this regard, Hume talks of an “extensive sympathy” (T 2.2.9.15; SBN 387; T 3.3.1.23; SBN 586; T 3.3.6.3; SBN 619) that engages our imagination, making us see other human beings from this common point of view, thus reaching over our local perspectives in ways that

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allow us to take into consideration people far from us both in time and space.24 We can expand our sympathy, and thus broaden our imagination, through education, and through those cultural channels such as novels, films, and other forms of art that represent human beings in different situations and prospects, thus portraying the manifold ways in which humanity can develop and evolve, but also regress and perish. In addition, there is our knowledge of the history of humankind.25 The outcome is a collective, sympathetically sustained moral reflection in which the link with the sentiments of the individuals who take part in this enterprise is never severed. Sympathy can operate at the imaginative level, establishing an emotive tie with other people, but also reaching past our present and personal contingency. Its range cannot be reduced to our immediate reactions to the passions of those directly around us. On the contrary, we can sympathetically come to feel as our own the perspectives first of members of the narrow circle, and then of the judicious spectator who has adopted the common point of view. Establishing an interdependence between the point of view of the judicious spectator and that of the agent becomes possible because Humean sympathy is not limited to those near and dear to us. Humean sympathy can operate well beyond that limit, showing a reflective dimension that is overlooked by its critics today. The very verdict of the common point of view can be morally approved because it can be reflectively justified, and this act of reflection is itself a direct consequence of sympathy (see T 3.3.6.3; SBN 619).26 Such a reflective interpretation of Hume is defended by different scholars as both the correct way of understanding Hume’s approach to morality, and as one of the most important contributions Hume has given to contemporary ethics. It has been developed in distinct, and sometimes contrasting, directions, and it goes under various names: “meta-cognition” (Driver 2011, 2014), “meta-feeling” (Baier 2016), “reflective sentimentalism” (Frazer 2010; Lecaldano 2013), “stability” (Loeb 2002: ch. 4, sects. 4–6, 2004: 341–52), “reflective stability” (Rawls 2000: 100), and “reflective endorsement” (Baier 1991; Darwall 1993; Korsgaard 1996).27 Reflexivity represents a corrective device that provides steadiness and constancy to moral judgment, but it is sympathy that sets the conditions to determine a common point of view out of the sentimental exchanges among human beings, and in turn sympathy confirms that the verdicts of the common point of view are morally valid by reflectively endorsing them. The normativity of the common point of view emerges because the sympathy people feel toward each other is adjusted, thereby conveying the practical force of first-personal agency to the third-personal stance of morality.28 In this way the Humean picture never loses track of the practical dimension of ethics, nicely explaining how we can morally approve of others in a proper way, how a proper moral judgment can derive from it, and why individuals can come to be moved by it.

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4. A Humean Internalism In the Humean picture just portrayed, we recognize virtues and vices from a common point of view, and we express proper moral judgments by adopting it. There are cases in which our sentiments do not follow our judgments; even so, the common point of view provides us with a common vocabulary to express virtues and vices. There is no real interruption between the sympathy that is established among people at the individual level and the common point of view, which is the product of an extension of our sympathies corresponding to an exercise of imagination—this is where Hume talks in terms of extensive sympathy. Humean sympathy can guarantee, in its distinctive way, objectivity in ethics as a form of convergence in moral opinion. There is no criterion of ethical objectivity that can be made valid from an external standpoint independent of the sympathetic exchanges among the manifold points of view of individual agents. This way of understanding objectivity in ethics as convergence is given from inside the very sympathetic process itself, and it can be described as a form of intersubjectivity. More importantly, Humean sympathy explains why ethics is intrinsically practical. Sympathy is a principle of communication of passions, passions motivate action, and the practicality of ethics is accounted for in a way that traces an uninterrupted line that goes from the passions of the individuals to the reflective judgments of a judicious spectator placing himself or herself from the third-personal common point of view of morality. Hume’s understanding of ethics is therefore radically dependent on the principle of sympathy. Sympathy preserves ethics’ practical force, guaranteeing both ethics’ normative power, and its motivating hold on those who recognize it. This being said, some might observe that for Hume the reasons that are established from the common point of view preserve their normative authority even when we are not directly moved by them, and that that makes Hume’s position an externalist one. However, if the interpretation provided so far stands, it is more plausible to see Hume as an internalist about moral reasons.29 Given the sympathetic nature of his ethics, moral reasons turn out to be normative because they can in principle motivate someone.30 The normative status of the reasons established from the common point of view is not given by referring to an external moral reality, or by the working of rationality, but by the fact that these reasons can be in principle somebody’s reasons, this somebody placing himself or herself from the common point of view and judging as the judicious spectator would judge. To be a proper moral agent one has to internalize the virtues of a judicious spectator, and this may require the acquisition of a character of a certain kind. It has emerged that for Hume a judicious spectator is not a perfectly rational and informed observer. Notice that Hume never calls this spectator “impartial,” as Adam Smith does, but always “judicious.”31

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In turn, the character possessed by a judicious spectator is not ideal. Nowhere does Hume talk about an ideal character, nor does he hold that the good moral agent, i.e. a judicious spectator, corresponds to an ideal moral agent. Instead, it makes more sense to say that for him what distinguishes a good moral agent is the possession of a “perfect” character. And from the way he introduces the term “perfect” in relation to character he is clearly referring to a humanly attainable perfection: [W]hen we enumerate the good qualities of any person, we always mention those parts of his character, which render him a safe companion, an easy friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father. We consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate him, according as he affects those, who have any intermediate intercourse with him. And ’tis a most certain rule, that if there be no relation of life, in which I cou’d not wish to stand to a particular person, his character must so far be allow’d to be perfect. If he be as little wanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely perfect. This is the ultimate test of merit and virtue. (T 3.3.3.9; SBN 606)32 Let me emphasize that, once more, it is sympathy that determines the grade of perfection of the character of the moral agent who will be evaluated with respect to his or her relations with other human beings (“We consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate him, according as he affects those, who have any intermediate intercourse with him”). Again, there is no external criterion for becoming virtuous; the Humean conception of perfection depicted here is something of this world, and it is in the power of human beings to become perfect moral agents. The very criterion for determining the character of “a safe companion, an easy friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father” is the product of sympathetic activity, and takes the shape of a common point of view. Through the internalization of such a character, and through the influence that the continual exchange of opinions among human beings has on us, we are led to recognize the reasons that count from the common point of view as reasons for us, that is, as motives for us to act in certain ways, and therefore to organize our conduct according to the requirements of morality.33 Granted, Hume admits that someone can remain untouched by the dictates of the common point of view. And of course for Hume there is no rational way for convincing the recalcitrant to accept the reasons established from the common point of view as reasons for him or her; reason is practically inert. For Hume it remains a real possibility that moral reasons may not touch an agent. However, Hume remarks that the recalcitrant might eventually end up behaving as if he or she were sentimentally moved by the dictates of moral reasons, out of a desire to

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comply with the pronouncements of a viewpoint that is recognized as authoritative by the fellow human beings with whom this person sympathizes, and whose opinions he or she respects. We have seen that even if “the heart does not always take part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by them”, the common point of view does provide a standard that is “sufficient for discourse”, and that works well “in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools” (T 3.3.3.2; SBN 603. See also T 3.3.1.21; SBN 585). More often than not people will start to respect it because of the strength of the sympathetic bonds with others for whom the standard is motivationally powerful, thus ending up internalizing it as part of their characters,34 that is, as Bernard Williams would say, as part of their “subjective motivational sets” (1981: 102). As already mentioned earlier, Hume notes that our regard to a character with others seems to arise only from a care of preserving a character with ourselves; and in order to attain this end, we find it necessary to prop our tottering judgment on the correspondent approbation of mankind. (EPM 9.11; SBN 276) Also, our “love of fame” produces in us that “constant habit of surveying ourselves, as it were, in reflection” and this habit “keeps alive all the sentiments of right and wrong, and begets, in noble natures, a certain reverence for themselves as well as others; which is the surest guardian of every virtue” (EPM 9.10; SBN 276). So complete disinterest in the common point of view is highly improbable. Sympathy guarantees a very powerful “sound deliberative route” (Williams 2001: 91) that connects those reasons to people’s existing motives. And, more importantly, that point of view is itself a product of sympathy, deriving its practical efficacy from an ongoing sentimental interchange among individuals. One of the strengths of Hume’s position is that it clarifies what it is to acquire a moral character, and how it is possible for anyone to do that. This corresponds to adopting the dispositions of a judicious spectator evaluating from the common point of view.35 Even though we might end up not behaving exactly as a judicious spectator would, the crucial fact is that anyone of us can be one, once we evaluate and act according to the common point of view. Becoming a judicious spectator represents a concrete possibility, because it is always us, as agents, that sympathize—either with someone else, or with a narrow circle, or by adopting the common point of view. It is the potentially real existence of the judicious spectator, that is, the real option we have of being ourselves judicious spectators, that charges the reasons that are issued from the common point of view with their normative valence. Making sense of what it means to become a virtuous person along these lines is consonant with an internalist interpretation of Hume, and with the Humean account of sympathy as here presented.

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5. Conclusion In this chapter I have examined Hume’s ethics in the light of the preservation of its practicality, and the role played by sympathy in doing this. I reconstructed how sympathy works for Hume by differentiating it from the contemporary understanding of empathy, and by countering some of the objections that have been moved against Humean sympathy. At the root of the distinction between virtue and vice there are sentiments of pleasure and pain, and it is thanks to these that human beings can approve and disapprove of people, and be brought to action. Sometimes our personal sentiments of approval and disapproval may not correspond exactly to the moral judgments that are expressed from the common point of view of morality, but there is no hiatus between the former and the latter. Moral judgments that are correctly expressed from the common point of view can represent effective reasons that human beings are capable of recognizing as motives for action. This is because, thanks to sympathy, and starting from the concrete reactions that we feel when faced with the character of an individual, we are able to amplify our imagination, and thus to feel what we would be able to feel if we could sympathize with the narrow circle of that individual when contemplated from the standpoint of morality. Following this adjustment we can correct our judgment. Furthermore, I maintained that the common point of view is itself a product of the sympathetic exchanges among human beings, and that the judicious spectator himself or herself is such because he or she is conceived as potentially a concrete agent. By being instrumental in bringing about a common point of view of morality, Humean sympathy is fully capable of vindicating both how we form moral judgments and how we are moved by them. I ended by maintaining that Hume’s position corresponds to a form of internalism of a certain sort. In this way, an explanation of internalization of the virtuous character as determined from the moral point of view is provided through an analysis of sympathy that never loses sight of the practical—that is, for Hume, sentimental— nature of ethics, and with it the fact that this is itself a reflection of the activity of real individuals.36

Notes 1. See T 3.1.1; SBN 455–70. 2. Think for example of Michael Slote’s ethics of care. See Slote (2001, 2007, 2010, 2013, 2014). 3. See e.g. Baron-Cohen (2011), Batson (1991), Churchland (2011), Hoffman (2000), and de Waal (2006). 4. Notice that this schematic presentation I give of Prinz and Bloom does not exhaust their arguments, which are more numerous and complex than I can examine here. I limit myself to sketching some points that are relevant for the discussion of this chapter. See Bloom (2013, 2016) and Prinz (2011a, 2011b). 5. See also Prinz (2007: 3.2.1, esp. 104–6).

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6. That is, the self-oriented “reactive emotion in response to the perception/ recognition of another’s negative emotion or situation.” I take this from Stueber (2016). All the aforementioned definitions are from the Stanford entry. However, empathy remains a term open to multiple interpretations. For example, Batson, Altruism in Humans, ch. 1, distinguishes seven different ways the term empathy has been understood: “(1) knowing another’s internal state; (2) adopting another’s posture (motor mimicry), or matching another’s neural response; (3) coming to feel as the other feels; (4) projecting oneself into another’s situation; (5) adopting an imagine-other perspective (or perspective taking); (6) adopting an imagine-self perspective; and (7) feeling a vicarious personal distress” (2010: 20). For his part, Batson uses “empathy,” or “empathic concern,” to refer to “other-oriented emotions elicited by and congruent with the perceived welfare of someone in need” (2010: 11). 7. See T 3.3.3.5; SBN 605; EPM 7.2; SBN 251; EPM 7.21; SBN 257–8. 8. See T 2.2.7–8; SBN 368–80. 9. I am not the first to observe that Prinz has misunderstood Hume’s sympathy. For a sharp and effective criticism of Prinz’s position that goes in a similar direction as mine, see Driver (2011). 10. Humean sympathy is not just that; it is also a process and a product, i.e. the “sentiment of sympathy.” Here I focus only on its aspect of sentimental communication. For the various aspects of Humean sympathy, see Vitz (2004). 11. This explains, for example, “the great uniformity” (T 2.1.11.2; SBN 316) we find among people of the same nation. 12. See T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317. 13. See T 3.3.1.7; SBN 576. 14. The relation between sympathy and other minds in Hume is a complex issue and deserves more space than what can be devoted to here. For a discussion of this topic, see Greco (2012), Pitson (1996, 2002: ch. 8), and Waldow (2009a, 2009b). For a recent analysis of the notion of sympathy in Hume, and for a list of the most recent secondary literature on the issue, see Vitz (2016). 15. See T 3.3.1.3; SBN 574–5. 16. As Michael L. Frazer correctly remarks, “a sentiment can be genuinely moral and yet be biased. . . . We therefore must distinguish between an evaluation that fails to qualify as moral at all from one that is indeed moral, but nonetheless biased” (2010: 45). 17. See T 3.3.1.16–18; SBN 582–4. 18. On Hume’s steady and general point of view, see Abramson (1999), Cohon (2008: ch. 5), Magri (1996), and Sayre-McCord (1994, 1995). 19. See EPM 9.6; SBN 272. 20. Differently from the Treatise, in the second Enquiry Hume says that the common point of view is dependent on a “principle, or sentiment, of humanity.” There is good reason to believe that this is not significantly different from sympathy as given in the Treatise, but here I do not go into the details of the debate concerning whether Hume’s position differs between the Treatise and the second Enquiry. About it, see Abramson (2001), Baier and Waldow (2008), Capaldi (1992: 241–8), Debes (2007a, 2007b), Taylor (2002, 2009, 2015: ch. 4), and Vitz (2004, 2016). 21. This being said, for Hume sympathy is in fact most of the time strong enough to activate the sentiments of the individuals: So close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner any persons approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser degree. And tho’, on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not so far as entirely to change my sentiments, and way of thinking; yet it seldom is

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so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and give an authority to that opinion, which is recommended to me by his assent and approbation. . . . Whether we judge of an indifferent person, or of my own character, my sympathy gives equal force to his decision: And even his sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the same light, in which he regards himself. (T 3.3.2.2, SBN 592)

22. 23. 24.

25.

This finds an echo in the second Enquiry: “And as the benevolent concern for others is diffused, in a greater or less degree, over all men, and is the same in all, it occurs more frequently in discourse, is cherished by society and conversation, and the blame and approbation, consequent on it, are thereby roused from lethargy, into which they are probably lulled, in solitary and uncultivated nature” (EPM 9.9; SBN 275). See T 3.3.1.2; SBN 574. See in this regard Abramson (2002, 2008), Baier (1991: 174–88), Bricke (1988), and Radcliffe (1994, 1996). Paul Russell explains this as a kind of “moral partiality” (2015). Geoffrey Sayre-McCord holds instead that “we succeed in considering something without regard to our own interests, yet in ways that engage our interest, only thanks to sympathy” (2015: 227). Consider in this regard the numerous literary and historical references Hume makes in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals. Moreover, the whole of Hume’s History of England can indeed be read as a philosophical work. As observed by Siebert, Hume’s History projects a moral vision by its ability to reshape the past, to impose meanings on that past, creating patterns that imply a corresponding beauty of human nature—all too seldom instantiated in human life, it is true, but nonetheless capable of being discovered, indeed created in the fiat of narrative, by the historian’s moral imagination. That the historian can so emplot the past is itself proof of the dignity and worth of human nature. (1990: 21)

In this light, and with particular attention to political theory, see also Sabl (2012). 26. This passage from the Treatise is notorious, but it is worth reporting it in full: It requires but very little knowledge of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into the composition. But this sense must certainly acquire new force, when reflecting on itself, it approves of those principles, from whence it is deriv’d, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and origin. Those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts of the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient authority; but want the advantage, which those possess, who account for that sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. According to the latter system, not only virtue must be approv’d of, but also the sense of virtue: And not only that sense, but also the principles, from whence it is deriv’d. So that nothing is presented on any side, but what is laudable and good. 27. See also Greco (2008: ch. 14), and Taylor (2015: ch. 4). I personally prefer this last formulation, but this is not the place to examine in depth the differences among these interpretations of Humean reflexivity.

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28. In the words of Sayre-McCord, “There is no independent standard; the standard is set by how things appear when the privileged conditions are met.” And the appropriate conditions, Sayre-McCord continues, can be ascertained reflectively: “some of our attitudes . . . are such that we can reasonably ask ‘what considerations underwrite the attitude?’ or ‘what reasons do we have for them?’ Certain attitudes are such that if you have them, there must be considerations that, from your point of view, make sense of, or serve as reasons for, your attitude” (2015: 233, 226). 29. Internalist interpretations of Hume include Abramson (2002, 2008), Shaw (1989), Coleman (1992), and Radcliffe (1994, 1996). For an externalist interpretation of Hume, see Baron (1988), Brown (1988), Darwall (1993), and Korsgaard (1999). 30. Hume would uphold a form of existence internalism, that is, for him “a necessary connection exists between having a certain normative status and motivation” (Rosati 2016). On existence internalism, see also Finlay and Schroeder (2017). 31. John Rawls seems to have revised his opinion in this respect. In A Theory of Justice he introduces Hume as one of the representatives of the perspective of “the impartial spectator” (ch. 3, sect. 30), while in Lectures on the History of Moral Philosophy (84–102) he states that Hume did not present an analysis of moral judgments in the terms of a theory of an impartial spectator, while Smith instead did (85). According to the Rawls of the Lectures, Hume’s project was rather a form of projectivism of the kind that John L. Mackie attributes to him in Hume’s Moral Theory (see Rawls 2000: 95). Other scholars who read Hume as an advocate of the theory of the impartial spectator are Darwall (1993, 1995: ch. 10) and Harman (2000). 32. Abramson (2008) offers an interesting discussion of this passage. 33. See Bricke (1988), Brown (1994, 2008), and Radcliffe (1994, 1996). 34. See what Hume says of the basic need human beings have to find confirmation in other people regarding their opinions, and regarding their models of a character, in A Dissertation on the Passions, sect. 2, par. 33, and in “The Sceptic,” 170. See also T 2.1.11.1; SBN 316; T 2.1.11.9; SBN 320–1. 35. The adoption by the agent of the judicious spectator’s stance is related for Hume to feeling a specific passion, that of pride—specifically, a moralized pride in becoming a person who acts and judges as a judicious spectator would. The relation between the shaping of practical identity and the indirect passions of pride and humility is a fundamental component of Hume’s moral philosophy, and it deserves more attention than I can give in this chapter. See Greco (2008: chs. 9–12, 2015) for an analysis of the issue and for a survey of the relevant secondary literature. Among the most recent works on this matter, see Taylor (2011, 2015: ch. 5). 36. Versions of this chapter were presented at the following conferences: Hume’s Science of Human Nature: Perspectives of Interpretation, Institute of Philosophy of the Czech Academy of Sciences, Prague, 31st August—3rd September 2016; and Oxford Hume Forum #8, Hertford College, Oxford, 23rd November 2016. I would like to thank all the participants who took part in them, and in particular Kate Abramson, Christopher J. Berry, Carla Bagnoli, Tamás Demeter, James Hill, Hynek Janoušek, Tomáš Kunka, Peter Millican, Josef Moural, Zuzana Parusniková, Adéla Rádková, Cinzia Recchia, Gerardo López Sastre, Eric Schliesser, and Gabriel Watts for their helpful observations. I am especially grateful to Roger Crisp, Eugenio Lecaldano, Elijah Millgram, Dan O’Brien, Philip Reed, Constantine Sandis, and Rico Vitz for reading and commenting on previous drafts.

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References Abramson, Kate. 1999. “Correcting Our Sentiments About Hume’s Moral Point of View.” The Southern Journal of Philosophy 37 (3): 333–61. Abramson, Kate. 2001. “Sympathy and the Project of Hume’s Second Enquiry.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 83 (1): 45–80. Abramson, Kate. 2002. “Two Portraits of the Humean Moral Agent.” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 83 (4): 301–34. Abramson, Kate. 2008. “Sympathy and Hume’s Spectator-centered Theory of Virtue.” In A Companion to Hume, edited by Elizabeth S. Radcliffe, 240–56. Oxford: Blackwell. Baier, Annette C. 1991. A Progress of Sentiments: Reflections on Hume’s Treatise. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Baier, Annette C. 2016. “Reflexivity and Sentiment in Hume’s Philosophy.” In The Oxford Handbook of Hume, edited by Paul Russell, 54–9. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Baier, Annette C., and Anik Waldow. 2008. “A Conversation Between Annette Baier and Anik Waldow About Hume’s Account of Sympathy.” Hume Studies 34 (1): 61–87. Baron, Marcia W. 1988. “Morality as a Back-Up System: Hume’s View?” Hume Studies 14 (1): 25–52. Baron-Cohen, Simon. 2011. The Science of Evil: On Empathy and the Origins of Cruelty. New York: Basic Book. Batson, C. Daniel. 1991. The Altruism Question: Toward a Social-Psychological Answer. New York and London: Psychology Press. Batson, C. Daniel. 2010. Altruism in Humans. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Bloom, Paul. 2013. “The Baby in the Well: The Case Against Empathy.” New Yorker, May 20. Bloom, Paul. 2016. Against Empathy: The Case for Rational Compassion. London: The Bodley Head. Bricke, John. 1988. “Hume, Motivation and Morality.” Hume Studies 14 (1): 1–14. Brown, Charlotte R. 1988. “Is Hume an Internalist?” Journal of the History of Philosophy 26 (1): 69–87. Brown, Charlotte R. 1994. “From Spectator to Agent: Hume’s Theory of Obligation.” Hume Studies 20 (1): 19–36. Brown, Charlotte R. 2008. “Hume on Moral Rationalism, Sentimentalism, and Sympathy.” In A Companion to Hume, edited by Elizabeth S. Radcliffe, 219–39. Oxford: Blackwell. Capaldi, Nicholas. 1992. Hume’s Place in Moral Philosophy. New York: Peter Lang. Churchland, Patricia S. 2011. Braintrust: What Neuroscience Tells Us About Morality. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Cohon, Rachel. 2008. Hume’s Morality: Feeling and Fabrication. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Coleman, Dorothy. 1992. “Hume’s Internalism.” Hume Studies 18 (2): 331–47. Darwall, Stephen. 1993. “Motive and Obligation in Hume’s Ethics.” Noûs 27 (4): 415–48.

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Darwall, Stephen. 1995. The British Moralists and the Internal “Ought”: 1640– 1740. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Debes, Remy. 2007a. “Humanity, Sympathy, and the Puzzle of Hume’s Second Enquiry.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 15 (1): 27–57. Debes, Remy. 2007b. “Has Anything Changed? Hume’s Theory of Association and Sympathy After the Treatise.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 15 (2): 313–38. de Waal, Frans. 2006. Primates and Philosophers: How Morality Evolved. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Driver, Julia. 2011. “The Secret Chain: A Limited Defense of Sympathy.” Southern Journal of Philosophy 49 (Spindel Supplement): 234–8. Driver, Julia. 2014. “Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency.” In Moral Psychology and Human Agency: Philosophical Essays on the Science of Ethics, edited by Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson, 123–36. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Finlay, Stephen and Mark Schroeder. 2017. “Reasons for Action: Internal vs. External.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2017 Edition), edited by Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2017/entries/ reasons-internal-external/. Frazer, Michael L. 2010. The Enlightenment of Sympathy: Justice and the Moral Sentiments in the Eighteenth Century and Today. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Greco, Lorenzo. 2008. L’io morale: David Hume e l’etica contemporanea. Naples: Liguori Editore. Greco, Lorenzo. 2012. “The Force of Sympathy in the Ethics of David Hume.” In Hume Readings, edited by Lorenzo Greco and Alessio Vaccari, 193–210. Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura. Greco, Lorenzo. 2015. “The Self as Narrative in Hume.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 53 (4): 699–722. Harman, Gilbert. 2000. “Moral Agent and Impartial Spectator.” In Explaining Value and Other Essays in Moral Philosophy. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 181–95. Hoffman, Martin L. 2000. Empathy and Moral Development: Implications for Caring and Justice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hume, David. 1975. Enquiries concerning Human Understanding and concerning the Principles of Morals, edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge, revised by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 1978. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge, revised by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 1987. “The Sceptic.” In Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 159–80. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund. Hume, David. 1998. An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hume, David. 2007a. A Dissertation on the Passions. The Natural History of Religion: A Critical Edition, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 2007b. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Korsgaard, Christine M. 1996. The Sources of Normativity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Korsgaard, Christine M. 1999. “The General Point of View: Love and Moral Approval in Hume’s Ethics.” Hume Studies 25 (1–2): 3–41. Lecaldano, Eugenio. 2013. Simpatia. Milan: Raffaello Cortina Editore. Loeb, Louis E. 2002. Stability and Justification in Hume’s Treatise. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Loeb, Louis E. 2004. “Stability and Justification in Hume’s Treatise, Another Look—A Response to Erin Kelly, Frederick Schmitt, and Michael Williams.” Hume Studies 30 (2): 339–404. Mackie, John L. 1980. Hume’s Moral Theory. London and New York: Routledge. Magri, Tito. 1996. “Natural Obligation and Normative Motivation in Hume’s Treatise.” Hume Studies 22 (2): 231–54. Pitson, A. E. 1996. “Sympathy and Other Selves.” Hume Studies 22 (2): 255–71. Pitson, A. E. 2002. Hume’s Philosophy of the Self. London and New York: Routledge. Prinz, Jesse J. 2007. The Emotional Construction of Morals. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Prinz, Jesse J. 2011a. “Against Empathy.” The Southern Journal of Philosophy 49 (Spindel Supplement): 214–33. Prinz, Jesse J. 2011b. “Is Empathy Necessary for Morality?” In Empathy: Philosophical and Psychological Perspectives, edited by Amy Coplan and Peter Goldie, 211–29. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 1994. “Hume on Motivating Sentiments, the General Point of View, and the Inculcation of ‘Morality’.” Hume Studies 20 (1): 37–58. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 1996. “How Does the Humean Sense of Duty Motivate?” Journal of the History of Philosophy 34 (3): 383–407. Rawls, John. 1971. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Rawls, John. 2000. Lectures on the History of Moral Philosophy, edited by Barbara Herman. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Rosati, Connie S. 2016. “Moral Motivation.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter), edited by Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/ archives/win2016/entries/moral-motivation/. Russell, Paul. 2015. “Sympathy, Impartiality, and the Morality System.” Feeling for Another: The Role of Empathy in Moral Theory and Moral Psychology, University of Oxford, November 21–22. Sabl, Andrew. 2012. Hume’s Politics: Coordination and Crisis in the History of England. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Sayre-McCord, Geoffrey. 1994. “On Why Hume’s ‘General Point of View’ Isn’t Ideal—And Shouldn’t Be.” Social Philosophy and Policy 11 (1): 202–28. Sayre-McCord, Geoffrey. 1995. “Hume and the Bauhaus Theory of Ethics.” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 20 (1): 280–98. Sayre-McCord, Geoffrey. 2015. “Hume and Smith on Sympathy, Approbation, and Moral Judgment.” In Sympathy: A History, edited by Eric Schliesser, 208–46. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Shaw, Daniel. 1989. “Hume’s Theory of Motivation.” Hume Studies 115 (1): 163–83. Siebert, Donald T. 1990. The Moral Animus of David Hume. Newark: University of Delaware Press. Slote, Michael. 2001. Morals From Motives. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press.

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Slote, Michael. 2007. The Ethics of Care and Empathy. London and New York: Routledge. Slote, Michael. 2010. Moral Sentimentalism. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Slote, Michael. 2013. From Enlightenment to Receptivity: Rethinking Our Values. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Slote, Michael. 2014. A Sentimentalist Theory of the Mind. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Stueber, Karsten. 2016. “Empathy.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall), edited by Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2016/ entries/empathy/. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2002. “Hume on the Standard of Virtue.” The Journal of Ethics 6 (1): 43–62. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2009. “Hume’s Later Moral Philosophy.” In The Cambridge Companion to Hume, 2nd edition, edited by David F. Norton and Jacqueline Taylor, 311–40. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2011. “Moral Sentiment and the Sources of Moral Identity.” In Morality and the Emotions, edited by Carla Bagnoli, 257–74. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2015. Reflecting Subjects: Passion, Sympathy, and Society in Hume’s Philosophy. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Vitz, Rico. 2004. “Sympathy and Benevolence in Hume’s Moral Psychology.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 42 (3): 261–75. Vitz, Rico. 2016. “The Nature and Functions of Sympathy in Hume’s Philosophy.” In The Oxford Handbook of Hume, edited by Paul Russell, 312–32. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Waldow, Anik. 2009a. “Hume’s Belief in Other Minds.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 17 (1): 119–32. Waldow, Anik. 2009b. David Hume and the Problem of Other Minds. London and New York: Continuum. Williams, Bernard. 1981. “Internal and External Reasons.” In Moral Luck: Philosophical Papers 1973–1980, edited by Bernard Williams, 101–13. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Williams, Bernard. 2001. “Postscript: Some Further Notes on Internal and External Reasons.” In Varieties of Practical Reasoning, edited by Elijah Millgram, 91–7. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

8

Hume, Bloom, and Moral Inclusion Anne Jaap Jacobson

The issue of the scope of our moral interests is always very important; in Western lives it seems particularly so at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Failures to extend moral concern to “outsiders” in race, gender, nationality, disability, and so on arguably operate eventually to disrupt Western societies in ways that have engaged a good deal of attention. We can label these failures as “failures of moral inclusiveness.” We can accordingly want to know whether inclusiveness features in philosophers’ views, and whether they succeed in connecting the need for inclusiveness to actual moral practice. In this chapter, we will see what we can learn from two very different theorists about moral inclusiveness. Hume places sympathy—the process by which we come to share emotions with others—at the heart of his morality. Paul Bloom has recently argued that sharing feelings cannot be the basis of anything like an inclusive morality. Among other things, those with whom we can share feelings form a very small group, and concentrating on such feelings undermines our efforts to address moral wrongs effectively. Sharing feelings will not ground an inclusive morality. Hume is clearly aware of limits to sympathy. Further, how he addresses these limits compares interestingly with Bloom’s efforts to provide a contrasting explanation of what can give our moral interests an acceptable scope. In the section immediately following we consider Hume’s account of sympathy and his attempts to address its shortcomings. In the next section we look at Bloom’s account. In the third section we look at the role of reason in the philosophy of each. In both accounts we find considerable limitations with respect to producing an inclusive moral theory. Theorists from a number of different disciplines have addressed the causes of our failures to treat people all equitably. In particular, there are a host of features that work against inclusiveness. In the fourth section, we consider how philosophy will fall short of solving the problem of inclusiveness unless it engages with other disciplines. The phrase “Nihil de nobis, sine nobis” (“Nothing about us, without us”) has been used for centuries. In our context, it should caution us against investigating moral inclusiveness without listening to some voices of those not included. Thus those who are not familiar with the

192 Anne Jaap Jacobson experience of being excluded on a significant scale might initially think that the issue of extending our moral concerns to outsiders is quite simple. We just exercise our reason and our compassion, as Bloom will say. Or, for Hume, we do this by adopting a more general point of view, while also building on views in our society. But, looked at from the perspective of outsiders to a white privileged Western society, the issue can seem much more fraught. As Eddo-Lodge says, I can no longer engage with the gulf of an emotional disconnect that white people display when a person of colour articulates their experience . . . they’ve never known what it means to embrace a person of colour as a true equal, with thoughts and feelings that are as valid as their own. (2017: ix) And as Becca Rothfeld says, The problem, I think, is not intellectual but affective: Sexism in the university and in the world of arts and letters is more often a failure of empathy than a failure of understanding. Ahmed1 says as much: “Diversity work is emotional work,” she writes. Callousness and cruelty are a kind of ethical stupidity, and their remedy is a sentimental, not a theoretical, education. (2017) Janine Jones (2004) quite strikingly takes the failure to accord moral significance to much in black experience back into America’s history. While the country is founded on the idea that all men are created equal, it is well known that some were more equal than others. Indeed, full equality was reserved for those like the signers of the Constitution. The recognition of moral inclusion was slight. The authors we have just looked at argue that there is a kind of moral obliviousness behind the exclusion of such people from our moral community. The resulting failures involve an obliviousness to the moral demands that the outsiders should be able to make on us. It will be instructive to consider whether Hume and Bloom can advance our understanding of how to have an inclusive morality. Further, to forestall alarmed reactions, let us note that the question is not whether our theorists are racists. There is evidence in Hume’s writings of disparaging attitudes to those of different races and class, but there is none in Bloom. Hence, if they fail to advance our understanding it may be for a reason common to people with disparate views about moral theorizing. This is an important result, since it suggests moral theorizing may have left out an important problem, that of recognizing as members of our moral community many people who have minority status.

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1. Hume on Sympathy as the Foundation of Morality, and Its Limitations Hume and Bloom each consider two factors in morality: an affective component and a component concerned with reasoning. David Hume places the affective component at the foundations of morality. He calls it “sympathy.” For recent readers this word is unlikely to invoke a clear picture. There has been an extensive recent discussion that places this concept and related ones in some extended debates about, for example, our knowledge of other minds. For many theorists, our knowledge of other minds is essential to our predicting and explaining others’ actions. Among other things, alternatives to Hume’s account and to his notion of sympathy have been developed. The alternatives need not engage us now, since we are interested in what Hume thought. Nonetheless, our discussion of Hume brings up exegetical questions that I will address at the end of this section. The reader should know in advance, though, that my interpretation of Hume is based on a theory about ideas and, more generally, representation, that I have developed in a number of sources (Jacobson 2003, 2008, 2013). In these works I argue that Hume’s theory of ideas is a paradigm case of a regrettably neglected conception of representation. In other pieces, my discussion of representation is explicitly brought to bear on Hume’s notion of sympathy (Jacobson 2007, 2009). Hume introduces sympathy as an important element in human relations. Hume concentrates on “affections,” or feelings that may well be shared. I see a student humiliated in a class and feel shame and embarrassment as that person feels. I can flush as the student does, feel the need to stop everything and leave, and so on. Or in watching a mother and child I can feel myself suffused with a warm, gentle, glowing sense that is often part of parental love. Hume has an account of how we come to feel as someone else does, such as I just described. It is probably not right, but it shows us something important about his theory of ideas. For Hume “the countenance and conversation” of another person give us an idea of what that person feels. Thus on seeing the student’s reaction to the humiliation I may get the idea of shame and embarrassment. When any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and conversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion, as any original affection. (T 2.1.11.3) The ideas I get are “ideas” in a somewhat technical sense. Feelings are impressions, and ideas and impressions can resemble one another exactly,

194 Anne Jaap Jacobson except for their vividness, their force and vivacity. Thus if the idea I get from someone of shame gains force and vivacity, then it will become the feeling of shame itself. And in the cases of co-feeling, this is what happens. Humean ideas are faint copies of impressions; when made much less faint, they can become impressions. How does an idea acquire the force and vivacity of an impression and so become an impression? Any idea related to ourselves acquires some force and vivacity from our idea of ourselves. So we can conclude that there are factors which relate the idea of shame, in this case, to ourselves. One factor is resemblance; the more the student resembles me, the more force my idea of shame acquires. There are other factors that operate. One is contiguity; we are naturally not very moved by the emotions of those far away, while those close to us do affect us. Causation is another relation that may affect the change in vividness. Familial relations, a form of causation, can do this, as can acquaintance. Hume ends his introduction of sympathy with a reiteration of chief principles in his theory of ideas. It is of the greatest important that in the case of emotional transmission the impression and idea have almost all of the same components. The difference is in the liveliness of impressions. Hence, ideas can turn into impressions if their liveliness is increased enough. Hume’s thesis about ideas has quite a lineage in philosophical theories of mental items. According to a very long strand of theorizing, sensory ideas are copies of sensory items in the world. An idea of red may, then, copy the color of an apple. This view is in Aristotle and Aquinas, and it is in Descartes, Locke, and Berkeley. With Berkeley and Hume, however, the primary copying relation is not between a mind-independent thing and an idea, but rather among mind-dependent things. Thus for Hume the relation is between an impression and an idea. Impressions may have sensory content, but they also cover the whole range of sentiments, emotions, and feelings, from love to anger to pain (Jacobson 2013). This thesis of Hume’s underlies much in his philosophy (Jacobson 2013). For example, Hume argues that we cannot have abstract ideas because we cannot form an image that lacks the details abstract ideas are supposed to be bare of. As we prepare to turn to Hume on reason, it is important to note that Hume takes his account of sympathy to confirm the theory of ideas of Book 1: This is the nature and cause of sympathy; and ’tis after this manner we enter so deeply into the opinions and affections of others, whenever we discover them. What is principally remarkable in this whole affair is the strong confirmation these phaenomena give to the foregoing system concerning the understanding, (T 2.1.11.8–9)

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We can consider the account of sympathy so far as an account of the core of sympathy. The question that next arises is, what is the relation of core sympathy to moral action? This is a vexed question, at least in large part because there are significantly different ways to approach it, and significantly different kinds of answers. At the same time, Hume’s theory of ideas is, pace Yolton (1980), an imagistic theory (Jacobson 2013). This fact puts fairly severe restrictions on what can be the content of impressions and ideas, even if we suppose inner ideas and impressions to be supplemented by language, as Annette Baier, and I following her, have done (Baier 1991). The approaches divide into two. One approach uses the core account of sympathy as the touchstone for understanding the various passages. Another starts with some or all of a variety of sources, including other theorists and various statements of sympathy in Hume’s texts, and then takes sympathy to be what is characterized in the various passages. The answers vary according to which moral action is external to core sympathy or internal to it (or internal to sympathy in an extended sense). If it is external, then there is a causal relation between, for example, the core of sympathy and, for example, benevolent reactions. The passage immediately preceding suggests to me an external relation. I am inclined to settle definitely on the idea of an external, causal relationship, and to resist any exegesis that makes Hume’s word “sympathy” multiply ambiguous. In addition, it is very difficult to see what an imagistic theory can allow in the way of internal connections, particularly between items of different psychological kinds such as a feeling of distress and a concern for another person. Nonetheless, a number of authors sense in Hume’s sympathy something more than our coming to share states of the same kind as others’ inner states. For example, Rico Vitz finds sympathy may also refer to a sentiment that includes concern for another: Third, he uses the term “sympathy” to identify the affective product of this conversion process: namely, the sentiment of sympathy. In the Treatise, for instance, he says that sympathy is “nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression” by which we may “enter into” the sentiments of another person “with so vivid a conception as to make it our own concern; and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures” that do not belong to ourselves (T 2.2.9.13). (Vitz 2016: 314) What is it for an idea of someone’s distress to be converted into our felt distress and so a concern for them? It could be just that the idea once converted into an impression causes us to feel concern and to act. If we insist on avoiding attributing ambiguity to a text where not absolutely necessary, we probably should say we just have a slightly different perspective on the core of sympathy plus its effects.

196 Anne Jaap Jacobson Nonetheless, it is possible that Hume was aware of a phenomenon that he was not able to describe more clearly and that is involved in cases where core sympathy does have more of an at least seemingly internal relation to a feeling or action. The phenomenon is that of an affordance, a concept relatively recently introduced by James Gibson (Gibson and Pick 2000). Affordances have been widely discussed recently, and with many affordances a perception leads to an action with no thought needed to produce the motivation. Awareness of an affordance is awareness of something calling for a reaction (Estany and Martínez 2014; Gallagher 2013; Prosser 2011). An affordance allows or even calls for an action, and there is nothing more in our consciousness beyond the perception of the affording object. There is nothing that constitutes a separate motive to act. If we are very tired, a soft chair may on sight invite us to collapse on it. We may be simply led by our perception of warmth to a source of warmth in an otherwise cold room. Young children may be alarmingly called to action by the sight of a little furry thing without any additional felt decision. Possibly, then, when the idea of someone’s distress becomes an impression, we become aware of the phenomenology of their state and we react, perhaps by acting. Awareness of their distress is an awareness of their state as calling for action. To say this is not to say that Hume could articulate fully the concept that appears in Gibson’s work. Nonetheless, he could have been aware of the phenomenon. Further, recent cognitive science describes how perception and action can get so connected in a way quite consistent with Hume’s theory of ideas. In fact, early research starts with bees, who arguably have Humean imagistic perceptions (Montague et al. 1994). In any case we will return to the role of the theory of ideas in Hume’s philosophy at several further points later in the chapter. We need to look now at a feature of Hume’s views on sympathy that is of considerable importance in accounting for an inclusive morality. If sympathy is to be at the foundation of a moral theory then that theory should seem less than promising. This is because morality needs to have a much wider scope than sympathy does. We are told that we should not kill innocent human beings, and not just ones in our neighborhood or those who look like us. But the sources that enliven ideas of empathy are in fact limited in just these ways. We feel sympathy about those with whom we have connection, such as members of our family, or with whom we are physically close. In addition, a resemblance to us is an important factor. But these principles have a limited operation: And though this advantage or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes it is very near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. This concern we readily extend to other cases, that are resembling; and when these are very remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or blame fainter and more doubtful. (T 3.3.3.2)

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For Hume, on the other hand, our basic mirroring empathy enables us to discern the effects peoples’ traits have on others, and we can generalize about which traits are useful or agreeable to others. The question remains, why care about such matters beyond their effects on those related to us by similarity, contiguity and causation? According to Hume, our caring is a matter of our being able to adopt a general point of view, which extends our concerns beyond those aroused by the original mirroring empathy. The elements that establish a general view include general rules of judging, the need to establish order in society by a basic agreement of moral principles, and our engagement in moral discourse with other human beings. How such take us toward an inclusive morality is something we will discuss after we have looked at Bloom’s views. Finally, let me clarify the question I am asking that moral philosophy address. The question is really twofold: How does the theory recognize the problem of inclusiveness? How does it tie achieving inclusiveness to moral practice?

2. Bloom, Empathy, and Compassion Bloom has a conception of empathy that is closely related to Hume’s notion of sympathy. Further, he’s against it, at least as far as morality is considered. In the Prologue to his book on empathy, he says: The notion of empathy that I’m most interested in is the act of feeling what you believe other people feel—experiencing what they experience. This is how most psychologists and philosophers use the term. . . . The idea I’ll explore is that the act of feeling what you think others are feeling—whatever one chooses to call this—is different from being compassionate, from being kind, and most of all, from being good. From a moral standpoint, we’re better off without it. (Bloom 2016: 3–4) Let us remember that the effects of feeling as others feel are, for Hume, either externally or internally connected. If the connection is external, then Bloom and Hume do seem to have nearly the same definition of empathy/sympathy, but they radically disagree on its effects. The connection may be internal, but we have not really been able to assign a clear picture to this view. In any case, Bloom, who sees morality at the heart of any society we would want, thinks we would be better off without empathy. And, remember, sympathy and empathy are close enough that we are considering them the same. Bloom has three major claims: that empathy is very ill-suited to be the foundation of morals, that it would be better if we lacked empathy, and that reason is the right foundation for morals. The first charge is the most important for us in understanding how Hume can maintain the position he has taken. The second point involves

198 Anne Jaap Jacobson counterfactual conjectures, as Bloom defends it, that lie outside what we will find answers to in Hume’s texts. The third point we will need to take up in order to complete the answer to the first. From our perspective the most telling point Bloom makes against empathy as the basis of morality is that empathy falls very short of having the reach of proper moral concerns. One limitation is that it is very narrow in its scope. For example, it leads us to favor those like us. Sympathy also tends to spread only to those geographically close to us. The parking problems drivers in our own area have are much more likely to be of concern to us than those of drivers two towns away, and this will remain true even if we ourselves do not have a car. Putting similarity and geographical closeness together, we might find a near indifference in Anglo-Americans to the problems of people of color half a world away. As indeed we can often see. Lack of causal connections also limits sympathy. We are more likely to feel engaged with the joys and woes of our own kin and those we interact with, for example. Bloom also points out that empathy can work against fairness. We can discriminate against claims for help by siding with those whose details we know better, or who move us in other ways. In addition, Bloom finds empathy can induce a counterproductive concentration. The Sandy Hook massacre inspired thousands of gifts, enough to create a burden. A better moral reaction may have been to look at other cases of children or communities in dire need. Bloom’s work raises a number of interesting questions about Hume and moral philosophy. The questions concern the nature of the enterprise Hume is undertaking, the nature of moral motivation, and the role of sentiment in our discernment of moral truths. However, I am going to concentrate on the question of inclusion that we started with, in part because it is a very important question, but one insufficiently raised in discussions of moral philosophy. This question addresses the role given to inclusiveness in a moral theory. More particularly, insofar as the truly morally inclusive person sees that all human beings have equal moral status, what is involved in giving more than mere lip service to “All human beings are equated equal”? For Bloom our moral interests are much more extensive than empathy could give us because they are based on our more inclusive compassion which, when accompanied by reason, issues moral judgments about other persons regardless of any special relation to our own interests. Bloom’s title may appear to give both reason and compassion equal weight, but reason receives more attention. Hume also has to evoke reason in crucial aspects of his theory. So we will now turn to that topic.

3. Hume, Bloom, and Reason Our interest in this section will remain largely exegetical, though our discussion will take a critical turn near the end. So far we have asked: What

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is Hume’s account of sympathy? How does he address the limits it has as the foundation of morality? How does Bloom’s conception of empathy compare to Hume’s account of sympathy? What criticisms does he bring of it and what it he putting in its place? We will now look at the role of reason. The role of reason is important since for each philosopher reason has a significant role. The nature and role of reason in Bloom’s work is quite straightforward. As such, considering it contrasts with the very difficult question of the role of reason in Hume’s philosophy. Part of what makes reason in Hume difficult is that he has been seen for years as a very skeptical philosopher. Goldsmith maintained that “David Hume was one of those, who seeing the first place occupied on the right side, rather than take a second, wants to have a first in what is wrong” (Box 1990: 4). Skepticism may have a problem assigning a constructive role to reason. The view of Hume as a very skeptical philosopher was held until relatively recently, when a much more positive picture of Hume has been in development. Some of Hume’s texts, however, can continue to create problems for a wholly affirmative picture of his work. None is more challenging than his view of the roles of both the senses and reason in the creation of our belief in a world exterior to our minds: This sceptical doubt, both with respect to reason and the senses, is a malady, which can never be radically cured, but must return upon us every moment, however we may chace it away, and sometimes may seem entirely free from it. It is impossible upon any system to defend either our understanding or senses; and we but expose them farther when we endeavour to justify them in that manner. As the sceptical doubt arises naturally from a profound and intense reflection on those subjects, it always encreases, the farther we carry our reflections, whether in opposition or conformity to it. Carelessness and in-attention alone can afford us any remedy. (T 1.4.2.57) I have argued in a number of places that Hume is quite serious when he says that carelessness and inattention are our only remedies (Jacobson 2000a, 2000b, 2004, 2013). In short, Hume does not think philosophical researches—at least those done by one person at one time—can achieve the one consistent and true position on the philosophical questions that most attract us.2 His remedy in Books 2 and 3 of the Treatise and largely in EHU, is to forsake the metaphysical researches.3 One might propose, with Don Garrett, that we can review the whole mind by the mind and come to an assessment of the epistemic merits of its operations (Garrett 2004). Unfortunately, this view is wrong, as Hume seems to realize. That is the overwhelming deliverance of the last forty

200 Anne Jaap Jacobson years of the highly interdisciplinary study of the mind called cognitive neuroscience (CNS). Here’s one of the latest statements about “how the mind works”: We all believe that we are capable of seeing what’s in front of us, of accurately remembering important events from our past, of understanding the limits of our knowledge, of properly determining cause and effect. But these intuitive beliefs are often mistaken ones that mask critically important limitations on our cognitive abilities. . . . As we go through life, we often act as though we know how our minds work and why we behave the way we do. It is surprising how often we really have no clue. (Chabris and Simons 2010: xi–xii) Hume’s conception of reasoning that human beings can successfully undertake is consistent with the idea of a limited ability. For Hume, much in our matter-of-fact reasoning involves assumptions that cannot be shown to be true. Not only does our thought thus lack a foundation, but also it seems wrong to think of it as a rational process of proceeding from premise to conclusion. Rather, as Hume puts it in the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding: [A]s this operation of the mind, by which we infer like effects from like causes, and vice versa, is so essential to the subsistence of all human creatures, it is not probable, that it could be trusted to the fallacious deductions of our reason, which is slow in its operations; appears not, in any degree, during the first years of infancy; and at best is, in every age and period of human life, extremely liable to error and mistake. It is more conformable to the ordinary wisdom of nature to secure so necessary an act of the mind, by some instinct or mechanical tendency, which may be infallible in its operations, may discover itself at the first appearance of life and thought, and may be independent of all the laboured deductions of the understanding. As nature has taught us the use of our limbs, without giving us the knowledge of the muscles and nerves, by which they are actuated; so has she implanted in us an instinct, which carries forward the thought in a correspondent course to that which she has established among external objects; though we are ignorant of those powers and forces, on which this regular course and succession of objects totally depends. (EHU 5.22) The reasoning Bloom’s theory invokes is quite different. Rather, it is a process which involves our having both premises and conclusion. It is employed in mathematical reasoning, but not only there. He says, “I

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want to make a case for the value of conscious, deliberative reasoning in everyday life, arguing that we should strive to use our heads rather than our hearts” (v, my emphasis). Describing the functions of reason, Bloom says, “the existence of conscious deliberation and rational thought— [Chapter Six] . . . analyze different options, construct logical chains of argument, reason through examples and analogies, and respond to the anticipated consequences of actions [Chapter Five]” (2016: 221). Bloom is well aware that some recent theorists follow Hume; they take what is sometimes called “type one” thinking to be among our most important thinking, but to be fueled by instinct or emotions. He emphatically disagrees that this is our most important reasoning. He explicitly recognizes that we have failed in the past to recognize the rights of various groups of people. [O]ur moral circle has expanded over history: Our attitudes about the rights of women, homosexuals, and racial minorities have all shifted toward inclusiveness. Most recently, there has been a profound difference in how people in my own community treat trans individuals—we are watching moral progress happen in real time. But this is not because our hearts have opened up over the course of history. . . . Rather, our concern for others reflects a more abstract appreciation that regardless of our feelings, their lives have the same value as the lives of those we love. (2016: 239) We may agree with Bloom that women did not get the vote because male politicians came to feel empathy toward them. Further, an extended appreciation of value is for Bloom something accomplished by his inferential reason. However, it is unclear how that happens. Quoting Adam Smith,4 Bloom does offer some further explanation. It is not the soft power of humanity, it is not that feeble spark of benevolence which Nature has lighted up in the human heart, that is thus capable of counteracting the strongest impulses of self-love. It is a stronger power, a more forcible motive, which exerts itself upon such occasions. It is reason, principle, conscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man within, the great judge and arbiter of our conduct. (2016: 240) This passage, however, fits only problematically within Bloom’s theory of reason. The stronger power Smith mentions, the more forcible motive, conscience, does not look like Bloom’s inferential reason, even if we add in care for others. That care, according to Bloom, “reflects . . . a more abstract appreciation that regardless of our feelings, their lives have the same value as the lives of those we love” (2016: 239). It is difficult to

202 Anne Jaap Jacobson see how an abstract appreciation coming from the head and not the heart also inhabits the breast and becomes the great judge and arbiter of our conduct. Nonetheless, as we will see, Bloom is at least giving us a rough description of the process that encourages inclusivity in our moral thoughts and practice. That ordinary Western people are not completely inclusive in their moral thought even about matters in their own locale is now considered an established fact, and a very great deal of psychological research over the last thirty or so years has been devoted to the fact that we are not (Bluhm et al. 2012; Brownstein and Saul 2015; Dovidio 2010; FaustoSterling 2000; Fine 2010; Haslanger 2013; Valian 1999). What has been of particular interest is the apparent fact that while we often think we are being inclusive in our distribution of important goods in our society, in fact we too often are not. There are people who have disputed the evidence for lack of inclusiveness (Dixon et al. 2012; Williams and Ceci 2015), but I do not think they can be cited in support of our theorists, since Bloom and Hume do recognize the possibility of failures in inclusiveness. Hume’s frank and unfortunate racist remarks make it clear he is not wholly inclusive, and in seeing progress we have made, Bloom recognizes that we have a history with some failures in inclusiveness. The question remains, do either of our theorists effectively address the question of how we can become more inclusive? This question will occupy the final section, which follows.

4. Hume, Bloom, and Inclusiveness Remember the question we are asking that moral philosophy address. The question is really twofold: How does the theory recognize the problem of inclusiveness? How informatively does it tie achieving inclusiveness to moral practice? That is, what guidance does it give us in achieving moral inclusiveness. What we should want is some description of what can lead to inclusiveness, put in a way that we can employ. Both Hume and Bloom are outstanding in their recognition of the problem of inclusiveness. In this they contrast with much of what has been going on in recent mainstream philosophy’s discussions of rights. Among the problems is, as Charles Mills says, the fact that “you have norms of professional socialization that school the aspirant philosopher in what is supposed to be the appropriate way of approaching political philosophy, which over the past 40 years has been overwhelmingly shaped by Rawlsian ‘ideal theory,’5 the theory of a perfectly just society.” The resulting literature seldom considers racial injustice (Yancy and Mills 2014). Nonetheless, our theorists do not help us a great deal with how to be more inclusive. Hume is unsurprisingly too conservative. As we have seen, Hume quite explicitly describes factors that can make our moral

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thought broader in its scope than his mirroring sympathy would make it. As Jacqueline Taylor has emphasized, the present of appeals to such factors show Hume is not an individualist about value (Taylor 2015). Nonetheless, these factors lean heavily on present mores; they do not guide us on how to enlarge and extend the inclusiveness of society’s present practices. If we think of “relying on current mores” as a mechanism for extending our concerns, then we have the unfortunate fact that the existing bigotry in the input of current mores will give us bigotry in the output. Bloom concentrates on characterizing the attitude behind a desire for inclusiveness. It is not part of his brief, we should recognize, to give us a guide that is relevant to specific practice. Nor indeed is it clear that doing so would fit into the mandates of his book. It is very explicitly addressing motivating attitudes, and not how to put them into extensive practice. Still, discussion of empathy and sympathy in ethics in today’s society should have connections to mainstream philosophy which, at approximately 97% white and 80% male, could be thought to have a problem with inclusiveness. At the same time, many within the profession take themselves to reward and hire the best. Do their results show that white people are the best at mainstream philosophy, and perhaps all sorts of other things? Or does it show, as our “excluded voices” of the first section claim, a special obliviousness? Looking at the problem of inclusion with reference to the professional philosophy in higher education gives us a good example. Many of the elements behind exclusion that researchers have investigated are now quite well known. We all have implicit biases; like Humean causation, they lead us to expect the future will resemble the past, and lead us to keep in place the social regularities in our lives. A second or third generation of Hispanic students may be much better prepared than those who came earlier from families unfamiliar with a country’s culture, including the educational structures in that culture. The expectation of poor performance caused by earlier alienations may remain in the minds of many who assign grades, award prizes, and so on. More insidious, and perhaps less well known, are the effects of social elements and structures that create insider and outsider status. Early investigations suggested that participants in such structures tend to resist change, particularly change that is not advantageous to their place in a hierarchy (Apfelbaum 1999). But there is worse. The outsiders—for example, the cleaning crew in a university—are really not even seen as individuals. This fact and others are discussed by John Dovidio, a psychologist at Yale, who has looked at how outsiders are treated in various contexts, and how the repercussions of their status can be lessened (Demoulin et al. 2009; Hehman et al. 2012). From an academic point of view, some of the implications of insideroutsider status are remarkable. For example, members of an in-group

204 Anne Jaap Jacobson find it easier to remember the success of in-group members. It can take no malice at all for an in-group supervisor to give a very skewed summary of the contributions of the minority members in a seminar (Gaertner and Dovidio 2000). And reputations in a department, along with awards and letters of recommendation, can easily be influenced by what people remember. We might nonetheless expect that highly intelligent, introspective members of an academic discipline can reliably meet their intention to hire only the best, regardless of race or gender. Unfortunately, the evidence is against such expectations (West et al. 2012). Introspection will not reveal the biases that an examination of behavior suggests are there. A discipline whose numbers constitute an anomaly among, e.g., the humanities will not discover the causes of such an anomaly through checking on the honesty and integrity of the decision makers. They are in the worst position to detect any bias. They may well be oblivious to their own biases. It is alarming to find well-meaning white people unknowingly neglecting very serious obligations to fairness and justice. Our original excluded people remind us that the problem is the cause of much harm. A first step appears to be acknowledging the problem, and the fact that introspection is not going to lead anyone to a solution. We might fault Hume and Bloom for considering whether, as moral theory tends to do, compassion or empathy are of singular importance in addressing the issue of inclusion. However, our better conclusion may be that it takes more than theorizing about inclusion to make a difference in the facts about who is included. What they are to be congratulated on is recognizing the issue.

Notes 1. Rothfeld is discussing Sara Ahmed’s recent book, Living a Feminist Life (Ahmed, 2017). 2. A number of critics have thought it easy to show Hume would not rest without resolving the questions he addresses. Thus, Miriam McCormick (2001) cites Jacobson (2000a) as saying that Hume “explicitly rejects the goal of arriving at consistent answers to the questions addressed.” In contrast, McCormick maintains that he said that he hoped that his theories “might stand the test of the most critical examination” (T 1.4.7.14). This phrase is taken to show that he aimed for consistent theories. But did he really say that? Was the passage she cites even about his conclusions? The end of the paragraph she cites undercuts her conclusions. Here is the fuller passage: But were these hypotheses once remov’d, we might hope to establish a system or set of opinions, which if not true (for that, perhaps, is too much to be hop’d for) might at least be satisfactory to the human mind, and might stand the test of the most critical examination. Nor shou’d we despair of attaining this end, because of the many chimerical systems, which have successively arisen and decay’d away among men, wou’d we consider the shortness of that period, wherein these questions have been the subjects of enquiry and reasoning. Two thousand years with such long interruptions, and under such mighty discouragements are a small space of time to give any tolerable perfection to the sciences; and perhaps we are still

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in too early an age of the world to discover any principles, which will bear the examination of the latest posterity. For my part, my only hope is, that I may contribute a little to the advancement of knowledge, by giving in some particulars a different turn to the speculations of philosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly those subjects, where alone they can expect assurance and conviction. (T 1.4.7.14, my emphasis) 3. Arguably the metaphysical researches reappear briefly in EHU 12. 4. Adam Smith, one of the outstanding members of the Scottish Enlightenment, was an eighteenth-century philosopher and economist. He is known as the father of free trade. 5. The discussion refers to a passage from the Stanford Encyclopedia for an explanation of “ideal theory”: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/rawls/#IdeNonIdeThe

References Ahmed, Sara. 2017. Living a Feminist Life. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Apfelbaum, Erika. 1999. “Relations of Domination and Movements for Liberation: An Analysis of Power Between Groups (Abridged).” Feminism & Psychology 9 (3): 267–72. Baier, Annette. 1991. A Progress of Sentiments: Reflections on Hume’s Treatise. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bloom, Paul. 2016. Against Empathy: The Case for Rational Compassion. New York: Harper Collins. Bluhm, R., A. J. Jacobson, and H. L. Maibom. 2012. Neurofeminism: Issues at the Intersection of Feminist Theory and Cognitive Science. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Box, M. A. 1990. The Suasive Art of David Hume. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Brownstein, M., and J. Saul. 2015. “Introduction.” In Implicit Bias and Philosophy: Volume I, edited by M. Brownstein and J. Saul. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Chabris, C., and S. Daniel. 2010. The Invisible Gorilla. New York: Broadway. Demoulin, S. P., J.-P. Leyens, and J. F. Dovidio. 2009. Intergroup Misunderstandings: Impact of Divergent Social Realities. New York: Psychology Press. Dixon, J., M. Levine, S. Reicher, and K. Durrheim. 2012. “Beyond Prejudice: Relational Inequality, Collective Action, and Social Change Revisited.” Behavioral & Brain Sciences 35 (6): 451–9. Dovidio, J. F. 2010. The SAGE Handbook of Prejudice, Stereotyping and Discrimination. London: SAGE. Eddo-Lodge, R. 2017. Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race. London: Bloomsbury Circus. Estany, A., and S. Martínez. 2014. “Scaffolding and Affordance as Integrative Concepts in the Cognitive Sciences.” Philosophical Psychology 27 (1): 98–111. Fausto-Sterling, A. 2000. Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality. New York: Basic Books. Fine, C. 2010. Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference. New York: W. W. Norton. Gaertner, S. L., and J. F. Dovidio. 2000. Reducing Intergroup Bias: The Common Ingroup Identity Model. Philadelphia, PA: Psychology Press.

206 Anne Jaap Jacobson Gallagher, S. 2013. “The Socially Extended Mind.” Cognitive Systems Research 25–26: 4–12. Garrett, Don. 2004. “Hume as ‘Man of Reason’ and ‘Women’s Philosopher.’” In Feminist Reflections on the History of Philosophy, edited by L. Alanen and C. Witt, 171–92. Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Gibson, E. J., and A. D. Pick. 2000. An Ecological Approach to Perceptual Learning and Development. New York: Oxford University Press. Haslanger, S. A. 2013. Resisting Reality Social Construction and Social Critique (pp. 1 online resource). http://ezproxy.rice.edu/login?url=http://dx.doi.org/10. 1093/acprof:oso/9780199892631.001.0001. Hehman, E., S. L. Gaertner, J. F. Dovidio, E. W. Mania, R. Guerra, D. C. Wilson, and B. M. Friel. 2012. “Group Status Drives Majority and Minority Integration Preferences.” Psychological Science (Sage Publications Inc.) 23 (1): 46–52. Jacobson, A. J. 2000a. Feminist Interpretations of David Hume. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Jacobson, A. J. 2000b. “From Cognitive Science to a Post-Cartesian Text.” In The New Hume Debate, edited by R. J. Read and K. Richman, 156–66. New York: Routledge. Jacobson, A. J. 2003. “Mental Representations: What Philosophy Leaves Out and Neuroscience Puts In.” Philosophical Psychology 16: 189–203. Jacobson, A. J. 2004. “The Psychology of Philosophy: Interpreting Locke and Hume.” In Feminist Reflections on the History of Philosophy, edited by L. Alanen and C. Witt, 153–70. Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Jacobson, A. J. 2007. “Empathy, Primitive Reactions and the Modularity of Emotion.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 36 (Supplement 32): 95–113. Jacobson, A. J. 2008. “What Should a Theory of Vision Look Like?” Philosophical Psychology 21 (5): 641–55. Jacobson, A. J. 2009. “Empathy and Instinct: Cognitive Neuroscience and Folk Psychology.” Inquiry: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Philosophy 52 (5): 467–82. Jacobson, A. J. 2013. Keeping the World in Mind. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Jones, J. 2004. “The Impairment of Empathy in Goodwill Whites.” In What White Looks Like: African-American Philosophers on the Whiteness Question, edited by George Yancy. New York: Routledge. McCormick, M. 2001. “Review of Anne Jaap Jacobson, Ed., Feminist Interpretations of David Hume.” Philosophy in Review 21 (2): 125–7. Montague, P., P. Dayan, C. Person, and T. J. Sejnowski. 1994. “Bee Foraging in Uncertain Environments Using Predictive Hebbian Learning.” Nature 377: 725–8. Prosser, S. 2011. “Affordances and Phenomenal Character in Spatial Perception.” Philosophical Review 120 (4): 475–513. Rothfeld, B. 2017. “Can Feminist Scholarship Stop Sexism?” The Chronicle of Higher Education, July 7. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2015. Reflecting Subjects: Sympathy, Passion and Society in Hume’s Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Valian, V. 1999. Why So Slow?: The Advancement of Women. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Vitz, Rico. 2016. “The Nature and Functions of Sympathy in Hume’s Philosophy.” In The Oxford Handbook of Hume, edited by Paul Russell, 312–32. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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West, R. F., Russell J. Meserve, and Keith E. Stanovich. 2012. “Cognitive Sophistication Does Not Attenuate the Bias Blind Spot.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 103 (3): 506–19. Williams, W. M., and S. J. Ceci. 2015. “National Hiring Experiments Reveal 2:1 Faculty Preference for Women on STEM Tenure Track.” PNAS 112 (171): 5360–5. Yancy, G., and C. Mills. 2014. “Lost in Rawlsland.” The New York Times, November 16. Yolton, J. 1980. “Hume’s Ideas.” Hume Studies 6: 1–25.

9

Empathy, Interdependency, and Morality Building From Hume’s Account Lorraine L. Besser

Empathy, or the capacity to experience the affective states as those around you, has long captured the attention of philosophers and psychologists. And it isn’t hard to see why: mysteries abound regarding the nature of this capacity. What psychological processes make this possible, and when and why are they activated? Does this capacity allow us to develop knowledge of other people’s minds? If so, what are the limits of this kind of knowledge? More generally, what are the effects of experiencing the emotions, passions, or inclinations of another? Does it pull us closer to that person, and make us want to help her, or does it work the other way—such that, for example, we work to avoid experiencing suffering empathetically by distancing ourselves off from the suffering of others? While the mysteries surrounding this capacity cross many different areas and disciplines, much of the interest surrounding the phenomenon of empathy has concerned empathy’s connection with morality. Martin Hoffman’s seminal work on empathy, for example, considers how it is that empathy spurs and prompts moral development, even and especially in the very young (2000). C.D. Batson’s influential line of research explores the connections between empathy and altruism; Batson (1991, 2010) argues that our emotional reactions to the feelings of another generates altruistic motives to relieve the suffering and distress of the other, a view he traces to both Aquinas and Adam Smith. The connection between empathy and morality seems so strongly rooted that many contemporary sentimentalists, notably Michael Slote (2001), maintain that empathy is a prerequisite for making moral judgments. Despite this widespread association between empathy and morality— or perhaps more accurately, in response to this widespread association— the salience of empathy to morality has come under fire: Jesse Prinz (2011a, 2011b) argues that empathy is counterproductive to morality and that sentimentalists ought to focus instead on the importance of nonempathic emotions; Paul Bloom (2016) argues that empathy is too biased and narrow to serve as a basis for social policy and more generally challenges the common assumption that bad people are defined by their lack

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of empathy; and Peter Goldie (2011) worries that some forms of empathy interfere with an agent’s agency and practical reason. These debates raise genuine questions and concerns regarding the role that empathy has to play within a moral theory. In this chapter, I center specifically on the concerns raised by Prinz regarding the place of empathy within moral theory. I’ll argue that revisiting Hume’s understanding of sympathy will help us to better understand the relationship between empathy and morality.1 I’ll argue, contra Prinz, that the most salient role of sympathy within Hume’s theory is to explain our interdependency and to build upon this interdependency to develop and promote intersubjectivity. Hume’s careful and nuanced account of how sympathy contributes to morality reveals a central and often underappreciated role for empathy. After taking some time to identify what I take to be the essential notion of empathy at stake in these debates, I’ll begin my argument by considering in detail Prinz’s criticisms of empathy’s place in morality. Much of Prinz’s argument relies upon a view of the connection between empathy and moral judgments that is often attributed to Hume, and this view serves as the target of Prinz’s arguments. But, as I’ll argue, the interpretation of Hume that Prinz works with is problematic on several key respects. I’ll go on to defend an interpretation of Hume that shows the role sympathy plays in associating individuals with one another and in establishing the ways in which individuals are dependent upon one another. This reading of the role of Humean sympathy reveals an important contribution empathy makes to morality: it creates an intersubjective base which not only makes morality relevant and necessary, but shapes the very nature of morality itself.

1. What Is Empathy? In contemporary discourse, the term “empathy” is used to describe an umbrella of different phenomena, all surrounding the transmission of mental states between agents. Batson (2010) helpfully identifies eight ways in which the term “empathy” is used by contemporary philosophers and psychologists, where these usages are demarcated by the mode in which mental states are transmitted (e.g., through the projection of oneself into the position or another, or simply imagining what another is feeling) and which mental states themselves are transmitted (e.g., thoughts and feelings, or simply emotions, or only the emotions specific to distress). The kind of empathy I focus on here can be understood generally as what Batson describes as “coming to feel as another person feels” (Batson 2010: 6). To begin our analysis, we can start with this rough conception of empathy according to which empathy involves the capacity to feel what another is feeling, whether this be through an act of perspective taking, through some more immediate process of contagion, or through some other process. As the exercise of this ability often generates particular

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reactions, “empathy” is sometimes used to describe both the ascertaining of another’s emotions and the natural response to those emotions, such as when we realize someone else is in pain and feel compassion for them. Batson, for example, takes empathy to be “an other-oriented emotional response elicited by and congruent with the perceived welfare of someone in need” (Batson 2010: 2). In view of including feelings of compassion in his characterization of empathy, Batson’s approach frames empathy in such a way that it can be naturally extended to morality. Because we are interested in explaining the possible connection between empathy and morality, however, we will focus on understanding empathy as distinct from its motivational effects. This kind of empathy serves a foundational role within Hume’s moral theory, although Hume (as well as Smith), used the word “sympathy” to describe the process.2 Hume describes sympathy as a communicative process or mechanism that culminates in the feelings of another becoming “the very passion itself, and produc[ing] an equal emotion” in the agent considering the passions, sentiments, and inclinations of another (T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317).3 Like many contemporary researchers, Hume thought that sympathy could be voluntary, as when we actively begin the process by imagining the emotions of another (T 2.1.11.6; SBN 318; T 3.3.2.5; SBN 594–5), but he thought that most often empathy is involuntary: “So close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his opinions” (T 3.3.2.2; SBN 592).4 As many have noted, Hume’s basic observations regarding the nature of sympathy have been borne out in scientific research.5 Hoffman, for instance, finds evidence of contagion (a form of empathy in which the communication of sentiments is immediate and involuntary) in newborns, a phenomenon he argues gives rise to a particular kind of empathic distress, magnified by the newborn’s inability to distinguish being in actual distress versus empathetic distress.6 Neuroscientific research, led largely by Rizzolatti (e.g., Rizzolatti et al. 1996), highlights the role of mirror neurons, which comprise a mirroring system that seems to enable the mimicry at work in contagion. Neuroscientific research also provides support for intentional empathy, brought about by thinking about other’s perspectives (e.g., Buckner and Carroll 2007).7 It seems that there is contemporary corroboration of Hume’s basic conception of sympathy as a psychological phenomenon, making it fair to assume the phenomenon Hume identifies as “sympathy” is similar to if not the same phenomenon contemporary discourse terms “empathy.” Recognizing this point of connection between Hume’s discussion and contemporary discussion makes it the case that developments on one side can (and ought to) influence the other. This is indeed the strategy Prinz employs in his efforts to challenge the moral salience of empathy; Prinz argues that developments in our understanding of empathy (and its

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limits) challenge what Hume took to be the essential relationship between sympathy and morality. In what follows, after critically examining this argument, I will argue that it is rather contemporary theorists that have much to learn from Hume’s understanding of morality, and that we can find within Hume’s theory resources to understand more deeply why it is that empathy is crucial to morality and specifically to our conception of ourselves as moral agents.

2. Empathy and Moral Judgment Given the power of empathy to enable people to feel the feelings of another, it is a natural step to think about the ways in which empathy might contribute to our understanding of morality. An agent’s capacity to empathize with others around her can play a significant motivational role in her efforts to help those around her, and there is a standard and compelling connection to be made between empathy and moral motivation. But there is also a deeper and more fundamental way in which empathy can contribute to morality, and this is to see empathy as informing our moral judgments. There is an intuitive appeal to such an approach. An empathy-infused approach to morality is able to give an analysis of moral judgments that makes it clear both why morality matters (because moral judgments constitute an affirmation of the importance of another’s emotions) and why moral judgments typically move us (because they are connected to our own experiences of pleasure and pain). According to Prinz (2011a, 2011b), Hume offers such an account of moral judgments. Prinz argues that for Hume, sympathy is a precondition for the sentiments of approbation and disapprobation that become constitutive of our moral judgments (2011a: 216). He identifies this as Hume’s “constitution thesis” (2011a: 217). The basic idea is straightforward: sympathizing with those who feel pained by acts leads us to judge those acts to be vicious, and sympathizing with those who feel pleased by acts leads us to judge those acts to be virtuous. On this interpretation, our sympathetic emotions constitute our moral judgments. The judgment that a helping act is virtuous is constituted by the feelings of pleasure we sympathetically feel when contemplating the pleasure someone feels upon being helped. Despite the intuitive advantages that come with such a view of moral judgments, Prinz thinks Hume’s view and specifically the constitution thesis, goes fundamentally astray. The problem, he argues, is that for several reasons moral judgments frequently do not track the empathic emotions said to be constitutive of them. First, there is no “kind of congruence between the emotions of one who approves and those on either side of the action being approved” (Prinz 2011a: 217–18); that is, the emotions of the involved parties often simply don’t fit in the manner required by the constitution thesis.

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To illustrate, he considers the difference between the gratitude one feels upon being helped, and the admiration we feel for the helper: Gratitude and admiration are clearly different emotions. They have difference causes, phenomenology, and action tendencies. When grateful, there is a feeling of indebtedness and a tendency to reciprocate or express thanks. Admiration, on the other hand, has an upward directionality—we look up to those we admire—and tends toward expressions of respect rather than reciprocation. (Prinz 2011a: 217) Given the differences in the passions experienced by the relevant parties, it does indeed seem problematic to claim that our judgment that helping is virtuous is, in fact, constituted by those emotions. Second, it seems that the constitution thesis also falls short in its capacity to explain the moral judgments we make with respect to victimless crimes (Prinz 2011a: 218, 2011b: 214). According to Prinz, clearly we make judgments that certain acts are wrong even when there are no victims. But if there is no empathic exchange, then the constitution thesis holds that there can be no moral judgments. This seems implausible. In these cases, there is no victim with whom to empathize, yet we still make moral judgments. Related scenarios arise when we consider spontaneous moral judgments that seem to arise without empathy, such as the immediate disapproval I feel upon being the victim of a crime (Prinz 2011a: 219). These instances of disparity between moral judgments and the empathic sentiments Prinz takes to be required by the constitution thesis lead him to conclude that the constitution thesis is descriptively false, and that sympathetic motives are not necessary for moral judgment. These considerations certainly challenge the viability of the constitution thesis, and I think Prinz is right to be skeptical of it. But I also have some concerns about whether or not Hume embraces the constitution thesis. To develop these concerns, let us examine why Prinz attributes the constitution thesis to Hume. Prinz (2011b: 214) takes Hume to endorse the following claims: 1. Virtuous actions are those that intentionally bring about pleasure, while vicious actions intentionally bring about pain. 2. We feel sympathy upon contemplating pleasure or pain in another. 3. Our sympathetic responses to the recipients of virtuous and vicious acts generate feelings of approval/disapproval. 4. These feelings of approval/disapproval constitute our moral judgments. These claims, Prinz argues, suggest that sympathy is a precondition for the approval/disapproval of which our moral judgments are constituted.

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The general picture Prinz finds in Hume is as follows: when an act causes pleasure, we—qua observer—sympathize with that pleasure, and so come to feel the same pleasure that the act produces. This sympathetic pleasure leads us to approve of the act and so to judge that the act is morally good. For example, Jack sees Joe helping an elderly woman, Julia, carry her grocery bags. Julia feels pleasure in virtue of being helped. Jack sympathizes with Julia’s pleasure and comes to feel pleasure himself, and on the basis of this sympathetic pleasure comes to morally approve of Joe’s act of helping. Is Hume’s view really this straightforward? While it seems unproblematic to attribute claims 1–3 to Hume, I worry about whether claims 1–3 lead to claim 4, which is the constitution thesis. That is, while Hume may believe that virtuous actions generate pleasure while vicious actions generate pain, and that we sympathize with those feelings of pleasure and pain, is it true that our sentimental responses feeding into our moral judgments are the product of sympathy and specifically the ones generated through our sympathetic responses to the recipients of virtuous/vicious acts? Prinz does not spend a lot of time defending his interpretation—his interest is not Hume scholarship, but is rather to explore a view that has at least an “initial ring of plausibility” (2011b: 214). But if we are really interested in understanding the role that sympathy can and does play within morality, it is worth looking into the details of Hume’s account. In Prinz (2011b), he supports the preceding interpretation by appeal to the following passage from Hume’s Treatise: “as everything, which gives uneasiness in human actions, upon the general survey, is called Vice, and whatever produces satisfaction, in the same manner, is denominated Virtue” (T 3.2.2.24; SBN 498–500). Hume’s specific point of reference here is the virtue of justice and the vice of injustice. He argues that even when injustice does not affect us, through sympathy we still feel uneasiness: “We partake of [the victim’s] uneasiness by sympathy” (T 3.2.2.24; SBN 498–500). We feel uneasiness because we sympathize with the victims of injustice; we feel their pain. However, Hume’s further explanation of why it is that we move from feeling their pain to feeling the distinctive sentiments of moral approbation appeals to the larger effects of incidents of injustice to the public interest: “a sympathy with public interest is the source of the moral approbation, which attends the virtue” (T 3.2.2.24; SBN 498–500). To the extent that sympathetic feelings drive our moral judgment, it is sympathy with the public interest, rather than with the victim of any particular act. This difference has important implications not only for the constitution thesis, but also for Prinz’s challenges to it: victimless crimes, for example, seem less problematic if what is at stake is the “public interest” rather than any specific victim. Yet it is also important to recognize that this claim that “a sympathy with public interest is the source of the moral approbation” (T 3.2.2.24; SBN 498) is specific to justice and at most the

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artificial virtues of fidelity, chastity, and political allegiance. These virtues are distinctive and problematic ones for Hume’s overall theory of the virtues in that, unlike what Hume calls the “natural virtues,” the artificial virtues are not something towards which we are naturally motivated. This makes it problematic as a virtue, because what makes other things virtues, such as prudence and generosity, is that we approve of the motive underlying the virtue. As we are lacking a natural motive to, for example, justice, Hume argues that justice is an artificial virtue, whose status as a virtue depends upon an artifice. This is why it is sympathy with the public interest that is the source of moral approval: because there is no natural motive to approve of; if there were, the natural motive would be the source of moral approbation. This analysis highlights the importance of motives to the production of moral approval and disapproval; a point that seems to stand in tension with the constitution thesis as Prinz describes it. In Prinz (2011a), he does cite Hume’s more general description of the natural virtues: “When any quality, or character, has a tendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve of it, because it presents the lively idea of pleasure, which idea affects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure” (T 3.3.1.14; SBN 580–1). I agree that this quote does illuminate nicely Hume’s overall understanding of sympathy’s role in our feelings of moral approval, but we need to be cautious about whether it supports the theses he attributes to Hume. First and foremost, as the preceding quote makes clear, the object of moral approbation, on Hume’s account is “qualities or character”— motives—rather than an agent’s actions. We are pleased with the quality or character and it is this quality that presents the idea of pleasure with which we sympathize. Thus, “when we praise any actions, we regard only the motive that produced them and consider the actions as signs or indications of certain principles in the mind and temper” (T 3.2.1.2; SBN 477). Hume’s emphasis on the agent’s motives makes it misleading to focus on virtuous actions and their effects, as Prinz’s interpretation does. While thesis (1), “virtuous actions are those that intentionally bring about pleasure, while vicious actions intentionally bring about pain” is true, it does not do the work Prinz takes it to. Prinz takes this to indicate that the morally salient feature of virtuous and vicious acts, which constitute our moral judgments, is their capacity to produce pleasure/ pain in the recipients of those acts. While it may be true that virtuous and vicious acts produce pleasure and pain in the recipients of those acts, what feeds into our moral approval are the sympathetic feelings that arise from motives. As Hume notes, we can easily imagine some actions that intentionally generate pleasure, such as the greedy miser’s hoarding of money, that also generates disapproval when we consider the motives that prompted them, such as the greedy miser’s narrow self-interest. This is one reason why Hume maintains that “we are never to consider any

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single action in our enquiries concerning the origin of morals, but only the quality or character from which the action proceeded” (T 3.3.1.5; SBN 575). I think Hume’s focus on an agent’s motives, rather than actions, dictates a different role for sympathy than Prinz’s argument maintains, and at the very least challenges the attribution of the constitution thesis to Hume. While Hume’s understanding of the sympathy involved in moral approbation is often read in the manner Prinz suggests, we have seen that this interpretation struggles to make sense of the unique status of the artificial virtues, and of Hume’s claim that it is sympathy with an agent’s motive that generates our moral approval. Taking these claims seriously generates the following, alternative interpretation of the sympathetic exchanges involved in our moral judgments, in which the morally salient sympathetic communication is between the observer and the agent. Upon observing an agent’s actions, we move quickly to consider what motives prompted the act: “my mind immediately passes from these effects to their causes” (T 3.3.1.7; SBN 575–6). It is only once we form an idea of the motives that cause the action that sympathy enters into the picture. We consider the motives, for “these alone are durable enough to affect our sentiments concerning the person” (T 3.3.1.5; SBN 575). Moreover, consideration of the general tendency of motives “gives rise to our sympathy” (T 3.3.1.7; SBN 575–6), our sympathy with the agent’s motives thus “produces our sentiment of morals” (T 3.3.1.10; SBN 577–8). This understanding of the sympathetic process at work in our moral approval and disapproval is importantly different, and I think truer to Hume’s views, from Prinz’s understanding. Return to the case of Jack observing Joe helping Julia. On Prinz’s interpretation, the morally salient sympathetic communication occurs between Jack (observer) and Julia (recipient). On my interpretation, the morally salient sympathetic communication occurs between Jack (observer) and Joe (agent). Julia no doubt feels pleasure in virtue of being the recipient of Joe’s actions but what generates Jack’s moral approval is his (the observer’s) sympathetic reactions to Joe’s motives. What happens is that Jack reflects upon Joe’s helping motive and on the usual tendencies or effects of that motive. Julia’s pleasure factors into this process, but sympathetic engagement with the specific recipient is neither necessary nor sufficient: motives that do not generate actions can still generate moral sentiments (T 3.2.1.3; SBN 477–8), for ultimately “reflecting on the tendency of characters and mental qualities is sufficient to give us the sentiments of approbation and blame” (T 3.3.1.9; SBN 577). I’ll say more shortly regarding how on my interpretation sympathy with an agent’s motives operates to generate moral sentiments, but even at this stage we are in a position to see it is misleading to describe Hume’s view of moral judgment in terms of the constitution thesis, according to which moral judgments are constituted by sympathetic exchanges with

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the recipients of virtuous and vicious acts. Moral judgments are not constituted by these sympathetic emotions. They derive from the process of sympathizing with an agent’s motives, but they are not constituted by emotions derived from sympathy with the victim. This isn’t to say that there are not instances in which we sympathize with the recipients and, feasibly, in these occasions this sympathy contributes to our sympathetic reactions to an agent’s motives, but it nonetheless seems a mistake to take the former as the one’s constitutive of our moral approbation.8 Sympathy serves, as always on Hume’s theory, as an important form of communication between individuals, but it does not feed directly into moral judgment in the manner described by the constitution thesis. Rather, as I have argued, moral judgment derives from reflection on the usual tendencies of the motive under question. If a particular motive tends to cause harm and pain, we will disapprove of it, but not necessarily because we have sympathized with the pain of actual or future victims. I hope to have shown a plausible alternative interpretation of how sympathy contributes to moral judgments, for which there is much textual support. Let us now consider how this interpretation of Hume allows us to avoid the objections that Prinz makes with respect to the constitution thesis and, so ultimately—as we will consider more concretely in the following section—preserves a role for empathy within a moral theory. These objections, recall, concern the disparity between moral judgments and empathic emotions; either because it is not clear that there is a relevant empathic emotion at stake, or because the empathic emotions do not resemble the emotions associated with the moral judgment. Prinz’s example, remember, is the difference between the gratitude a recipient of helping feels and the admiration that seems part of an observer’s moral judgment (Prinz 2011a: 217). Recognizing that Hume’s account does not depend upon sympathetic engagement with victims challenges the viability of the former objection. In fact, I think that Hume highlights motives as being the object of our moral sentiments, and that Hume believes moral sentiments derive from reflection on the usual tendency of those motives, actually provides him with a helpful analysis of cases that lack an actual sympathetic exchange with victims. We disapprove of so-called victimless crimes because of reflection on what motivates an agent to perform them. To use one of Prinz’s examples, we have an immediate sense of pain and disapproval when considering whatever character or quality motivates one to use a cat as an instrument of masturbation. We do not need to find some victim who is experiencing pain in order to make our moral judgment; rather, the idea we form of the person’s character generates the salient pain that factors into our moral disapproval. Similarly, in cases such as stealing, murder, and rape, which Prinz takes to give rise directly to disapprobation without a prior act of empathy, what seems to happen is that we make moral judgments based on past reflection of the usual tendencies of the motives associated with those acts. Hume’s

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analysis of moral judgments thus ends up giving us a helpful analysis of their distinctive character.9 The latter objection, regarding the resemblance between the emotions involved in the moral exchange and the emotions involved in the moral judgment, can also be challenged. Nothing in Hume’s account of moral judgment requires resemblance, especially the tight resemblance suggested by Prinz’s discussion of the lack of resemblance between kindness and gratitude. The moral sentiments derive from reflection on the general tendency of the motive in question. This means that while we can expect that sentiments of approval have similar affective valences as the usual tendencies of that motive generates (and vice versa with respect to disapproval), there is no reason to expect resemblance. I’ve argued that Hume is not committed to the constitution thesis as Prinz describes it, and that sympathy with the recipients of virtuous and vicious acts does not generate the feelings of pleasure and pain requisite to our moral approval and disapproval, and for these reasons his view is not vulnerable to the objections Prinz levies against him. Along the way, however, we have seen that sympathy is important to Hume’s understanding of moral approval and disapproval; it is important insofar as it serves as the principle of communication through which one can learn and reflect upon the motives of another. In the remainder of this chapter, I’ll explore this role and defend it as a necessary and important one for Hume’s moral theory, and perhaps morality more generally.

3. Intersubjectivity As we have seen, Hume defines sympathy as a principle of communication that enables us to receive the inclinations and sentiments of others (T 2.1.11.2; SBN 316–7). Hume describes the mechanism and process through which sympathy operates as follows: When any affection is infus’d by sympathy, it is at first known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and conversation, which conveys an idea of it. This idea is presently converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion, as any original affection. (T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317) Following Postema (2005), we can analyze Hume’s understanding of sympathy as split between two stages: the first stage consists in the formation of an idea of what passion or emotion another is feeling. The second stage consists in the conversion of this idea of another’s feelings to an impression of that feeling, an impression that is so strong and vivacious that it “produce[s] an equal emotion” (T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317).

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While, as we have seen, our sympathetic capacities influence our feelings of moral approval and disapproval, Hume seems most interested in discussing the ways in which sympathy brings us together. He introduces the principle of sympathy in the context of his analysis of pride, and discussion of the importance of corroborating our feelings of pride with others. Immediately after introducing sympathy, he goes on to explore how it is that—seemingly in virtue of giving us the capacity for sympathy— “nature has preserv’d a great resemblance among all human creatures” (T 2.1.11.5; SBN 318). Our capacity to sympathize, I will now argue, serves for Hume to create an intersubjective base upon which morality is predicated. Sympathy delivers two dimensions of intersubjectivity: first, it connects us to one another in a deep and fundamental way simply in virtue of being a principle of communication; second, it serves as a regulating force which not only affects our preferences, but also shapes how it is that we interact with one another. These forces combine to present an understanding of the self as essentially merged with and connected to others, such that the lingering differences between the self and others become less morally relevant. The first dimension is relatively straightforward. Because of sympathy, Hume argues, “the minds of men are mirrors to one another” (T 2.2.5.21; SBN 365). We mirror each other in two ways: first, our minds reflect the emotions of another. This occurs, as we’ve seen, through our interactions with others. We have the ability to gauge what emotions another is experiencing simply through observation of their facial expressions or tone of voice (T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317). While sympathy sometimes involves active exercise of the imagination, sympathy does not have to involve a conscious effort to sympathize but rather happens immediately and involuntarily due to the resemblance between us and others: “So close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his opinions” (T 3.3.2.2; SBN 592). Second, the mirroring continues past the initial interaction and creates a kind of reverberation of sentiments: Thus, the pleasure, which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem, which sentiments again, being perceiv’d and sympathiz’d with, increase the pleasure of the possessor; and being one more reflected, become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem in the beholder. (T 2.2.5.21; SBN 365) This reverberation both solidifies and enhances one’s emotions, making it the case both that we often feel passions more from sympathetic communication than from our own disposition (T 2.1.11.2; SBN 316–17) and

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that it is difficult for us to experience emotions in the absence of others with whom to sympathize: Whatever other passions we may be actuated by; pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust; the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor wou’d they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments of others. (T 2.2.5.15; SBN 362–3) We see here that through the communication of sentiments, sympathy creates a robust sense of intersubjectivity. Following May, we can understand intersubjectivity as concerning “how one is mentally connected with and distinguished from others” (2017: 169). If Hume is right, we are mentally connected with one another not only in the sense that we have first personal awareness and experience of the emotions of another, but also through a robust dependency relationship, insofar as the sympathetic communication of emotions is essential to their very development. These considerations point us toward the second dimension of intersubjectivity that Hume’s understanding of sympathy generates. This centers on the regulating force sympathy plays upon an individual’s experiences of emotions, a force that impacts an individual’s preferences and interactions with others. From the very outset of his discussion of sympathy, Hume highlights the effect sympathy has in creating uniformity amongst sympathizers. While, naturally, we expect that people will experience differing sentiments, upon engaging in sympathetic communication we find ourselves driven toward agreement—a phenomenon that is conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every opinion propos’d to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and understanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily companions. (T 2.1.11.2; SBN 316–17) The explanation for this phenomenon is easy to parse: while two individuals might start from a position of experiencing conflicting or contradictory emotions, once these emotions are communicated so that both are experiencing them, individuals will naturally be led towards agreement.10 We might describe what seems to happen here in terms of emotional regulation. Our sympathetic engagement with others serves as a regulating force on how it is that we experience our emotions. We see this kind of regulation explicitly in Hume’s discussion of pride. Here, he argues that pride depends both upon original causes (such as virtue, beauty and riches) and upon the “opinions of others, which has an equal influence on the affections” (T 2.1.11.1; SBN 316). This influence, he argues, is

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explained through sympathy: First, “We may observe, that no person is ever prais’d by another for any quality, which wou’d not, if real, produce of itself a pride in the person possest of it” (T 2.1.11.9; SBN 320–1). This means that the causes of pride generate admiration in both the bearer of pride and those considering it. Second, “if a person consider’d himself in the same light, in which he appears to his admirer, he wou’d first receive a separate pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according the hypothesis above-explained” (T 2.1.11.9; SBN 320–1). This pride or self-satisfaction comes from the experiencing, through sympathy, the pleasure associated with the admiration of another. Thus, as Taylor explains, “sympathizing with another’s admiration of some quality in which I take pride is a process that converts an initial idea of other’s admiration into a felt pleasure, which in turn seconds and thus sustains my own pride” (2015: 47). While the details of Hume’s view of pride are complex,11 from this initial sketch we see the fundamental role that sympathy plays in regulating our feelings of pride. We cannot genuinely feel pride unless others also admire the qualities we pride ourselves in. In this way, sympathetic engagement generates a uniformity amongst individuals. It creates what we might understand to be a fundamentally social self, constructed through sympathetic engagement with others. Our first personal judgments are open and sensitive to the opinions of others: “no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser agree” (T 3.3.2.2; SBN 592). While Hume acknowledges that the influence of others varies, such that “on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not so far as entirely to change my sentiments and way of thinking” (T 3.3.2.2; SBN 592; emphasis mine), the influence is there nonetheless: “it seldom is so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and give an authority to that opinion, which is recommended to me by his assent and approbation” (T 3.3.2.2; SBN 592). Given Hume’s understanding of sympathy, the self is deeply informed by the sentiments and opinions of others such that one’s mental experience depends upon sympathetic engagement. The kind of intersubjectivity emerging here penetrates deeply: we are not just psychologically connected to others; we are psychologically dependent upon others. While there is much more that can and ought to be said with respect to Hume’s commitment to intersubjectivity, in the remaining sections of this chapter, let us consider how this aspect of sympathy—its generation of robust intersubjectivity—can help us to understand morality and what it means to be a moral agent. What we will see—and are beginning to see already—is that for Hume sympathy is in fact a precondition of morality. But the way in which it serves as a precondition is different than Prinz depicts, and is a way that avoids the problems Prinz has concerning empathy’s potential contribution to morality. My hope is that recognizing the

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role Humean sympathy plays in generating intersubjectivity will allow us to see that empathy can play a meaningful role in moral theory.

4. Intersubjectivity, Morality, and Agency Where individuals are connected through empathy, the standard distinctions we make between ourselves and others become less tenable. What gives me pleasure is also likely to give you pleasure, and, since your pleasure strengthens and reverberates my initial pleasure, I come to depend upon this. This dependency creates a connection between agents that transforms how it is that we ought to understand the self, self-interest, and morality. We have already seen some indication of how this intersubjectivity influences Hume’s conception of morality. We have seen, for example, how intersubjectivity explains Hume’s particular take on moral approval and disapproval, and consequent understanding and explanation of the nuances of his conception of moral agents. Moral agents, on his account, gravitate towards a general point of view in order to establish agreement amongst their peers. They learn to depart from their “peculiar point of view” and instead fixate on “some steady and general points of view” (T 3.3.1.15; SBN 581–2).12 They are so deeply driven by a concern for how it is that they stand amongst others that their very capacity to enjoy their character depends upon the reputation they earn within society (EPM 9.25; SBN 284).13 They act so as to prioritize their standing with others, and given these shared, common interests, they make decisions through an expression of common interest, rather than through a process of negotiation (T 3.2.2.22; SBN 497–8). Morality for intersubjective agents thus functions very differently than it does for non-empathic agents. Because the self is no longer understood as exclusive and independent of others, many standard debates and points of tension within moral theory become moot. As May argues, recognition of intersubjectivity challenges the standard distinctions we make between egoism and altruism, such that debates over the two become a non-issue (2017: 2011). Consider, for instance, the narrowly conceived self-interested agent invoked in discussions of egoism, who cares only for herself and at best indirectly cares for others. This picture of agency stands in tension with the one illustrated earlier, according to which our opinion of our self is fundamentally informed by others such that our very preferences are already influenced by the preferences of others. Recognizing the intersubjectivity to which empathy gives rise thus allows us to make progress in our understanding of morality and of moral agency. It helps us to see that the perspective exercised in moral agency consists not in a narrowly conceived self-interested perspective but instead consists in a deeply social perspective informed by the emotions of others and drawn to establish agreement. It helps us to see that

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morality is important insofar as it promotes the positive dimensions of intersubjectivity, such as the interests we share in living in a peaceful, well-functioning society, and mitigates the negative, such as our potential to integrate problematic social norms (Taylor 2015).

4. Conclusion This, I suggest, is the role empathy plays within morality: it creates an intersubjective base that informs moral agency and shapes our moral interests. Recognizing this contribution of empathy shows a fundamental role for empathy within morality that, as I have argued, goes relatively unchallenged by the kinds of concerns Prinz raises with respect to empathy’s role in moral judgment. Prinz’s worries centered on the nature of particular kinds of empathic communications and whether those were the ones that ought to inform our moral judgments. Seeing empathy’s role in morality to be that of establishing an intersubjective base upon which morality is predicated, we see that Prinz’s reservations about empathy are unwarranted. What matters is not the nuances of our particular empathic communications, but rather the fact that we empathize with others—a point no reasonable person calls into question. Prinz denies that empathy lies at the foundation of morality, but because empathy leads to intersubjectivity, he does not realize how much he is giving up by denying this. That we empathize with others creates an intersubjectivity between individuals that influences morality. We might even argue that, in this regard, not only is empathy relevant to morality but that empathy makes morality relevant. It is because of our fundamental psychological connection to others, that the kinds of social connections morality establishes and promotes are deeply important and relevant to us.

Notes 1. The discrepancies between Hume’s usage of “sympathy” and contemporary usage of the word “sympathy”—that takes sympathy to be akin to benevolence or compassion (Darwall 1998; Hoffman 2000)—make a seamless dialogue between the two challenging. In what follows here, I’ll use “sympathy” to describe Hume’s own view and “empathy” to describe contemporary views of the mechanism or process through which one comes to feel as another person feels. As I’ll argue, I do think Humean sympathy is a species of empathy so considered. 2. Hume’s understanding of sympathy changes between the Treatise and the Enquiry Concerning Principles of Morals; my discussion is limited to the Treatise account of sympathy. 3. Vitz (2004) notes that in the Treatise Hume uses the word “sympathy” to refer to the mechanism by which we engage in sympathy, the process in which another’s sentiment is connected to our own, and the communicated sentiment itself—what Vitz describes as the “sentiment of sympathy” (2004: 264). My discussion here will focus primarily on the mechanism and process of sympathy—how we feel the feelings of another.

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4. For a helpful analysis of the process of sympathy and the forms it can take, see Postema (2005) 5. See Coplan and Goldie (2011) for an overview. 6. Hoffman argues that “the infant’s sense of continuity may break down any time the infant ‘shares’ distress with another, as in feeling empathic distress, because the kinesthetic bodily sensations on which the self’s continuity is based are mixed with the bodily sensations arising from the infant’s feeling empathically distressed (due to mimicry, conditioning, and association). The result is a temporary breakdown of the infant’s self boundaries, and a feeling of confusion about where his or her distress comes from” (2000: 69). Decety and Meltzoff’s research likewise highlight this phenomenon in newborns, although they argue that this “innate capacity to imitate” has a more positive direction, leading to “innate intersubjectivity” (2011: 61). I’ll say more about this role of empathy in my positive interpretation of Hume. 7. This research figures heavily into Goldman’s (2006) discussion of the simulation approach. 8. In places Hume does seem to struggle with the distinction between sympathy with the victim and sympathy with the agent. For example, in his discussion of pride he writes that the approval we feel when faced with an unduly proud person stems from “a sympathy with others, and from a reflection that such a character is highly displeasing and odious to everyone” (T 3.3.2.17; SBN 601–2). Here it seems that the effects of one’s character certainly influence our reflection on the tendencies of this character, suggesting that the former sympathetic act informs the latter. 9. This may even entail that Hume’s account is closer to Prinz’s positive account of moral judgments. Prinz describes his own view as: A (negative) moral judgment arises when an action elicits an emotional response in virtue of the fact that the judger has a sentiment of disapprobation towards actions of that kind. (Positive moral judgments may sometimes involve sentiments of approbation, which may dispose us to positive feelings, such as gratitude, pride in good conduct, or admiration.) (Prinz 2011b: 215) This view, as we are beginning to see, may turn out to be much closer to Hume’s view than is the constitution thesis. 10. I take this kind of sympathetic agreement, reached upon engaging in a specific sympathetic communication, to be different from the agreement derived from reflection on the common point of view that Hume discusses in T 3.3.1; SBN 574–82. The latter concerns agreement on our moral sentiments in the face of variations in our empathic capacities that inform those sentiments. The problem here, as Hume explains it, is that we sympathize more with those closer to us than we do with strangers or those in remote lands. This variation seems to stand in tension with moral sentiments that are not variable—there is a “variation of the sympathetic sentiment” without a “variation of the [moral] esteem” (T 3.3.1.15; SBN 581–2). Hume solves the tension by suggesting that “to prevent those continual contradictions, and arrive at a more stable judgment of things, we fix on some steady and general points of view; and always, in our thoughts place ourselves in them, whatever may be our present situation” (T 3.3.1.15; SBN 581–2). Fixing on the general point of view allows us to regulate or correct our empathic responses so that our moral sentiments are consistent as a practical matter (see Kauppinen (2014: 108–9) for helpful discussion of this point), whereas

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the empathic agreement developed through mirroring seems to be prompted more fundamentally by a natural tendency towards assimilation. 11. For discussion, see Besser-Jones (2006, 2010) and Taylor (2012, 2015). 12. For discussion, see Sayre-McCord (1994) and Korsgaard (1999). 13. For discussion, see Besser-Jones (2010).

References Batson, C. D. 1991. The Altruism Question. Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Batson, C. D. 2010. Altruism in Humans. New York: Oxford University Press. Besser-Jones, L. 2006. “The Role of Justice in Hume’s Theory of Psychological Development.” Hume Studies 32 (2): 253–76. Besser-Jones, L. 2010. “Hume on Pride-in-Virtue: A Reliable Motive?” Hume Studies 36 (2): 171–92. Bloom, P. 2016. Against Empathy: The Case for Rational Compassion. New York: Ecco Press. Buckner, Randy L., and Daniel C. Carroll. 2007. “Self-Projection and the Brain.” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 11 (2): 49–57. Coplan, A., and P. Goldie. 2011. “Introduction.” In Empathy: Philosophical and Psychological Perspectives, edited by A. Coplan and P. Goldie, IX–XLVII. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Darwall, Stephen. 1998. “Empathy, Sympathy, Care.” Philosophical Studies 89 (2): 261–82. Decety, Jean, and Andrew N. Meltzoff. 2011. “Empathy, Imitation, and the Social Brain.” Empathy: Philosophical and Psychological Perspectives: 58–81. Goldie, Peter. 2011. “Anti-Empathy.” In Empathy: Philosophical and Psychological Perspectives, edited by A. Coplan and P. Goldie, 302–17. New York: Oxford University Press. Goldman, Alvin I. 2006. Simulating Minds: The Philosophy, Psychology, and Neuroscience of Mindreading. New York: Oxford University Press. Hoffman, M. L. 2000. Empathy and Moral Development: Implications for Caring and Justice. New York: Cambridge University Press. Hume, David. 2000. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by D. F. Norton and M. J. Norton. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kauppinen, Antti. 2014. “Empathy, Emotion Regulation, and Moral Judgment.” In Empathy and Morality, edited by Heidi Maibom, 97–121. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Korsgaard, Christine M. 1999. “The General Point of View: Love and Moral Approval in Hume’s Ethics.” Hume Studies 25 (1): 3–41. May, Joshua. 2011. “Egoism, Empathy, and Self-Other Merging.” Southern Journal of Philosophy 49 (Supplement 1): 25–39. May, Joshua. 2017. “Empathy and Intersubjectivity.” In The Routledge Handbook of Philosophy of Empathy, edited by Heidi Maibom, 169–179. London: Routledge. Postema, Gerald J. 2005. “Cemented With Diseased Qualities.” Hume Studies 31 (2): 249–98. Prinz, Jesse. 2011a. “Against Empathy.” The Southern Journal of Philosophy 49 (Supplement 1): 214–33. Prinz, Jesse. 2011b. “Is Empathy Necessary for Morality?” Empathy: Philosophical and Psychological Perspectives: 211–29.

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Rizzolatti, Giacomo, Luciano Fadiga, Vittorio Gallese, and Leonardo Fogassi. 1996. “Premotor Cortex and the Recognition of Motor Actions.” Cognitive Brain Research 3 (2): 131–41. Sayre-McCord, G. 1994. “On Why Hume’s ‘General Point of View’ Isn’t Ideal— and Shouldn’t Be.” Social Philosophy and Policy 11 (1): 202–28. Slote, M. 2001. Morals From Motives. New York: Oxford University Press. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2012. “Hume on the Dignity of Pride.” Journal of Scottish Philosophy 10 (1): 29–49. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2015. Reflecting Subjects: Sympathy, Passion and Society in Hume’s Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vitz, Rico. 2004. “Sympathy and Benevolence in Hume’s Moral Psychology.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 42 (3): 261–75.

10 The Philosophical Power of Hume’s Notion of Love Christine Swanton

There is by now considerable excellent scholarship on Hume’s ethics. The time is ripe for Humean ethics to be an influential part of contemporary substantive moral theory in the way Kantian ethics has been for so long. This chapter is a modest move in that direction. In psychology a Humean turn is already well established. It may surprise some philosophers how moral development as studied by psychologists has been strongly influenced by philosophical paradigms. According to developmental psychologists Lapsley and Narvaez (2005: 19), in a section entitled the “Kohlberg Paradigm,” “moral psychological research, at least in its cognitive developmental form, has been handicapped by an allegiance to a set of philosophical assumptions that has effectively limited theoretical growth and empirical innovation.” Those assumptions constitute the Kohlberg paradigm, itself influenced by a Piagetian view of moral development. In this paradigm, according to Lapsley and Narvaez (2005: 22), “the study of moral development must begin with certain meta-ethical assumptions that define a moral judgment.” More recently it is often claimed by developmental and social psychologists that Hume’s sentimentalism and its meta-ethical assumptions rather than Kohlberg’s Kantianism is or should be the philosophical source of a correct view of our moral nature and the moral development of children (Haidt 2012; Bloom 2013; Carlo 2009; Carlo and Davis 2016; Thompson 2009; Eisenberg et al. 2014). For them, Humean conceptions of a moral sense rather than a Kantian notion of moral judgment should provide the meta-ethical underpinnings of moral psychological research. For example Carlo and Davis claim (2016: 262): “because many prosocial behaviors are primarily benevolence-based, we propose that sympathy predicts most forms of such behaviors.” In “compassion based altruistic moral actions .  .  . rather than being moved primarily by principles or values” individuals are “more moved by emotional or affective processes, namely, sympathy or compassion” (2016: 261). In philosophy as well as psychology the Humean turn has focused on the fundamental conditions of possessing what Hume calls a moral sense: benevolence and the mechanisms of sympathy. But as much contemporary

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study of Hume’s ethics has emphasized, Hume’s ethics comprises a great deal more than the conditions of the moral sense: the competent moral agent possesses a considerable number of passions in a virtuous form. This chapter focuses on one of those passions, love, and its associated virtues. Hume’s notion of love is not however one of the great sources of modern philosophical thought on love in the analytic tradition. Nor is that notion preeminent in psychology influenced by Hume and the sentimentalist tradition generally. Sentimentalism in both psychology and philosophy emphasizes Humean notions of sympathy,1 empathy, and benevolence (Slote 2010) but not a Humean notion of love. I shall argue that this neglect should be rectified: Hume’s notion of love in short has considerable philosophical power. I shall deploy Hume’s notion of love in a discussion of two problems. His distinctive analysis of love as a passion can be used to resolve a long-standing paradox of love. That deployment is the task of Sections 1 through 3. The second problem is that the mechanism of sympathy essential to the moral sense may be distorted and ethically defective. Section 4 shows how sympathy needs to be augmented by virtuous love of various kinds if these distortions are to be avoided.

1. Hume’s Notion of Love and a Paradox A major strength of Hume’s notion of love is that on his view, anticipating modern attachment theory, it is a bond to an individual rather than essentially a response to another’s value. As a result, I shall argue, it resolves a long-standing paradox of love (henceforth “the Paradox”). What is the Paradox? It is well described by Chappell thus: Either I love you for some reason, or I love you for no reason. If I love you for no reason, then obviously my love is unreasonable. If I love you for some reason, then my reason for loving you must cite some property that you have. But then what I love is not you, but that property. It follows that loving a person “for himself” is either impossible or unreasonable. (2002–3: 97) The Paradox thus poses a dilemma whose horns can be described thus: The Dilemma: (1) If you love for no reason, your love is unreasonable. (2) If you love for some reason (e.g., for the beloved’s beauty or virtue), you are not loving someone “for himself”; that is, for his sake.

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There are two requirements on love driving the Paradox, both of which I accept, but which according to the Dilemma cannot both be satisfied. Requirement (A): Love must be love for someone in particular, and for her sake. Requirement (B): Love must be assessable as reasonable or otherwise. I escape the dilemma by rejecting the first horn (1). Specifically I accept the antecedent that one loves for no reason, but I reject the implication that love is thus not assessable as reasonable. This rejection allows the possibility of accepting (2).2 Hume’s notion of love (T 2) which I outline presently provides a model for my rejection of (1). In Sections 2 and 3, I show how Requirements (A) and (B) can nonetheless be satisfied, again using Hume’s notion of love as a resource. I have claimed that Hume’s notion of love shows how the Paradox can be resolved. Let us turn then to Hume’s notion of love. For Hume love is an indefinable passion but nonetheless one which is “sufficiently known from our common feeling and experience” (T 2.2.1.1; SBN 329). Love for Hume comes in many different kinds, ranging from admiration of persons caused by pleasure in their valuable qualities, to love of one’s relations, to a “violent passion,” where for example love is mixed with the “appetite for generation” (T 2.2.11.3; SBN 395). Most importantly for Hume the various causes of love are to be distinguished from its object, which is an individual rather than items considered in the aggregate. As Hume claims at T 3.2.1.12 (SBN 481), “there is no such passion in human minds as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of personal qualities, of services, or of relation to oneself.” The object of love is not as such the cause of love. For Hume, love, unlike benevolence (desire for another’s good), is not a “direct” passion, for it is not to be understood as simply arising from “good or evil, pleasure or pain.” It cannot arise simply from the contemplation of goods or values such as virtue or beauty, for example. Rather beauty is a cause of love in virtue of it being an aspect of a person which is the object of love. The causes of love are agreeable properties associated with the object loved. What is the relation between cause and object of love? It is described by Hume as a double relation of cause and effect involving ideas and impressions (T 2.2.9.12; SBN 385). Hume describes the double relation thus. The ideas of the pleasing properties “may become lively and agreeable” and “the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view . . . to the person who possesses them” (T 2.2.5.5; SBN 359). This “carrying of view” in turn produces another, quite different, passion whose object is the person associated with the pleasing properties. That passion is love. The imagination can operate in this way on account of the person loved being a “related object” of the pleasurable ideas of the

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agreeable properties associated with that object. Love is thus a passion produced via the imagination whose object is the person loved rather than its cause, a pleasurable property of the person causing the love. Hence we have the ingredients for loving a person for herself. However this is not the end of the story. The production of a passion of love for an object has been explained, but as Hume notes the “fancy is by its very nature wavering and inconstant” (T 2.2.4.10; SBN 356). We need to explain how the imagination can sustain love as a more durable disposition, so that a person can form a bond or attachment to the object of love. Hume notes at least two ways a bond of love is created and reinforced by the workings of the imagination. First, this is achieved by an “easy sympathy” for the beloved reinforced by “relation, acquaintance, and resemblance” (T 2.2.4.7; SBN 354). Second, the imagination’s constant transitioning from cause to object of love and vice versa reinforces a bond, and renders the love relation stronger the less this process is interfered with by other relations such as rival lovers. Hume’s own example concerns a child’s love for her mother on her remarriage (T 2.2.4.9–11; SBN 355–6). Here the child’s love for its mother is weakened ceteris paribus by the marriage’s bringing in its wake a host of new relations.

2. Hume and Loving for No Reason We have arrived at a position where love can be seen as love of a particular individual for her own sake. Recall that according to the Paradox “If I love you for some reason, then my reason for loving you must cite some property that you have. But then what I love is not you, but that property.” You are not loving someone “for himself.” But for Hume you do not love for the reason that the beloved is virtuous say; rather her virtue is a cause of love by giving rise to pleasure, which in turn produces via the imagination an impassioned attachment to the beloved characterized by a new passion, love, for the beloved. This view, it seems, comes at a cost. It appears that love on this view is reasonless and we are thereby impaled on the first horn of dilemma. In this and the next section we show how it can both be the case that we do not love for a reason and yet the love be reasonable. The first horn of the Dilemma can be rejected while Requirement (B) is satisfied. We have seen that for Hume love is not a rational process where the causes of love are considered by the agent to be reasons for which she loves. It is not, in Frankfurt’s words, “the rationally determined outcome of even an implicit deliberative or evaluative process” (2006: 40–1). Loving commitments “are not based upon deliberation” and are not “responses to any commands of rationality” (Frankfurt 2004: 29). It is not the case that there is a fact which the lover assesses as favoring the love (along with other reasons for or against the love) and then after due deliberation, regards the object as suitable for love and then loves it

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accordingly. Rather the putative reason is a cause of love and that cause (a form of pleasure taken in a property associated with the beloved) triggers an imaginative process whose end result is love for that person. In that sense we do not love for a reason. We show in the next section how this view is compatible with the idea that love can be assessed as reasonable (or otherwise). Meanwhile let us see in more detail how Hume’s account of love as a passion of attachment allows us to resist the charge that if my reason for loving you is some property that you have then what I love is not you but that property. It seems that if my reason for loving you is some property P, I should lose my love if you cease to have P, love others that bear P ceteris paribus, and (a type of case discussed by Hume) should not love others simply by virtue of their relation to the person A bearing P, despite the fact that those related persons bear none of the valuable properties which caused the love of A. Consider now these three types of cases. (a) Love of a person may continue despite the fact that the original causes of the love of that person, such as her beauty, youth, vigor, intellect, or even virtue have faded or disappeared. How can it be that if love is caused by a man’s handsomeness the love does not cease when he loses his looks? The explanation is that on Hume’s view love is a bond or an attachment to a person which is reinforced by, e.g., contiguity. Love can stay focused on the same individual even when he has lost the attractive or valuable properties originally causing the love. Once the “carrying over” by the imagination of the pleasure arising from a pleasing property (handsomeness) of A to love of A as such, and the passion is sufficiently reinforced over time, a bond of love has been established. This bond is capable of supplanting the causal efficacy of handsomeness in maintaining love. (b) Love may be extended beyond its original object and not on the basis of the original cause. For example, I may love someone because of his good looks and charm, but as Hume suggests, through relations of contiguity, I may extend my love to his far less handsome and charming friends and relatives: When we either love or hate a person, the passions seldom continue within their first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous objects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or hate. (T 2.2.2.18; SBN 341) Thus for Hume, through the imagination, we can extend our love of persons to “contiguous” objects in time and space. (c) Love may be confined to its original object despite others exhibiting properties which caused that love to a similar or greater degree. Not only might there be imaginative extension of love in the manner suggested

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by (b), there may be an imaginative omission to extend. Love may be confined to the beautiful person now loved, and the imagination may (but alas not always) desist from extending itself in a way that results in love of the equally or more beautiful persons that surround the lover. The imagination allows bonds to develop, and these inhibit the “carrying over” of pleasures taken in pleasing properties to the pleasures of love of various other bearers of those properties. Once this has occurred, the imagination is not disposed to extend love, such as friendship and romantic love, to all persons exhibiting the agreeable feature or features causing the original love, for a bond of friendship or a romantic bond to an individual has been established. In this way, on Hume’s view, we can love someone “for whom they are.” Requirement (A) of love can be satisfied. However, can such a love be assessed as reasonable, even virtuous? Can Requirement (B) on love be satisfied on a Humean account of love?

3. Hume and Virtuous Love For Hume, we love for no reason, but are there nonetheless facts about the nature of the love such that it can be evaluated as reasonable, fitting, even virtuous? If the answer is yes, we escape the Dilemma. (1) is shown to be false. In this section, I deploy Hume’s notions of love and virtue to show how his account of love can satisfy Requirement (B). On this view, love can be assessed as virtuous or less than virtuous. It is assumed that if love is virtuous it is fitting and reasonable.3 There is, however, an obstacle to this rapprochement. Kohlberg’s work on moral development was designed in part to subvert moral relativism in psychology (Lapsley and Narvaez 2005: 19). For him, moral understanding made for objectivity in ethics, virtue did not (Lapsley and Narvaez 2005:  29). According to Blasi (2005: 95), however, Kohlberg’s Kantianism had the deleterious effect of opposing in a “totalitarian” way “moral understanding on the one side, and virtues and character, on the other.” In Humean psychology the Aristotelian insight that moral understanding is embedded in the well-ordered emotional dispositions comprising virtue in an embodied subject (Blasi 2005: 96) ensured this opposition does not exist. Here then is the big question: how can a causal process be judged as reasonable or virtuous? And can we use the resources of Hume to answer this question? In using these resources we must first appreciate that on the Humean account, when we ask whether love is virtuous we are not asking whether the object loved is worthy of the love in virtue of her merits or valuable properties, but whether the bond of love can be normatively assessed as one that is virtuous or otherwise. For this assessment we evaluate two things: the nature of the imaginative process which results in the bond and the bond of love itself. All through Book 2 of the Treatise Hume uses evaluative language to assess the nature of a loving bond, for example, in his discussion of grief

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and tenderness in friendship (Swanton 2015, 2016). The bond may be assessed as noble, as in a caregiver caring for a loved one even though that care is exhausting and shortens her life; it may be abusive or foolish or destructive; it may be virtuously loyal though causing considerable pain, such as the love of one’s criminal child. Hume is also clear that imaginative processes and resulting passions may be criticizable. Is the imagination “wavering and inconstant”? Is the imagination prone to excess? He was particularly hard on excess in imaginative fervor which of course can lead to various forms of foolishness in love of other persons and for Hume the love of God in worship (EMPL 73–79). In his essay “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion” (EMPL 3–8), Hume makes an interesting distinction between “delicacy of passion” which is distorting of both the moral sense and sense of beauty, and “delicacy of taste” which enhances those senses. The former consists of overheated passion which exaggerates the “lively enjoyments” as well as the “pungent sorrows” (EMPL 4), while the latter sharpens our critical faculties. In general terms, love can be normatively assessed as expressions of virtues or vices of love. We can justify claims that love caused in certain ways, and imaginatively extended, maintained, or confined in certain ways is reasonable, even noble. This is so if the love is rightly assessed as virtuous in ways appropriate to those causes. Relevant virtues are for example dispositions of being (appropriately) affectionate, attentive, tender, or intimate; excellence in friendship and parental love; goodwill and gratitude. Detailed analyses of the various virtues of love appropriate to the different types of love will give rich and nuanced accounts of the varied ways in which love may be reasonable, virtuous, noble, or admirable; or unreasonable, vicious, ignoble, or deplorable. If love can be understood as virtuous it can be understood as not merely caused, extended and so on, but in Hume’s language as “naturally fitted” (T 3.3.1.30; SBN 591). The natural fittingness of love is determined by the standards set by relevant virtues. For love to be virtuous, it must conform to the criteria of virtue. The criteria of virtue are constrained by Hume’s empiricism: in the case of his ethics causes of the activation of the moral sense. At the highest level of generality there are two such causes: Moral good and evil are certainly distinguish’d by our sentiments, not by reason: But these sentiments may arise either from the mere species or appearances of characters and passions, or from reflexions on their tendency to the happiness of mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is, that both these causes are intermix’d in our judgments of morals; after the same manner as they are in our decisions concerning most kinds of external beauty: Tho’ I am also of opinion, that reflexions on the tendencies of actions have by far the

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greatest influence, and determine all the great lines of our duty. There are, however, instances, in cases of less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our approbation. (T 3.3.1.27; SBN 589–90) On my view this suggests two broad criteria of virtue in Hume.4 (C1) A trait is a virtue if it tends to the happiness of mankind. (C2) A trait is a virtue if it has properties, not reducible to consequences for happiness, which make it naturally fitting that its species or appearance causes “this immediate taste or sentiment” which itself causes approbation. (Swanton 2015: 59) As I argue in Swanton (2015), the aspects of natural fittingness pertaining to love are at least characteristically non-consequentialist, as Hume hints in the following passages when discussing the virtue of attentiveness: ’Tis remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where a person is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is willing to sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own. (T 3.3.3.5; SBN 604–5) He goes on to make it clear that the merit in such virtue is not its tendency to the good of mankind: “Such delicacies have little influence on society: because they make us regard the greatest trifles: But they are the more engaging, the more minute the concern is, and a proof of the highest merit in any one, who is capable of them” (T 3.3.3.5; SBN 605). We can by no means give a full account here of what makes for virtuous love but some examples of imaginative defects making for less than virtuous love can be given. I have already mentioned inconstancy and excess. An overly judgmental nature which restricts the imagination, resulting in a failure to discover or appreciate good features of a person, may render them not lovable to a person in a collegial or affectionate way. Such doxastic and imaginative failure renders the causes of love not being operative on one. In another imaginative defect the biases of the imagination downplay or fail to recognize valuable or meritorious properties in disliked groups. In this kind of case appreciation is distorted or absent as a result of prejudice. Hence one might think that the “judicious” conversation of a Frenchman “cannot have solidity”; a prejudice arising on Hume’s view from rashly formulated “general rules” (T 1.3.13.7; SBN 146). By contrast we can praise particularly fine imaginative extensions of love, extensions which Hume might favor when he speaks of goodwill, compassion, and extensive sympathy. Goodwill is for Hume a virtue of

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love and on a Humean analysis could be construed as a form of agapeic or universal love for strangers (Swanton 2015). (I am not saying here that Hume does so construe it.) However consider the following objection to the idea of agapeic or universal love. On a Humean account such a love would be (causally) based on a resembling property such as humanity in which we take pleasure. But it might be argued, the resembling property of humanity is not a proper basis for love, since it is “speciesist.” The resembling property of humanity is not a property which could justify appropriately equal treatment which universal love might mandate. As Singer (1976: 151) puts it, what he calls the “Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests” should be based not on properties of humanity but on a relevant property such as capacity to suffer. In reply, it may be claimed that in postulating as a cause of universal love, Hume’s relational property of sympathy based on resemblance, we can concede that this cause can be imaginatively extended beyond human creatures. Resemblance as such does not entail resemblance by virtue of any specific “speciesist” property such as humanity. There need be no fixed or determinate resembling property such as humanity which explains the fittingness of universal love. Recall that for Hume love is not made reasonable by there being a property such as humanity which provides the, or a, reason for which we love. Rather, on the Humean view canvassed, the property of humanity is a pleasing property (pleasing because a resembling property) which may trigger the imaginative process resulting in an agapeic bond of love. (Again it is not suggested that Hume himself makes this move; rather his notion of love can be used as a resource for such a view.) But what sorts of resembling properties trigger the causal process need not be confined to humanity. One could indeed argue that virtues of goodwill and compassion are exhibited in a higher or superior form if the bounds of resembling properties, in which we sympathize or take pleasure, are appropriately extended. For example, in a process of developing the moral imagination, we may extend our sympathies from humans to animals, from endearing animals to those perceived as scary or ugly such as weta, spiders, rats, snakes, and so on.5 The kind of extension appropriate for agapeic or universal love is not however appropriate for all forms of love. A tendency to extend indefinitely the boundaries of friendship through for example shared humanity would be regarded as a failure in the virtue of friendship. By contrast, in cases where a love of intimacy is maintained despite the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease, that particular love may be virtuous to the point of being noble, as in the case of Bayley’s continued love for Iris Murdoch (Bayley 1998). Notice finally that failure to allow oneself to be open to certain sorts of properties in which we can take pleasure and which could thereby result in appropriate bonds to strangers, animals, and the like may be due to a range of epistemic and other vices for Hume. We may be ignorant of

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the properties of animals; we may be indifferent, closing off possibilities of empathy; we may possess vices of cruelty or callousness. All of these defects close off possibilities of love. In short, love can be assessed as reasonable, indeed virtuous, even if we love for no reason.

4. The Need to Augment Sympathy With Virtuous Love I have shown the philosophical power of Hume’s notion of love in relation to the paradox of love as described by Chappell. Hume’s notion of love should occupy a central place in Humean moral theory for a further reason. Our capacity for sympathy—a prime condition of the moral sense—can be distorted, for the way our sympathy operates is mediated by the passions. In fact, Hume goes as far as to say that “every immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of the passions” (T 3.2.2.8; SBN 488). I shall focus on a small but important fraction of these distortions, those produced by some defects of love. First, a brief word on the moral sense.6 For Hume the moral sense plays a foundational role in the metaphysics of ethics (Swanton 2015; Cohon 2008). For the world of ethics to be intelligible as an ethical world containing properties of persons understandable as virtue and vice, Hume claims, a “moral sense” is needed; a sense of virtue and vice. “To have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a character” (T 3.1.2.3; SBN 471). The personal properties of virtue and vice themselves are powers to affect that sense. If the moral sense is to be a moral sense, those possessing it must have certain sensibilities: notably the “original” passions of benevolence and self-love, and the mechanism of sympathy. What is most important in Hume’s conception of the moral sense is that for him it is necessary for the very intelligibility and thereby the existence of ethics. It is not however as such necessarily authoritative. Not all possessing a moral sense are “true judges”: they may not have epistemic credentials of various kinds. For a person to have an authoritative moral sense and to have a true sense of virtue—for the basic “moral sense” possessed by young children to be properly developed—a great deal more is required. Not only must the basic constituents of the moral sense be what Hume calls “naturally fitting,” these constituents need to be supplemented by a considerable number of well-ordered non-defective passions if the basic mechanism of sympathy is not to be distorted and lead to vice. Unfortunately, as Hume recognizes, sympathy can be distorted by a variety of features including hatred inspired by prejudice; what Hume calls an “abject” sense of self (EPM 252–4n4); and a failure to correct for inappropriate partiality, since sympathy operates at its strongest within familiar networks of relationships. On my view, in order to function properly the mechanisms of sympathy need to exist within an emotional framework of virtuous love of various kinds, including familial, collegial,

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agapeic, and the love of friendship. Most importantly, distortions of sympathy may result from distortions of self-love, and I shall concentrate on some of those distortions. First, though, we must note a prior problem. How can it be the case that Humean sympathy can combine with benevolence or compassion at all, let alone love? On Hume’s view the mechanism of sympathy operates as follows. Having sensed the “external signs” of, for example, another’s pain (OP), we form an idea of OP by transferring the vivacity of one’s sense of self via the relations of causation, contiguity, and resemblance to another via the imagination. These associative relations permit the conversion of the idea of OP into a passion of pain felt by oneself (SP) (the subject’s pain, sympathetically transmitted). On Hume’s optimistic picture SP associates with compassion despite the fact that pain is associated with hatred. This is a problem for Hume for how can compassion occur at all? What causes the pains transmitted by the sight of another’s pain to be not connected with the hatred of that person is benevolence (desire for another’s good). Given that I take an empathetically benevolent interest in a person, I can take pleasure in the mitigation of his pain. Hume describes the relationship between the passions of aversion and those of benevolence thus: When the present misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is not confin’d merely to its immediate object, but diffuses its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person . . . . By means of this lively notion I am interested in them; take part with them; and feel a sympathetic motion in my breast. (T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386) Our happiness or misery at the happiness or misery of another person then is mediated by the nature of our interest in that person, and that in turn determines the “bent or tendency” of a passion. Assuming the interest is benevolent, compassion will ensue. If it is not, as was the case with many witnessing gruesome executions in the Middle Ages, the misery of the criminal may produce a ghoulish pleasure. But now what happens when the “bent or tendency” of a sympathetic benevolently produced passion is distorted in various ways? I begin with the distortions of sympathy caused by self-contempt. Self-contempt is a lack of virtuous pride or self-love. For Hume pride as a passion is an indirect passion having the same type of causal etiology as love of other. In pride, our pleasures in properties of ourselves such as our virtue or achievements are carried over in a transformative way through an imaginative process to the person who possesses them. This “carrying of view” produces a different passion whose object is the person associated with the pleasing properties. That passion is pride. Where such pride is reinforced into a habit or disposition, and is virtuous rather than being for

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example as Hume puts it “overweening,” we can call it a virtue: virtuous pride or self-love.7 How can lack of self-love distort sympathy? In her 2015 book Taylor claims: Hume argues that the mind associates the passions that resemble each other in virtue of their affective quality, that is, whether they are experienced as pleasurable or painful. For example, when I am affected by a painful passion such as disappointment, the mind naturally moves to grief, and from grief to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and so on, “till the whole circle” of resembling passions “be compleated” (T 2.1.4.3) . . . .8 “’Tis evident, then,” Hume concludes, “there is an attraction or association among impressions, as well as among ideas” (T 2.1.4.3). (2015: 16) The indirect passions of pride/humility and love/hate are psychologically connected. If disappointment leads to humility as an enduring trait then our attitude to others is poisoned by enduring and even deep seated resentment which in turn leads to patterns of envy and even malice. At any rate where this occurs, our mechanisms of sympathy are biased as a matter of character by a lack of charity: we interpret the others’ “external signs,” to use Hume’s words, in a way which disfavors us. That in turn leads to more disappointment and more resentment. Let us see how this problem applies to sympathy with another’s suffering. As Taylor claims, Hume notes the secondary causes of pride; its reinforcement by social approval. These causes reinforce the pleasure and pride produced by the primary causes, things such as mental qualities, beauty, or possessions. In sympathizing with others’ favorable sentiments of her, the proud person sustains her pleasure, reinforces her pride, and keeps it from dissipating. (Taylor 2015: 39) Where such reinforcement is lacking, a related form of distortion founded in basic disappointment may occur in the form of what is now described as pathological altruism (Oakley et al. 2012). Here compensatory mechanisms reinforced by the artifices of religion, education, and upbringing may be expressed in high levels of altruism, but as Nietzsche points out, this altruism is tainted by self-contempt (Swanton 2015). The sympathetic transmission of emotion, that is from “external signs” of suffering, to the idea of suffering, to the passion of pity, is here distorted and harmful. The imaginative transition of the idea of suffering to the passion of pity or compassion is a transition distorted by envy, malice, resentment, and as Nietzsche says, subtle desire for revenge.

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Let us turn to some specific aspects of the distortion of sympathy by a lack of virtuous self-love. (a) Defects in one’s sense of self. For Hume the vivacity of one’s sense of self which is “always intimately present to us” (T 2.1.11.8; SBN 320; see also T 2.1.11.4; SBN 317) is necessary for sympathetic transmission. However for him one’s sense of self can be distorted by “abject” self-contempt. For example one is regularly disappointed, and feels impotent. One may think that Hume’s claim that the sense of self is “always intimately present to us” is at odds with earlier skeptical claims about the self. His attacks on the self there are focused on the Cartesian ego-self as a mental substance of “perfect identity and simplicity,” and of which we have no idea “after the manner it is here explain’d” (T 1.4.6.2; SBN 251). This notion of self is not one’s sense of self which is merely our consciousness that gives us “so lively a conception of our own person” (T 2.1.11.4; SBN 317). That self is comprised of those “thoughts, actions and sensations” of which “we are intimately conscious” (T 2.2.1.2; SBN 329). The sense of self in the legitimate sense can comprise a consciousness of thoughts, actions, sensations, and passions that may or may not be distorted by self-contempt. (b) Distortion of the imaginative process by which the idea of another’s suffering is converted into the sympathetic pain. Distortion of this imaginative process is a second aspect of the distortion of sympathy by a lack of virtuous self-love. For example one is disappointed, feels impotent, and as Taylor notes this leads to related passions of envy, malice, etc. These passions in turn permeate and influence the imaginative process of sympathy and the images it produces. As Hume claims, in the process of conversion, the resulting “passions arise in conformity to the images we form of them” (T 2.1.11.8; SBN 319). Disappointment and an abject sense of self are characteristically associated with excessive sensitivity to the contempt of others, resulting in withdrawal from those others. Any sympathetic pain arising from images formed (of, e.g., the persons suffering as hostile) may be faint, since as Hume argues sympathy is biased towards those with whom we are most strongly related. Hume describes the phenomenon of withdrawal in general terms thus: [T]he uneasiness of being contemn’d depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of objects to ourselves; since we are most uneasy under the contempt of persons, who are both related to us by blood, and contiguous in place. Hence we seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating these relations. (T 2.1.11.15; SBN 322)

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Here Hume is describing the phenomenon of “unease” and withdrawal as a natural phenomenon, but as is well known where there is serious self-contempt the “unease” and resulting tendencies to withdraw may be extreme and pathological. (c) Distortion of the prosocial emotions resulting from distortion in the mechanism of sympathy. Distortion of the prosocial emotions is a third aspect of the distortion of sympathy. There are a number of causes of such distortion. For example, where the imagination is distorted through a problematic sense of self, the resulting pity or compassion brought about as Hume describes at T 2.2.9.14 (SBN 386, quoted earlier) is pathological in ways described by notably Nietzsche. Here the pains of another are converted via sympathy into pains in oneself, but the prosocial passions which ensue, notably compassion, are tainted by the disappointments and sense of impotence characterizing one’s sense of self. These passions, faint and calm though they may be, are associated with, mixed with, related passions such as envy, malice, fear of contempt resulting in withdrawal, and so on. In modern psychology, where we recognize the large role played by the unconscious, these passions may not be literally felt, but they may be distorting all the same. A more direct form of distorted sympathy need not route through self-contempt. The phenomenon of implicit bias may simply be due to hate in a calm version, itself due to prejudice based on false beliefs or over-generalization as Hume points out. These, on Hume’s picture, cause emotional construals of the objects of prejudice, construals affected by contempt, anger, fear, disgust, malice, and so forth. In the case of implicit bias, the passions may become faint, but yet the negative emotional construals may survive the loss (or imagined loss) of the prejudiced beliefs which originally distorted the imaginative processes of conversion of ideas to sympathetic passions. What needs to happen is in Hume’s terms a re-education of the imagination where resemblance rather than difference becomes salient, a resemblance that causes pleasure in fellow-humanity. The sympathetic transmission of the other’s pain can then be associated with forms of love rather than hate, hostility, and anger: forms of love ranging from (virtuous) friendship love to parental love to the bonds of agapeic universal love of stranger as discussed previously. According to Emde (2016: 83), another problem that might derail the sympathetic process, and which needs much more research, is the weakening of human bonds through what he (referencing Narvaez) calls “relational poverty” “occurring more often now, not only in circumstances of identified parental neglect but more pervasively in the midst of children

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and parents spending more time with screens and texting instead of in meaningful face-to-face interactions.” In general we may take inspiration from Hume who not only anticipates work on prosocial behavior focusing on Humean sympathy, but also attachment theory stressing the importance of emotional availability through bonds of (virtuous) love. Without such love, as Emde (2016: 78) claims, a nascent moral sense understood as empathic capacity can be distorted by a “dark side”: “retribution . . . revenge, conflict, violence” (a dark side of reciprocity) “knowing how to hurt others, demonizing the outgroup, Schadenfreude, deception . . . bias, prejudice, self-righteousness” (the dark side of empathic valuation of others).

5. Conclusion Hume’s ethical theory in both normative ethics and psychology has largely focused on features of Hume’s “moral sense”—benevolence and Humean sympathy. I have suggested that this focus should be expanded to Hume’s distinctive notion of love, a passion which for Hume is causally related to benevolence but importantly distinct from it. In this chapter, I have concentrated on two issues which Hume’s notion of love can be deployed to resolve—the Paradox of love and distortions of sympathy which inhibit a proper working of the moral sense. Hume’s notion of virtuous love as a virtuous bond of emotional attachment generated by the causal mechanisms of the imagination and virtuous pride as (virtuous) attachment to self, allows sympathy and indeed the benevolence arising from sympathy (where it exists), to be uncontaminated by self-contempt, hate, anger, malice, and so forth. At the same time it resolves the Paradox of love. In general Hume’s notion of love enriches the resources of sentimentalist psychology and moral philosophy in general.9

Notes 1. I shall not in this chapter propose an analysis of the complex notion of sympathy in Hume. I agree with Vitz (2016: 313–14) that sympathy in Hume has three different aspects. It is variously seen as (1) a psychological mechanism for receiving by communication the sentiments of others; (2) a psychological process of sympathetic conversion of sentiments (ideas and impressions), and (3) the product of this conversion (the sentiment of sympathy). 2. Recently there have been attempts to show that one can love for a reason and yet love someone in particular (for example you love X for the fineness of the relationship (Kolodny 2003) or for identities still being created that include your own (Bagley 2015)). But arguably, even if it is true that loving X for these particular reasons is consistent with loving a particular person, loving someone for these particular reasons is not loving her for her own sake. However, since my strategy is to resolve the paradox by rejecting (1), I shall not discuss this approach further. 3. This assumption does not entail the view that virtue is (always) a form of responsiveness to reasons. Indeed this is a view I reject since (on my view)

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virtuous love, for example, is a form of responsiveness to an individual, and not on the basis of reasons. For more on the criteria of virtue and their relation to Hume’s famous fourway taxonomy or “criteria” of virtue, see Swanton (2015). For an empirically based discussion of such extension, see Snow (2010). I cannot within the confines of this chapter provide an extensive account or defend it. For a fuller account and defense, see Swanton (2015). Hume is clear that self-love may not be virtuous (T 3.2.1.10; SBN 480). See also T 2.2.9.2 (SBN 381), “One impression may be related to another, not only when their sensations are resembling . . . but also when their impulses are similar and correspondent.” I am grateful to the editors of this volume for their detailed and helpful comments on a previous draft of this chapter.

References Bagley, Benjamin. 2015. “Loving Someone in Particular.” Ethics 125 (2) (January): 477–507. Bayley, John. 1998. Iris: A Memoir of Iris Murdoch. London: Duckworth. Blasi, Augusto. 2005. “Moral Character: A Psychological Approach.” In Character Psychology and Character Education, edited by Daniel K. Lapsley and F. Clark Power, 67–100. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Bloom, Paul. 2013. Just Babies: The Origins of Good and Evil. New York: Crown Publishers. Carlo, Gustavo, and Alexandra N. Davis. 2016. “Benevolence in a Justice-Based World: The Power of Sentiments (and Reasoning) in Predicting Prosocial Behaviors.” In Developing the Virtues: Integrating Perspectives, edited by Julia Annas, Darcia Narvaez, and Nancy E. Snow, 255–72. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carlo, Gustavo et al. 2009. “The Elusive Altruist: The Psychological Study of the Altruistic Personality.” In Personality, Identity, and Character: Explorations in Moral Psychology, edited by Darcia Narvaez and Daniel K. Lapsley, 271–94. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chappell, Timothy. 2002–3. “Absolutes and Particulars.” In Modern Moral Philosophy (Royal Institute of Philosophy Lecture Series 2002–3), edited by Anthony O’Hear, 95–118. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cohon, Rachel. 2008. Hume’s Morality: Feeling and Fabrication. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eisenberg, Nancy, Tracy L. Spinrad, and Zoe E. Taylor. 2014. “Sympathy.” In The Handbook of Virtue Ethics, edited by Stan van Hooft, 409–17. Durham: Acumen. Emde, Robert N. 2016. “From a Baby Smiling: Reflections on Virtues in Development.” In Developing the Virtues: Integrating Perspectives, edited by Julia Annas, Darcia Narvaez, and Nancy E. Snow, 69–94. New York: Oxford University Press. Frankfurt, Harry. 2004. The Reasons of Love. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Frankfurt, Harry. 2006. Taking Ourselves Seriously and Getting It Right. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Haidt, Jonathan. 2012. The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided by Politics and Religion. London: Penguin Books.

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Hume, David. 1968. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 1975. Enquiries Concerning Human Understanding and Concerning the Principles of Morals, 3rd edition, edited by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 1987a. “Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion.” In Essays Moral Political and Literary, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 3–8. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Hume, David. 1987b. “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm.” In Essays Moral Political and Literary, edited by Eugene F. Miller, 73–9. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Kolodny, Niko. 2003. “Love as Valuing a Relationship.” Philosophical Review 112: 135–89. Lapsley, Daniel K., and Narvaez Darcia. 2005. “Moral Psychology at the Crossroads.” In Character Psychology and Character Education, edited by Daniel K. Lapsley and F. Clark Power, 18–35. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Midgley, Mary. 1983. Animals and Why They Matter. Dexter, MI: ThomsonShore Inc. Oakley, Barbara, Ariel Knafo, Guruprasad Madhavan, and David Sloan Wilson. 2012. Pathological Altruism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Shermer, Michael. 2014. “The Genesis of Justice.” Scientific American 310 (5): 65. Singer, Peter. 1976. “All Animals Are Equal.” In Animals, Rights and Human Obligations, edited by T. Regan and P. Singer, 148–62. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Slote, Michael. 2010. Moral Sentimentalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Snow, Nancy E. 2010. Virtue as Social Intelligence: An Empirically Grounded Theory. New York: Routledge. Swanton, Christine. 2015. The Virtue Ethics of Hume and Nietzsche. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Swanton, Christine. 2016. “Hume and Virtue Ethics.” In The Oxford Handbook of Hume, edited by Paul Russell. New York: Oxford University Press. Taylor, Jacqueline. 2015. Reflecting Subjects: Passion Sympathy and Society in Hume’s Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thompson, Ross A. 2009. “Early Foundations: Conscience and the Development of Moral Character.” In Personality, Identity, and Character: Explorations in Moral Psychology, edited by Darcia Narvaez and Daniel K. Lapsley, 159–84. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vitz, Rico. 2016. “The Nature and Function of Sympathy in Hume’s Philosophy.” In The Oxford Handbook of Hume, edited by Paul Russell, 312–32. New York: Oxford University Press.

11 Hume on the Methods and Limits of the Science of Human Nature Saul Traiger

Late in the 19th century, psychologists sought to investigate the human mind by the use of introspective techniques. The ground-breaking work in psychophysics by Weber, Fechner, and Wundt combined the systematic presentation of stimuli with limited behavioral responses to discover lawlike regularities between sensory responses and physical stimuli. Attempts to expand the use of the introspective method followed with the work of Titchner and others, using subjects trained to accurately describe their sensations. Problems and limitations with this approach led Watson and the behaviorists in the early part of the 20th century to largely abandon cognition and emotion as proper subjects of scientific psychology. However, by mid-century, the study of cognition returned, made possible by new computational techniques for modeling cognitive processes. The mental processes studied by artificial intelligence and cognitive psychology were typically limited to reasoning, problem solving, knowledge representation, language, inference, and memory. In the last few decades there has been a new appreciation of the influence of the emotions in cognition, and of the influence of cognition on emotions, due in part to the advent of techniques which have enabled researchers to map and monitor brain activity during cognitive tasks and in response to affect positive, affect negative, and affect neutral stimuli.1 The recent history of cognitive science is thus a history of the changing deployment of methods of observation, methods which attempt to bring different aspects of the mind into focus. But the scientific study of the mind began well before the 19th century. In the first half of 18th century David Hume began A Treatise of Human Nature by setting out a plan to remedy “the present imperfect condition of the sciences,” a condition he describes as the result of taking up metaphysical questions indiscriminately and failing to set such questions within their proper “branch of science” (T Intro.2). While many commentators have attempted to explain the nature and significance of Hume’s plan, too often Hume is narrowly characterized as an empiricist and advocate of Locke’s “new way of ideas,” promising to reduce our understanding of human nature to the impressions and ideas discoverable by introspection.2 This interpretation

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of Hume’s method is less convincing when we look beyond Book 1 of the Treatise that is, where Hume’s plan for a science of human nature encompasses both reasoning and affect. Hume finds these two aspects of the mind working at times in opposition, but at other times in cooperation, and his attempt to provide a science of human nature that is true both to our cognitive and affective features anticipates recent trends in the cognitive and brain sciences. By comparing Hume’s science and contemporary cognitive science we can see how the attempt to explain both reason and affect supports a methodological shift from introspection to the observation of the human body, other animals, other persons, and society. It has long been noted that Hume makes occasional use of the third person perspective. Kemp Smith (1941) argued that Hume’s method relies heavily on the common-sense or “vulgar” presupposition of the existence of persons, other animals, and society, challenging the centrality of the role of introspection. Other interpreters, however, have down-played the role of common sense and have maintained that Hume’s science is grounded by self-observation of impressions and ideas.3 Broughton (1992) set out to show that Hume’s use of third person evidence was not simply an appeal to common sense, but was rather an important component of the methodology of Book 1 of the Treatise, “Of the Understanding.” This chapter builds on Broughton’s approach by looking closely at the role of third person observation in Hume’s treatment of the will and the interplay of affect and cognition in Book 2, “Of the Passions.” In the final section of this chapter, we will return to Book 1, to provide additional support for the importance of third person observation, thereby bringing Hume’s science of human nature in closer alignment with the methodology of contemporary cognitive science.4

1. Hume’s Methodology in the Treatise, Book 1 In setting out a science of human nature, Hume’s first order of business is to describe the branches of science. He adumbrates seven branches, under two categories, the natural sciences, and the moral sciences (T Intro.4). The three branches of natural science are mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural religion. The four branches of moral science are logic, morals, criticism, and politics (T Intro.5). The remedy Hume proposes for what he takes to be the regrettable condition of the sciences is not targeted at the natural sciences, though he does not rule out their improvement; rather it is given in the subtitle of the Treatise: “being an attempt to introduce the experimental method of reasoning into moral subjects” (emphasis added). The advertisement for the first two volumes announces that the third volume will treat the subjects of “Morals, Politics, and Criticism.” The first two volumes, covering the understanding and the passions, fall within the branch of logic, one of the four branches of the moral sciences.

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The classificatory scheme for the sciences by itself tells us little about Hume’s project to improve the sciences. To make sense of it we need to know how Hume conceives of the moral sciences, both individually, and in relation to each other. Further, we need to understand how Hume conceives of the methods of science, the proper application of those methods, and their limits. That will set us up for seeing the way Hume’s science relates to recent attempts to understand the interplay of cognition and affect. Hume emphasizes method, applications, and limits, and the interconnection of these three aspects of science at the very start of the Treatise. The method is the experimental method, the application of observation and experience of our objects of study in a manner that is “careful and exact” (T Intro.8). Our explanations, based on these observations, will be causal explanations, “explaining all effects from the simplest and fewest causes” (T Intro.8). The method is familiar from natural philosophy. What is new is the “application of the method to moral subjects” (T Intro.7). But what is really groundbreaking, Hume thinks, is not simply the application of the experimental method to new domains, but the realization that moral science, the science of man, is the vantage point from which to engage all scientific questions, including those of natural philosophy. As he puts it, it is the new foundation for “a compleat system of the sciences” (T Intro.7). While Hume calls for a charge to “march up directly to the capital or center of these sciences,” he still pauses to emphasize the third aspect, the limitations of scientific inquiry (T Intro.6). When will we know that inquiry has come to an end, that we have reached the limits of scientific inquiry? Hume’s answer is that inquiry will come to an end when we arrive at the simplest and fewest causes. At that point we have to recognize “the impossibility of making any farther progress” (T Intro.9); there is nothing farther to observe and explain. Our realization of the impossibility of satisfying the desire for further explanation extinguishes that very desire. How will we know that we are appealing to the simplest and fewest causes? What grounds does Hume have for declaring the explanation of “ultimate principles” impossible (T Intro.10) or perhaps what amounts to the same thing, what grounds are there for declaring that we have reached “ultimate principles”? To answer this question, we need to understand what exactly Hume takes to be the observations and experiments that serve as the foundation for his science of the understanding and the passions. Fortunately, Hume faced the question of the limitations of scientific inquiry directly. We have the benefit of passages in the Treatise where Hume issues disclaimers, claims about what cannot be claimed or asserted about human nature, direct claims about the limitations of the methods of investigation Hume believes are available to the scientist of human

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nature. A close look at the character of the Book 1 and Book 2 disclaimers reveals that they are markedly different. One possible explanation for the difference is that the two domains, the understanding and the passions, seem to call for different kinds of observations. When investigating the understanding, Hume’s data rely heavily on self-observation. When he turns to the passions, in contrast, the observational data are accessed by observations of the circumstances and behavior of other persons. The difference in the kinds of observations made in these two realms is reflected in what Hume says about the limitations of the science of human nature. Distinguishing and separating these two forms of observation, however, introduces new problems: How can Hume reconcile the two kinds of observation? Is self-reflection on our Lockean ideas our primary path of access, while the observation of external objects, persons, and societies is secondary? Is there any hope for a unified characterization of the method of observation, given the differences in the kinds of things the scientist of human nature observes?5 We will return to these questions in Section 3. In issuing the Book 1 disclaimers, Hume appeals to introspection as the stopping place in inquiry. The Book 2 disclaimer, in contrast, is based on observations of the diversity among external objects, persons, and their dispositions in society. Those observations lead to a stopping place in our ability to completely understand and account for causes and effects in the realm of the passions and the will. Although the Book 2 passage describes our inability to account for our observation of others, Hume also argues that we cannot complete the science of human nature using introspection alone, in part because introspection often gives us incorrect information. Returning to Book 1, we will find that Hume was already aware of the problem of relying on self-observation alone there, and that he in fact makes extensive use of the observation of others well before embarking on the passions in Book 2. Finally, appreciating the centrality of otherobservation in Book 1 suggests a resolution of the limitation expressed in the Book 2 disclaimer. Hume anticipates and would have welcomed many of the observational methods employed in contemporary cognitive science. The question of the limitations of inquiry, first introduced in the Introduction to the Treatise, is raised again in the very first sections of Part I, as soon as Hume introduces basic elements of the faculty of the imagination, impressions and ideas, and his foundational principles, the principles of association. Hume begins by distinguishing impressions, “those perceptions, which enter with most force and violence” from ideas, “the faint images of these in thinking and reasoning” (T 1.1.1.1). He introduces the three natural relations, resemblance, contiguity, and cause and effect, as “principles of union or cohesion among our simple ideas,” and explains why he will not investigate the causes of these three principles. Searching for the causes of the principles of association would lead a

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philosopher “into obscure and uncertain speculations.” The causes “are mostly unknown, and must be resolv’d into original qualities of human nature” (T 1.1.4.6). Notice that Hume does not say the causes are all unknown, or that the discovery of causes is impossible. The principles themselves are “original.”6 Hume disclaims our ability to fully account for the causes of the principles of association. Hume issues a second disclaimer about the causes of our impressions of sensation in a widely cited passage in Book 1, part 3: As to those impressions, which arise from the senses, their ultimate cause is, in my opinion, perfectly inexplicable by human reason, and ’twill always be impossible to decide with certainty, whether they arise immediately from the object, or are produc’d by the creative power of the mind, or are deriv’d from the author of our being. Nor is such a question any way material to our present purpose. We may draw inferences from the coherence of our perceptions, whether they be true or false; whether they represent nature justly, or be mere illusions of the senses. (T 1.3.5.2) In this complex and important passage Hume both denies that we can determine “with certainty” the causes of our impressions of sense and asserts that no such determination is required to carry out the science of human nature. If what we observe are our perceptions, and, more importantly, if our causal inferences are inferences from constantly conjoined perceptions and a present impression, then the inferences to causes and effects cannot make reference to something other than perceptions. We cannot infer non-perceptions, such as God or external objects, as causes of perceptions. This passage can be read as placing a limitation on causal inference: We can only infer perceptions, that is, lively ideas, from our observations, our constant conjunctions and present impressions. But that is too broad a brush, since it would prevent us not only from inferring ultimate causes of our impressions, but it would also disallow the causes and effects Hume readily countenances, those among persons and objects cited in support of the doctrine of necessity. Hume’s skepticism here is with establishing ultimate causes, i.e. causes that operate outside the regular domains of science and ordinary life.7 But what’s the difference? Why should we be able to make inferences about persons and physical things, which are not perceptions, but not infer ultimate causes? One difference is that Hume provides accounts of the objects of ordinary life and science, physical objects and persons, in terms of our perceptions (T 1.4), while he cannot provide such an account of ultimate causes. Another is the fact that were we to attempt inferences to ultimate causes, we could never attain the certainty they require. As non-perceptions,

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they cannot be established through uniform experience, and Hume has already established that causes and effects are not conclusions of demonstrative reasoning.8 It is tempting to read this second disclaimer as limiting the science of human nature to the study of our perceptions. This reading is supported by Hume’s early remark: “The examination of our sensations belongs more to anatomists and natural philosophers than to moral; and therefore shall not at present be enter’d upon” (T 1.1.3.2). Hume seems to be waving off the relevance of evidence from the examination of the brain and body, and their relation to external objects. If we were to read Hume this way, his science of human nature could hardly be said to have set the stage for contemporary cognitive science.9 It will be argued, however, that a cognitive science friendly interpretation takes shape once we include Hume’s treatment of the passions in his science. That said, the widely held view of the methodology of Book 1 is one in which Hume is at pains to show that our observations of external objects and persons ultimately depends on our ability to form ideas of them through perceptions and the associative relations among them, via our immediate reflective access. This is supported by a third disclaimer, in “Of Personal Identity,” where Hume reflects on the content of his mind, finding only perceptions of “pain and pleasure, grief and joy,” but no simple and enduring impression of the self (T 1.4.6.2). Here, as in the two disclaimers we have just reviewed, Hume establishes limitations by the use of both reflection on the contents of his mind and some conceptual analysis. In each case, however, observation of the content of conscious constrains the science of human nature. A failure to appreciate these limits on inquiry leads to bad metaphysics. This flaw exhibited in the Cartesian account of necessary connection, Hume thinks, where a prior commitment to ultimate causes leads to a misguided and desperate search (T 1.3.14.7ff.). Hume launches a critical assessment of his own view in the final section of Book 1, citing the failure to arrive at ultimate principles. While he had earlier warned against the presumption that ultimate principles can be provided, in “Conclusion of this Book” Hume laments: When we trace up the human understanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us into such sentiments, as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains and industry, and to discourage us from future enquiries. (T 1.4.7.5) That is because these so-called first principles, the principles of experience and habit, are principles of the imagination, which, disappointingly, are “merely in ourselves” rather than in “the external object,” and worse, lead us both to beliefs about external objects and to the result that such beliefs are really “illusions of the imagination” (T 1.4.7.6). Hume says we confront a “dangerous dilemma” when trying to understand how the

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ultimate principles can guide human action. We are faced with a choice between the unregulated imagination with its flights of fancy, or the regular operation of the imagination, the understanding. But neither will do. The mere imagination is a “false reason,” and the understanding, Hume has shown, “subverts itself” when, via reflection, it attempts to ground its own inferences (T 1.4.1). A main source of Hume’s difficulty as he closes out his account of the understanding in the final section of Book 1 is the solitary nature of his inquiry. On the one hand it has enabled him to trace the complex operations of the understanding to perceptions, whose nature can be examined by reflection on his own consciousness, and principles of association, which are few in number and are also largely accessible to self-observation. On the other hand, that same approach to inquiry has required that he “strive against the current of nature,” and “seclude himself from the commerce and society of men,” leaving him without “any tolerable prospect of arriving by its means at truth and certainty” (T 1.4.7.10). He is alone in a “leaky weather-beaten vessel” (T 1.4.7.2), unsure where he is or what he is (T 1.4.7.8). The dilemma between a false reason and no reason is dangerous because what is needed is a faculty that can guide human action when we are out at sea, that is, outside the solitary confines of the study, amidst external objects and society. At the cusp of Books 2 and 3, the question of the appropriate methods for pursuing the science of human nature gains new urgency. If the subject matter of that science includes our socially situated nature, the conclusions of Book 1 suggest that methods other than reflection on one’s own consciousness may be necessary. Instead of “turning [his] eye inward,” Hume’s subject matter, if not the difficulties of his account of the understanding, will require him to cast around for new ways to carry forward the science of human nature, in order to investigate “the principles of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of government, and the cause of those several passions and inclinations, which actuate and govern me” (T 1.4.7.2; 1.4.7.12). To what extent such methods can be articulated, successfully employed, and brought into coordination with the science of the understanding, is the matter to which we now turn.10

2. Hume’s Methodology in the Treatise, Book 2 Among the many themes found in Book 1, two are closely related. First, Hume resists the philosopher’s temptation to seek ultimate causes. Second, many of the observations that found a science of human nature are located by the philosopher’s reflection on her or his own perceptions. Self-observation cannot take us outside our perceptions, to their ultimate causes. A third important theme is that the goal of a science of the mind is to discover order and regularity in what appears chaotic and unordered.

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The imagination is free to form wild and crazy ideas out of a vast inventory determined by our contingent individual sense perceptions. When the mere imagination is at work, there is no telling what complex ideas might be formed from the available simple ideas. In contrast to the mere imagination, the understanding is bound to a certain order. Experience together with a present impression of a cause leads to an expectation: the presence of a lively idea of the effect. Hume attempts to bring the unruly imagination in line by describing the imagination’s more regular operations, the understanding. In Book 2, these themes continue, though they undergo modifications appropriate to the newly introduced subject matter, the passions. Our passions are impressions of reflection, so there is no need to look for something outside our perception as their causes. However, the manner in which Hume carries out the science of human nature draws more explicitly on observations of commerce among persons in society, observations which are not found through introspection. Indeed, as we will see, Hume points out that consulting our own perceptions can be a source of misinformation. And just as Hume hoped to keep the imagination in check, by delineating its regular operations, he has a similar goal for the passions, namely to show how we can be guided by our calm passions, keeping the influence of the violent passions in check.11 2.1 The Struggle of Reason and Passion Hume’s assessment of progress on this goal is hedged. He closes his treatment of the causal influences on the passions and their resolution in action with a disclaimer about the scope and promise of his science of human nature. He takes himself to have made progress by establishing that what other philosophers took to be a conflict of abstract reasoning and the passions is really a conflict of calm and violent passions. Both kinds of passions influence the will, and each has the capability of ruling the day, depending on the state of the agent’s mind and its external influences, including those influences he has discussed, such as custom, imagination, and contiguity. Hume then issues the disclaimer: Upon the whole, this struggle of passion and of reason, as it is call’d, diversifies human life, and makes men so different not only from each other, but also from themselves in different times. Philosophy can only account for a few of the greater and more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the smaller and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and minute for her comprehension. (T 2.3.8.13) This is yet another claim about the limitations of the science of human nature, but it differs from the disclaimers of Book 1. There, the impediment

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to further inquiry was our arrival at ultimate causes or principles, located through self-reflection, or awareness of the nature of our perceptions and their forms of association. Here, Hume’s observations are not of his own mind, but of persons in society and external objects. He reports observations, for example, of the stated concerns and lack of concerns of a West-India merchant, in relation to remote places and times (T 2.3.7.10). The difficulty is not that we do not have access to a kind of evidence or cause, but rather that the phenomena we can observe are too complex and too diverse to be fully encompassed by our understanding. There are principles governing every human action, but Hume concludes that such principles are simply “too fine and minute” to fall firmly within our cognitive grasp. Let us look at the examples of conflicts between reason and passion that are subject to this disclaimer. These are cases of the “combat of passion and reason” in which philosophers often “give the preference to reason” (T 2.3.3.1). It might seem a bit surprising to some that Hume writes of a conflict of reason and passions, since he is well known for his claim that “[r]eason is and ought only to be the slave of the passions” (T 2.3.3.4).12 In fact Hume thinks that what are described as conflicts of reason and passion really should be characterized as conflicts among competing passions. It is likely that attention to Hume’s famous dictum has distracted commentators from appreciating the challenge that Hume faces in setting out the key ingredients of the science of human nature, as applied not merely to the understanding, but also to the complex socially situated human agent who has both cognition and affect. Can the science of human nature explain and predict, for example, a soldier’s decision to enter a dangerous battle and engage the enemy, at significant personal risk, a decision that has both sensory and affective inputs? What are the causes and effects at work in moving the soldier to action? What passions must be overcome, and how? Which passions are most salient, and which are more subdued? Where there are conflicts among passions, how are they resolved? What role does the soldier’s imagination play, and how does it draw on both her history and what is anticipated for the future, in invigorating the passions that will result in action? How do prior experiences and choices made in similar circumstances influence the will and the choice on such occasions? Hume sees the internal conflicts in such cases as the decision to go to war as the mind itself engaging in another kind of war, an internal war, or the “struggle of reason and passion” (T 2.3.8.13). Hume describes the internal conflict as involving reason, by recasting reason as the operation of the calm passions, rather than as the operation of demonstrative or causal reasoning. The latter, Hume has argued, cannot motivate action. So how does the battle between calm and violent passions take place on the battlefield of the mind? Hume cautions us against making “[t]he common error of metaphysicians” who see the resolution of such conflicts in

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terms of the exclusive influence of either the violent passions or the calm passions (T 2.3.3.10). On Hume’s own account, both the calm and the violent passions play a role in this internal contest. A soldier contemplating actual combat, will likely feel fear, a violent emotion. “When I am immediately threaten’d with any grievous ill, my fears, apprehensions, and aversions rise to a great height, and produce a sensible emotion” (T 2.3.3.9). Unchecked, such violent emotions would motivate the soldier to not engage. Other passions at work, such as a general tendency to good, are not accompanied by strong feelings. The soldier’s reflection on the importance of the imminent battle in the service of her country would be an example of the influence of calm passion. We may mistake such delicate or calm passions for reason, strictly so called, but these are passions, which may, on occasion, overrule the violent passions. A soldier’s passions, both violent and calm, may be strengthened, diminished, or even transmuted into its opposite in a myriad of ways, any of which can tip the balance toward advance or retreat. Fear may be stoked by anxiety at the prospect of the dangerous battle and the thought of the enemy, while courage can be enhanced both by curiosity about the scene and circumstances into which one may enter, and by reflection on the support of friends and fellow combatants. The uncertainty of the outcome can “produce agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves into the predominant passion” (T 2.3.4.7). Novelty, and what Hume calls “facility,” the effects of custom, also have their influence. A first battle is something new, perhaps a welcome break from life’s routines. A seasoned soldier, entering yet another battle, may not find the prospect as enlivening. Just as the passions enliven belief, Hume shows that the imagination, memory, and belief also influence the passions (T 1.3.9.15, 2.3.6.7). The examples already cited implicate the imagination, but the explicit influences of imagination, memory, and belief are also duly noted. The memory of a successful battle will support the resolve to enter battle. Eloquence in the call to arms, as instantiated, for example, in the uniforms and formations of the troops, strengthens the soldier’s resolve. Hume also mirrors his treatment of the influence of contiguity on belief with a set of observations about the influence of contiguity and distance on the passions (T 2.3.7). Hume’s observations about the influences on the passions are wide ranging, and the principles he formulates contribute to understanding complex cases of human action. Are we in a position, then, to apply these principles to the explanation and prediction of all conflicts between the calm and violent passions? In fact, Hume thinks that such principles cannot do justice to the range and diversity of the phenomena under observation. The resolution of our data is too coarse to make highly specific predictions in particular cases. Whether the violent or calm passions will prevail in a particular instance will depend on the disposition of

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the individual’s character at that moment in time, and much of the data needed for full explanation and prediction are beyond our observational grasp. This is the conclusion Hume reaches at T 2.3.8.13, quoted earlier. 2.2 Methods and Limitations of Investigating the Will Although Hume concludes T 2.3 with the claim that a complete and exhaustive explanation of human action is not within our cognitive grasp, this conclusion comes after he has established that human action is completely governed by causes, that is, after he has argued that that he calls “the doctrine of necessity” applies as well to moral as it does to natural phenomena. This metaphysical claim, that moral phenomena are matters of cause and effect, precedes the epistemological claim that we are not in a position to fully know those causes and effects. Hume seeks to establish the doctrine of necessity by “a very slight and general view of the common course of human affairs” (T 2.3.1.5). That sampling reveals that we are committed to a causal story about how human affairs take place. What Hume describes as differences in temperaments across “the two sexes,” he claims, is established by our observation of motives, circumstances, and actions, as well as by noticing differences in physical and cognitive capacities at different stages of human development, and differences in character across countries and geographical regions. However imperfect are our (and Hume’s) inferences about the causes and effects of human action in the diverse circumstances in which they take place, our participation in society, without which we cannot live, depends on our ability to make them (T 1.3.1.9). Hume does not establish the “union” between motives and actions by reflection on his own motives and actions, but rather by observing the behavior of others, for example, the behavior of princes, generals, merchants, diners and servants (T 2.3.1.15). The union extends to external objects, which are part of the causal networks in which we act, and so we must observe others in the context of the natural world in which they are embedded. Hume’s chilling example of this is the prisoner “who has neither money nor interest, discovers the impossibility of his escape, as well from the obstinacy of the goaler, as from the walls and bars with which he is surrounded.” The evidence for this comes from our considered judgment about how such a prisoner is likely to attempt an escape: by choosing “rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other” (T 1.3.1.17). Not only is the doctrine of necessity not established merely by reflection on our own motives and their union with external objects and actions, but Hume holds that self-reflection can mislead us. We do not introspect any “force, violence, and constraint” between objects and our own motives and actions, and we wrongly conclude from the lack of such felt connections that there is no causal union (T 2.3.2.1). The

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tendency of self-reflection to mislead in this domain is not limited to our failing to discover necessary connections, but, remarkably, it is the result of our mistaking what we are aware of feeling on certain occasions for the absence of a causal connection of our motives and our actions. This is what Hume refers to as “a false sensation or experience even of the liberty of indifference” (T 2.3.2.2), and he appeals to this “false sensation” to explain why we wrongly believe that our actions are not the effects of causes, that is, why we tend to believe that our actions result from the exercise of a free will. The invocation of a “false sensation” is odd for a number of reasons. First, it is not clear that a sensation, an impression, can be characterized as true or false, since sensations Hume tells us, “are known to us by consciousness, they must necessarily appear in every particular what they are” (T 1.4.2.7). Second, it is difficult to say what this sensation or impression is like. Is it an impression of sense or an impression of reflection? Hume calls it a sensation, which suggests that it is the former. Third, it is not even clear that we have a false sensation or any sensation at all, but rather that we think we have it, which is something altogether different.13 Hume begins his explanation of the false sensation of the liberty of indifference by describing it as something we feel, and by contrasting it with the feeling we have when we are determined to have the idea of an effect, when we have a present impression of the cause, prepared by a constant conjunction, that is, when we make a standard causal inference. He describes the false sensation as “a certain looseness, which we feel in passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other.” The idea we are passing from is the idea of the motive. The idea we are passing to is the idea of the action, in the case of our own motivated actions. However, Hume acknowledges that when we reflect on the relation between motive and action in others, that is in “human actions” generally, we “seldom feel such a looseness or indifference.” The looseness is only felt when we reflect on our own actions, and this feeling only occurs when we are trying to establish that our actions are not determined. It is an “image or faint motion” of the possibility of the will landing on an action other than the one on which it in fact landed. Hume dismisses this philosophically motivated self-scrutiny, and instead recommends the evidential perspective of “the spectator” of our motives and actions (T 2.3.22). Research by Benjamin Libet seems to provide some support for Hume’s claim that we do not have introspective access to the causal mechanisms at work in voluntary action, and also for Hume’s explanation of why we think we do have such access. It also suggests a way of moving beyond the limitation of the science of human nature expressed in Hume’s Book 2 disclaimer. Libet (1999) measured readiness potentials that occur prior to a selfinitiated voluntary act, such as the flicking of the wrist or the flexing

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of a hand. Readiness potentials are changes in electrical potential measured by active electrodes attached to the scalp at the area of the scalp over the cortical motor region of the brain that controls the hand or wrist. Readiness potentials typically precede the voluntary movement by approximately one second. Libet measured the time at which subjects first became aware of their intention to move their hand or wrist. Subjects’ awareness occurred 800 milliseconds later than the measured readiness potential. So the motor cortex’s initiation of the movement occurs almost a full second before the subject is aware of the intention to move the limb.14 The measured delay between readiness potential and conscious awareness supports Hume’s claim that in attempting to understand the connections between motivation, circumstances, and action, we are better served by attending to the observation of human subjects than by relying on their (and our own) first person reports. Libet offers empirical evidence that was unavailable prior to rather recent advances in the brain sciences, evidence that may shed some light on what Hume could only refer to as “the most secret springs of our complexion and disposition” (T 2.3.2.2). Libet’s results may also help explain our belief that our voluntary actions are the result of a will which is itself undetermined, because in many instances in which we act, we “feel” that we might not have, that instead of flicking our wrist, for example, we could have refrained from doing so or we could have performed some other action. Hume explains the image or faint motion of liberty as an awareness of the possibility of canceling a planned action prior to occurrence of that action. The possibility of a veto rests on the fact that although the motor cortex’s initiation of the action occurs one second prior to the action, our conscious awareness of the plan is still 200 milliseconds prior to its occurrence; there is enough time to cancel the plan. Our ability to exert conscious veto power over deliberate action does not show that some of our actions are uncaused. To establish that, one would have to show that our conscious choice to veto a planned action is itself uncaused. Neither Hume nor Libet find such a move plausible. The implications of Libet’s experiments for the free will debate are controversial. Some have objected that the kinds of simple decisions made by his subjects may not be representative of real-world decision making.15 However, my purpose has been to suggest that the widening of the evidential field of observation to include observation of the brain is something that Hume would have welcomed, and that includes the neuroscientific evidence offered both by Libet and his critics, regardless of whether such evidence ultimately supports Hume’s claim about the necessity of human action and his explanation of the origins of the mistaken commitment to free will. Just as Libet’s research follows Hume’s analysis of free will, other work in cognitive neuroscience also builds on Hume’s investigations into the

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relationship between reason and the passions in Book 2 of the Treatise. Drevets and Raichle (1998) found increased blood flow in the dorsal Prefrontal Cortex (PFC) during cognitive tasks, and decreased blood flow in the same area during emotional tasks. In contrast, there was increased blood flow in the ventral PFC during emotional tasks and decreased blood flow to that area when subjects were engaged in cognitive tasks. This suggests that distinct identifiable regions of the prefrontal cortex, the ventral and dorsal regions, correspond to affect and cognition, respectively. Recent work by Pessoa (2013) challenges these findings. Pessoa found significant overlap in activation in the dorsal and ventral areas of the PFC during emotional processing. That cognitive and affective processes do not carve up cleanly into separate brain regions is suggested by Hume’s own observation of both the invigorating role of belief and imagination in the passions, and the vivacity-enhancing role played by the passions in the formation of belief. This interplay of reason and passion is evident in both directions in matters of comparison. Hume first notes that our assessment of our own happiness does not just depend on its “intrinsic worth,” but is often influenced by comparison with the happiness of others (T 2.2.8.1). He further observes that something analogous happens in visual perception. Objects seem larger after they are compared to something small, than they do without the comparison, even when the two views of the object “are equally extended in the retina, and in the brain or organ of perception,” and thus are qualitatively identical impressions (T 2.2.8.3). The explanation Hume offers for the influence of comparison on the way both impressions of sensation and reflection affect us is based on his observation that our perceptions are always “accompany’d with some emotion of movement of spirits proportion’d to it” (T 2.2.8.4). We experience a “lively pleasure” on seeing “an army, a fleet, a crowd” and when one such object is compared to another, the pleasure is also felt for our perception of the other, and thereby contributes to our comparative judgment.16 A significant body of recent work supports Hume’s claim about the persistence of emotional states in the activity of the understanding. Canli et al. (2005), for example, found that emotional activity, measured by increased amygdala activation, occurs not just in response to negative stimuli, but to neutral and positive stimuli as well. While the details of the neurological underpinnings of interplay of reason and passion clearly remain to be sorted out, it is clear that research in cognitive neuroscience may reveal some of the hidden principles that were beyond the observational methods available to Hume. It is also worth noting that Hume’s close observation of the operation of the passions and reasoning as they occurs in human interaction provides the context in which the neurological causes and effects of affect and cognition can be studied.

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3. Clarifications and Amplifications We have seen that Hume’s science of human nature moves away from the Book 1 reliance on introspective evidence and towards the alternative observational basis in persons, society, and external objects, beginning in Book 2. While this captures an important shift, reflected in the disclaimers Hume issues about that science as he moves from Book 1 to Book 2, the matter is more complex. Hume does make use of some introspective evidence in Book 2, and he also draws conclusions about the understanding from observations of other persons embedded in society and the external world in Book 1. Pride is a sensation, an impression of reflection, and it has an “original quality,” its pleasantness. “Of this our very feeling convinces us; and beyond our feeling, ’tis here in vain to reason or dispute” (T 2.1.5.4). Impressions of reflection issue from knowable causes, and thus they are not original in the sense in which impressions of sensation are original. The phenomenological character of these impressions is not accountable in virtue of their causes. Rather, they are knowable only from “our feeling,” via introspection. There are many such observations in Book 2. So while the main avenue of observation in Book 2 is other-directed, there is some appeal to introspection. It is less obvious that Hume relies on observation of others in Book 1, but there are striking examples. In part 3 of Book 1 Hume describes what he calls “a secret operation” by which we arrive at beliefs seemingly without any current experience or remembered constant conjunctions to prepare the way for a lively idea related to a present impression. Hume explains such unconscious or unreflective inferences by reference to a secret operation to forestall a possible counterexample to his theory of belief. Hume notes that an individual, on approaching a body of water, infers “the effects of water on animal bodies” without recalling the appropriate constant conjunctions (T 1.3.8.13). Hume posits a hidden or secret mechanism by which such inferences are reached. The mind draws on experience with water without conscious recall of the relevant constant conjunctions. The fact that we do not have first person access to the way our memory is accessed and our inferences formed is not grounds for denying that such operations take place.17 The countenancing of secret operations represents a break from Hume’s recommendation against searching for causes that are not grounded in our own perceptions. The evidence for the existence of secret operations is not available through introspection, since we cannot introspect operations that operate unconsciously. The evidence is instead our observation of the common-sense practices and spontaneous judgments of “a person who stops short in his journey upon meeting a river in his way.” Hume describes what goes on in the mind of such a person as inferring the effect of water “without the assistance of memory,” and as taking place without

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“a moment’s delay” (T 1.3.12.7). While such evidence could be adduced by observing one’s own self, such self-observation, which would not be introspective, is not required. From our vantage point, it is easy enough to imagine running an experiment designed by a cognitive psychologist to provide additional data. The explanation Hume offers of the data, the invocation of an unconscious process of causal inference, fits well with the methodology of computational modeling in contemporary cognitive science. In the very first section of Book 1, where he sets out the basic features of his theory of ideas, Hume calls the reader’s attention to an important limitation on the correspondence of ideas to impressions. The imagination can form the complex idea of a city never seen, such as New Jerusalem, as well as the idea of a place that has been seen, such as Paris, though the idea of the latter will fail to “perfectly represent all its streets and houses in their real and just proportions” (T 1.1.1.4). These observations would be of little use were they just Hume’s self-reports of the content of his own mind. Rather, Hume depends on the readers’ experiences corroborating his own. We can ask subjects to represent Paris or something else suitably complex that they have seen, and determine the extent to which their representations match the order and complexity of the city as perceived.18 At the end of this first section Hume famously introduces the missing shade of blue as a counterexample to his first principle, that for every simple idea, there is an antecedent, resembling simple impression. The case hinges on our agreement that a subject who had seen every shade of blue save one, the “missing shade,” if presented with the full range of shades except the missing shade, would “from his own . . . supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade, tho’ it had never been convey’d to him by his senses?” (T 1.1.1.10). Like the idea of Paris, Hume makes the point in the form of a rhetorical question, and confidently concludes “there are few but will be of opinion that he can” (T 1.1.1.10). The claim is about the imagination of the subject of this curious experiment, but the observation in support of Hume’s conclusion is the consensus of Hume’s fellow cognitive psychologists. To confirm his account of belief as the inference from a present impression to a lively idea via the influence of custom and habit, Hume turns to “other creatures,” who “in millions of instances, perform like actions, and direct them to like ends, all our principles of reason and probability carry us with an invincible force to believe the existence of a like cause.” What Hume asks us to observe are simply the “external actions of animals” which are just like “those we ourselves perform,” and can be then judged to be the result of similar causes (T 1.3.16.2). This is a matter of using the method followed out in Book 2, of “enlarging the sphere of my experiments” (T 1.3.15.12). Hume also anticipated the field of cognitive ethology, the field which studies cognition in non-human animals, and

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also urged the relevance of its findings in support of the science of human nature. Hume’s science of human nature not only observes other humans, but analogous other creatures as well. How do the Book 1 disclaimers and Book 2 disclaimer we have highlighted fit together? It might appear that there is a tension, or even a possible inconsistency, for example, in the Book 2 disclaimer about our inability to understand conflicts of reason and passion and the Book 1 disclaimer that denies our ability to understand the causes of our impressions. The problem is that the Book 2 disclaimer arises from determining causes and effects among external objects, persons, and societies, while the Book 1 disclaimers appear to deny that we can venture beyond our perceptions to their non-perception causes. The problem runs even deeper for the interpretation offered here. Once the evidential floodgates are open to the observation of external objects, other persons, and society, it also makes sense to see research in neuroscience as also shedding light on the nature of the mind. How can Hume allow a method that clearly couches causes and effects in terms of items other than the basic elements of the mind, our impressions and ideas? From the very start of the Treatise, Hume depends on his observation of others, culminating in an early endorsement of cognitive ethology. He is fully committed to the rich causal realm of the ordinary person from the beginning. So what does the reluctance to hypothesize about the causes of our perceptions amount to? What Hume is denying is the prospect of reaching metaphysically ultimate causes. If we go the route of positing external objects as the causes of our impressions, if we are after ultimate causes, we still have to account for the causes of external objects. Hume’s disclaimer is designed to forestall this line of inquiry, a line taken by Descartes, Leibniz, and even Locke, all of whom trace causes back to God. But setting this metaphysical task aside leaves Hume open to the full range of observational methods human agents can employ when the inquiry is focused instead on our human nature.19 And here, Hume discovers the limits of those observational methods as indexed to the time and place in which those methods are employed. Hume certainly knows that they are not the only possible methods.

4. Conclusion It should not be surprising that Hume draws his conclusion about the intractability of the full causal picture of human agents embedded in spatially and temporally extended social and physical circumstances, endowed with mental histories and rich capacities to selectively remember, imagine and predict. Only when we see that motivation for voluntary action does not come from demonstrative or causal reasoning, but from the passions, albeit aided by the understanding, can we find ourselves in a position to appreciate the complexity of the progress of our sentiments,

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and the limitations of the science thereof. In her groundbreaking A Progress of Sentiments, Annette Baier, drawing on Hume’s two uses of that apt phrase, noted Hume’s progress includes advancing from the conception of the self as a bundle of perceptions made up of impressions of sense and their copies as ideas, to impressions of reflection, “which become very important members, both for displaying the causal influence of past members, and the influence of anticipation of future members, and for displaying my dependence on my fellow persons for a steady idea of myself” (Baier 1991: 130). It has been argued here that the advance in the progress of the sentiments from the understanding to the passions also requires a shift in the kinds of observations made by the science of man, from self-reports to reports of the behavior and brain processes of others, and with that shift, a re-examination of the prospects for a full cognitive science of that progress.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13.

14.

Cf. Hergenhahn and Henley (2013) and Hatfield (2002). Cf. Orr (1903), Price (1940), Flew (1961), Bennett (1971), and Johnson (1995). Cf. Bennett (1971) and Johnson (1995). The introspectionist reading of Hume draws support from Hume’s selfacknowledged debt to Newton. Moor (1976), however, points to the influence of Francis Hutcheson’s Inquiry Concerning the Original of Our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue (1772) for shaping Hume’s social-scientific, third person, methodology . Cf. Kemp Smith (1941: ch. 2). Hume also applies the term “original” to our capacity to recall members of what Don Garrett refers to as the “revival class” of an abstract idea (Garrett 2006: 24). Cf. De Pierris (2006). Cf. EHU 4.16 (SBN 33). De Pierris also cites this passage. Cf. Stroud (1977: 22ff.). For a more nuanced view, which introduces some of the methodological issues raised in this chapter, see Biro (1993). We have steered clear of taking a stance on Hume’s resolution of the dangerous dilemma in T 1.4.7, but when we assess Hume’s attempt to extent the science of human nature in Book 2 we will return to the issue. See Garrett (2006) and Schmitt (2014). Cf. T 1.3.10.n22. See McIntyre (2006) for helpful background on the philosophers to whom Hume is likely referring. Pitson (1996) also notes that this is an important passage for Hume, in showing that we are not always right about the content of our self-awareness. But Pitson seems to think that Hume holds that we can still contrast our certain self-awareness with our access to the mental states of others, which is “neither immediate nor foolproof” (n.5, p. 286). While our access to the motives of others is not immediate, Hume is emphasizing here that it is often among our most robust causal inferences. Libet’s experimental design includes a mechanism for timing and recording the interval between the readiness potential and conscious awareness with adequate resolution to support the claims made here. The reported interval between readiness potential and awareness of intention are averages across subjects.

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15. For a review of some of the criticisms of Libet’s work, see Levin (2015). 16. See also T 1.3.10.12 where Hume discusses how judgment can correct appearances of the senses, e.g. when we judge that something that appears small is really large. Cf. Canli et al. (2005), Fox et al. (2008), Shackman et al. (2009), Rohr et al. (2013), and Birn et al. (2014) for neurophysiological evidence about the integration of emotional traits with cognition. 17. The significance of this example for assessing Hume’s contribution to what we now call cognitive science is discussed in Traiger (1994). 18. Cf. Kahana and Loftus (1999). 19. As noted earlier, at T 1.3.5.2 Hume explicitly denies that our ability to determine the causes of our impressions have any impact on the science of human nature.

References Baier, Annette C. 1991. A Progress of Sentiments: Reflections on Hume’s Treatise. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Bennett, Jonathan. 1971. Locke, Berkeley, Hume: Central Themes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Birn, R. M., A. J. Shackman, J. A. Oler, L. E. Williams, D. R. Mcfarlin, G. M. Rogers et al. 2014. “Extreme Early-life Anxiety is Associated With an Evolutionarily Conserved Reduction in the Strength of Intrinsic Functional Connectivity Between the Dorsolateral Prefrontal Cortex and the Central Nucleus of the Amygdala.” Mol. Psychiatry 19: 853. doi:10.1038/mp.2014.85. Biro, John. 1993. “Hume’s New Science of the Mind.” In The Cambridge Companion to Hume, edited by David Fate Norton, 33–63. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Broughton, Janet. 1992. “What Does the Scientist of Man Observe?” Hume Studies 18 (2) (November): 155–68. Canli, T., K. Omura, B. W. Haas, A. Fallgatter, R. T. Constable, and K. P. Lesch. 2005. “Beyond Affect: A Role for Genetic Variation of the Serotonin Transporter in Neural Activation During a Cognitive Attention Task.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 102: 12224–9. De Pierris, Graciela. 2006. “Hume and Locke on Scientific Methodology: The Newtonian Legacy.” Hume Studies 32 (2) (November): 277–330. Drevets, W. C., and M. E. Raichle. 1998. “Reciprocal Suppression of Regional Cerebral Blood Flow During Emotional Versus Higher Cognitive Processes: Implications for Interactions Between Emotion and Cognition.” Cognition and Emotion 12 (3): 353–85. Flew, Antony. 1961. Hume’s Philosophy of Belief: A Study of His First Inquiry. Abingdon: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Fox, A. S., S. E. Shelton, T. R. Oakes, R. J. Davidson, and N. H. Kalin. 2008. “Traitlike Brain Activity During Adolescence Predicts Anxious Temperament in Primates.” PLoS ONE 3 (7): e2570. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0002570. Garrett, Don. 2006. Cognition and Commitment in Hume’s Philosophy. New York: Oxford University Press. Hatfield, Gary. 2002. “Psychology, Philosophy, and Cognitive Science: Reflections on the History and Philosophy of Experimental Psychology.” Mind and Language 17 (3) (June): 207–32. Hergenhahn, R. B., and Tracy Henley. 2013. An Introduction to the History of Psychology. Boston: Wadsworth Publishing.

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Hutcheson, Francis. 1772. Inquiry Concerning the Original of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue. Glasgow: R. and A. Foulis; electronic reprint from the fourth edition, Thomson Gale, 2003. Johnson, Oliver A. 1995. The Mind of David Hume. Champaign: University of Illinois Press. Kahana, Michael, and Geoffrey Loftus. 1999. “Response Time vs. Accuracy in Human Memory.” In The Nature of Cognition, edited by Robert Sternberg, 323–84. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kemp Smith, Norman. 1941. The Philosophy of David Hume. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Levin, Janet. 2015. “Libet, Free Will, and Conscious Awareness.” Journal of Cognition and Neuroethics 3 (1): 265–80. Libet, Benjamin. 1999. “Do We Have Free Will?” Journal of Consciousness Studies 6 (8–9): 47–57. McIntyre, Jane. 2006. “Hume’s ‘New and Extraordinary’ Account of the Passions.” In The Blackwell Guide to Hume’s Treatise, edited by Saul Traiger. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Moore, James. 1976. “The Social Background of Hume’s Science of Human Nature.” In McGill Hume Studies, edited by David Fate Norton, Nicholas Capaldi, and Wade L. Robison. San Diego: Austin Hill Press. Orr, James. 1903. David Hume and His Influence on Philosophy and Theology. London: T & T Clark. Pessoa, Luiz. 2013. The Cognitive-Emotional Brain: From Interactions to Integration. Cambridge: MIT Press. Pitson, A. E. 1996. “Sympathy and Other Selves.” Hume Studies 22: 255–71. Price, H. H. 1940. Hume’s Theory of the External World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rohr, C. S., H. Okon-Singer, R. C. Craddock, A.Villringer, and D. S. Margulies. 2013. “Affect and the Brain’s Functional Organization: A Resting-state Connectivity Approach.” PLoS ONE 8 (12) (July 23): e68015. Schmitt, Frederick F. 2014. Hume’s Epistemology in the Treatise. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Shackman, A. J., B. W. Mcmenamin, J. S. Maxwell, L. L. Greischar, and R. J. Davidson. 2009. “Right Dorsolateral Prefrontal Cortical Activity and Behavioral Inhibition.” Psychological Science 20: 1500–6. Stroud, B. 1977. Hume. London: Routledge. Traiger, Saul. 1994. “The Secret Operations of the Mind.” Minds and Machines 4 (3) (August): 303–16.

12 Hume on Moral Motivation Michael B. Gill

It is well-known that in Treatise 3.1.1 Hume argues that morality has a motivational influence that reason alone lacks. But it has been surprisingly difficult to identify exactly what kind of motivation Hume has in mind in 3.1.1 and how to connect it with the many other things he says about morality.1 The key, I argue here, is to see that throughout his work Hume discusses several different kinds of moral motivation, and that in 3.1.1 he is relying on only one of them. In Section 1, I describe three kinds of motivation that are central to Hume’s account of morality. In Section 2, I use contemporary work in moral psychology to elucidate those different kinds of moral motivation. In Section 3, I argue that in the anti-rationalist argument of Treatise 3.1.1 Hume relies on only one kind of moral motivation. In Section 4, I answer an objection and expand on the expansiveness of Humean moral motivation.

1. Three Kinds of Moral Motivation Hume discusses at least three things we can call moral motivation.2 Let us call these: [1] virtuous trait motivation, [2] approval-of-another motivation, and [3] approval-of-self motivation. Virtuous trait motivation is motivation based in an agent’s trait that observers approve of and that is “different from the regard to the virtue of the action” (T 3.2.1.4). One example of such a trait is parental concern (T 3.2.1.5). A parent with such a trait is motivated to nurture her child not because she thinks it is morally required of her but simply because she cares for her child. The thought—“I am morally required to nurture my child” or “It is virtuous to nurture one’s own child”—need not play a role in this motivation of the parent. Another example is benevolence for the distressed and afflicted, in those cases in which a person has a motive to help others that gains none of its force from her consciously thinking that such help is virtuous or morally obligatory (T 3.2.1.6). A third example is friendship, in those cases in which a person treats her friends with love and respect because she cares about them and not

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because she has formulated the thought that virtue or morality requires that she treat her friends in any particular way (T 3.3.3.5). Gratitude is yet another example (T 3.2.1.8). As we shall discuss in Section 4, a person motivated by parental concern, benevolence, friendship, or gratitude may also be motivated by an explicitly moral motive. But then again, she may not. The point is that these traits are sources of motivation that do not implicate in the mind of the person motivated any explicitly moral content (even if that person may also have another kind of motive that does involve explicitly moral content). There is a sense in which it might seem more accurate to call this kind of motivation non-moral motivation, since the trait that issues in such motivation is essentially distinct from thoughts about what is morally required or virtuous.3 The sense in which such motivation may be called moral, nonetheless, is that one’s acting from this kind of motivation is what leads observers to judge one to be virtuous (see T 3.1.2.11). Virtuous trait motivation, as I have labeled it, is the motivation a person is thought to act from when her conduct elicits from observers the pleasure of approbation, even while the person being observed may herself have no conscious “regard to the virtue” of her conduct. Let us now turn to a different class of motives that are part of Hume’s account of morality. Hume believes that when we feel approval for someone who has acted from a virtuous trait we develop good will towards her; this leads to either the motivation to treat her positively (when we are in a position to benefit her) or the wish that her well-being be promoted (when we are not in a position to benefit her ourselves). When we feel disapproval for someone who has acted from a vicious trait we develop ill will towards her; this leads either to the motivation to treat her negatively or the wish that her well-being is in some way thwarted. These motives we have towards people we approve or disapprove of constitute the second kind of Humean moral motivation: approval-ofanother motivation. When we feel love or hatred for someone, we develop the motive to promote her happiness or misery (T 2.2.6.3–6). Humean approval and disapproval cause love and hatred, or perhaps are kinds of love and hatred (T 3.1.2.5; 3.3.1.3; 3.3.1.31). So if I approve of a person I will be motivated to promote her happiness, and if I disapprove of a person I will be motivated to promote her misery (at least in those cases in which I am in a position to affect her well-being; in those cases in which I cannot affect her well-being, this tendency will manifest in the wish that her well-being be promoted or thwarted). As Hume writes, As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, ’tis an evident consequence of the sentiments of pleasure [of approval] or uneasiness [of disapproval]. These sentiments produce love or hate; and love or hatred, by the original constitution of human passion, is attended

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with benevolence or anger; that is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and miserable the person we hate. (T 3.3.1.31; see also 3.3.4.1) Hume refers to the positive motivational effect of approval-of-another in his discussion of “dexterity in business.” He writes: Here is a man, who is not remarkably defective in his social qualities; but what principally recommends him is his dexterity in business, by which he has extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. I find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me; His company is a satisfaction to me; and before I have any farther acquaintance with him, I wou’d rather do him a service than another, whose character is in every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. (T 3.3.1.25) The crucial bit here is the claim that I would rather do a service for a person with a certain character trait than for a person without it. Hume takes this to be evidence that the trait is a virtue, and that is because Hume holds that judging someone virtuous leads to a desire to benefit him. Hume has the same kind of motivational influence in mind when discussing the merely verbal nature of the distinction between qualities traditionally thought of as virtues, such as courage and kindness, and natural abilities, such as wit and memory. Even if we choose to “refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues,” Hume writes, “we must allow, that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give a new luster to the other virtues; and that a man possess’d of them is much more intitled to our good-will and services, than one entirely void of them” (T 3.3.4.2). When I admire someone, I develop more “good-will” toward him than I do toward those I don’t admire. I become more inclined to do him good “services.” Because of this similarity—because the motivational response observers have toward someone who possesses certain natural abilities is the same as the motivational response they have toward someone who possesses traits that are clearly virtues—it makes sense to assimilate natural abilities and virtues. The third kind of Humean moral motivation—approval-of-self motivation—is the motivation a person has to avoid doing things that will make her think she herself has acted viciously and to pursue doing things that will make her think she herself has acted virtuously. A person with this kind of motivation (in contrast to virtuous trait motivation) is motivated to perform a virtuous action “from a certain sense of duty,” or “out of regard to its moral obligation” (T 3.2.1.8).4 This person will have the conscious thought that if she acted in a certain way she would

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be acting viciously, contrary to duty, in violation of her obligations. And that consciously moral thought will give rise in her to the motive not to perform the action. She will have a motive to avoid acting in a certain way because she thinks that if she does act in that way she will be in the state of mind of thinking that she has done something wrong. Such a person might consider picking up a wallet she has seen drop out of someone’s bag and pocketing the money. But then she thinks that keeping the money would be wrong—that if she were to keep the money rather than return it she would think she has acted viciously. She also thinks that returning the money would be right—that if she were to return the money rather than keep it she would think she has acted virtuously. And these consciously moral thoughts give rise in her to a motive to avoid keeping the money and pursue returning it. The “motive to virtue” such a person has is based on her “antipathy to treachery and roguery” (EPM 9.2.23). Kant describes a person who has a motive to benefit those in need that is not based in “sympathy with the fate of others” but comes “simply from duty” (Kant 1785/1997: 11–12). Bernard Williams describes a person who has a motive to save his wife from drowning (rather than two strangers) that is based on the thought that such an action is morally permissible (1981: 18). Williams and Kant have conflicting attitudes toward this kind of motivation, a disagreement we will bring Hume into contact with at the end of Section 4. The point I wish to make at this stage is just that Hume thinks this kind of consciously moral motive, the kind of motive Kant exalts and Williams contemns, does exist. Some people do sometimes develop motives as a result of consciously moral thoughts— thoughts whose content includes notions of duty, morality, virtue, obligation, what ought to be done, and the like.5

2. Contemporary Work on Motivation Recent psychological research helps elucidate the different kinds of Humean moral motivation. Humean approval-of-another motivation is positive motivation towards those one approves of and negative motivation towards those one disapproves of. Algoe and Haidt (2009) support the first half of that view: people develop positive motives towards those they approve of. Algoe and Haidt studied the motivational influences of our “emotional response[s] to witnessing acts of virtue or moral beauty” (2009: 106). These responses are based in what they call the “other-praising emotions” of elevation, gratitude, and admiration. Algoe and Haidt found that when observers experience these other-praising emotions, they develop positive attitudes towards the people who elicited them. Other-praising emotions “had an effect on how much the participant would be ‘willing to associate with’ the person in the future” (2009: 112). People who felt other-praising emotions

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became “motivated to build a relationship with the prestigious person to maximize their ability to learn further, and to share in the prestige” (2009: 107). Importantly, the positive motives elicited by other-praising emotions go beyond the positive responses that result from pleasurable feelings in general: The sharpest contrast . . . between the other-praising emotions and joy [which is elicited by something unrelated to the virtue of another person] was that all three other-praising emotions produced frequent free-response reports of ‘positive relationship’ motivations (67% for elevation, 74% for gratitude, and 81% for admiration, versus 30% for joy). In other words, the other-praising emotions motivate people to do things that create or strengthen relationships, particularly with virtuous or skillful people. (2009: 123) Such findings point to the phenomena Hume has in mind when he says that the “company” of someone I esteem “is a satisfaction to me; and before I have any farther acquaintance with him, I wou’d rather do him a service than another, whose character is in every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular” (T 3.3.1.25; see also 3.3.4.2). The other half of approval-of-another motivation is the motive to treat negatively those one disapproves of. Like the positive motivation, this negative motivation follows directly from Hume’s view of love and hatred, approval and disapproval. “[H]atred produces a desire of the misery and an aversion to the happiness of the person hated” (T 2.2.6.3). “[V]ice and the power of producing .  .  . hatred” are “equivalent” (T  3.3.1.3). Thus, toward those we disapprove of we wish “ill desert” (T 3.3.1.31). Studies of third-party responses to norm violations verify this part of Hume’s view. Third parties—people whose own welfare is not affected—develop negative motivation toward those they deem to have violated moral norms. Fessler and Navarrete found that third parties develop “a desire to avoid regularly interacting with others who engage in [violations of anti-incest norms] and a desire to prevent others from engaging in such actions and to punish those who do” (2004: 282). Fehr and Fischbacher found that “a large percentage of subjects are willing to enforce distribution and cooperation norms even though they incur costs and reap no economic benefit from their sanctions and even though they have not been directly harmed by the norm violation” (2004: 85). Sober and Wilson propose an evolutionary explanation for our desire of punishment of this sort (1998: 142–9). Let us turn now to a distinction that clarifies Humean moral motivation in general and approval-of-self motivation in particular. The distinction, which Baumeister et al. elucidate in a 2007 review article, is between two kinds of motivational influence a passion can have: direct and indirect.6

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A passion has direct motivational influence when the agent occurrently experiences it and when that occurrent experience of the passion pushes the agent to do something. You suddenly find yourself in physical danger; you experience the physiological symptoms of fear; you instinctively shrink from the source of the danger. Someone does something that enrages you; you are overwhelmed by a feeling of fury; you lash out, striking at the offending party. “Fear makes you flee, anger makes you fight, and so forth” (Baumeister 2007: 168). A passion with indirect motivational influence is a state the agent is not occurrently experiencing. A passion has indirect motivational influence when it is a state that the agent anticipates she might experience, and when that anticipation motivates her either to avoid or to pursue that emotional state. While direct motivation is a kind of pushing from a state the agent is experiencing in the present, indirect motivation is a kind of pulling from a state the agent anticipates experiencing in the future. Here’s how pride can motivate indirectly.7 In the past a person performed an action that won her praise and led her to feel pride. Now a comparable situation has arisen. The person wishes to win praise and feel pride. So she is motivated to perform a similar action. Guilt can motivate indirectly in a similar way. In the past a person performed an action that caused distress to her friends and led her to feel guilty. Now a comparable situation has arisen. The person wishes to avoid causing distress to her friends and guilt to herself. So she is motivated to avoid the action she performed in the past. As Baumeister et al. explain, People are strongly motivated to avoid emotional upset and/or to seek out positive emotions. . . . Ample evidence shows that people make choices and change their behavior on the basis of anticipated emotions, such as to avoid guilt or regret. . . . Anticipated emotion may be more important than felt emotion. For example, that is why guilt can be a powerful guide to behavior even for someone who rarely feels guilty, simply because that person anticipates the potential guilt and therefore takes steps to prevent it. (2007: 196) A leading role in an explanation of a person’s motivational state can be her anticipation of experiencing a passion rather than her occurrent experience of it. Hume is aware of the distinction between indirect or anticipatory and direct or occurrent motivational influence. He says that the will is often influenced by thoughts about how to pursue certain future states and avoid other future states. “The mind .  .  . tends to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the evil, tho’ they be conceiv’d merely in idea, and be consider’d as to exist in any future period of time” (T 2.3.9.2). “The will exerts itself, when either the good or the absence of the evil may be

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attain’d by any action of the mind or body” (T 3.2.9.7). This is indirect or anticipatory motivation, motivation to pursue or avoid a state one is not presently experiencing. But that is not the only kind of motivation Hume recognizes. He points out, as well, that some passions have direct or occurrent motivational influence—that we have some motives that are explained not by our desire or aversion for any future states but by the occurrent shove a passion gives us.8 He thus contrasts the anticipatory motives with motives that arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to our enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few other bodily appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce good and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections. (T 2.3.9.8) The distinction between indirect and direct motivational influence—between passions whose motivational influence comes from an agent’s anticipation of them, and passions whose motivational influence comes from an agent’s occurrently experiencing them—is what Hume means to capture when he contrasts motives to attain future goods that are “conceive’d merely in idea” and motives that “arise from a natural impulse.”9 On which side of the direct/occurrent—vs—indirect/anticipatory distinction do Hume’s three kinds of moral motivation fall? Given what Hume says about love, it’s natural to interpret approval-of-another motivation as occurrent. For love’s motivational influence is occurrent. “The passions of love and hatred are always follow’d by, or rather conjoin’d with benevolence and anger .  .  . [L]ove and hatred are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion, which they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always follow’d by a desire of the happiness of the person belov’d” (T 2.2.6.3). A person’s present experience of love is what explains her desire for the happiness of her beloved. It’s not as though the person is motivated to do something because she thinks it will cause her to feel love in the future. Approval causes, or is a kind of, love (T 3.3.1.3). So it seems natural to think that our approval of someone is an occurrent pleasurable sentiment that produces in us a motive to benefit that person. It’s not as though the relevant motive is a motive to cause oneself to experience the sentiment of approval at a “future period of time.” It is the occurrent experience of the sentiment that causes the motive, not the other way around. What of virtuous trait motivation? Do virtuous traits have a motivational influence that is occurrent or anticipatory? This question is not something that Hume addresses, nor is it particularly important for anything we will go on to discuss. But I will say that it seems to me that the best answer is that some virtuous traits motivate occurrently and some

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motivate anticipatorily. Virtues of compassion are based in passions that Hume probably would have thought motivate occurrently. Virtues of prudence are based in passions that Hume probably would have thought motivate by anticipation. What is central to our topic is the question of whether approval-of-self has occurrent or anticipatory motivational influence. I believe the best interpretation of Hume is that his approval-of-self motivation is anticipatory. A person motivated by approval-of-self will have experienced selfapproval when she’s acted certain ways in the past, and self-disapproval when she’s acted other ways in the past. When she is faced with a comparable situation in the present, she will anticipate that acting in the first way will produce self-approval and that acting in the second way will produce self-disapproval. She will, consequently, be motivated to act in the first way rather than the second. This motive is not explained by her having occurrent experience of approval or disapproval. She is not occurrently experiencing either of those things before she acts. The motive develops, rather, out of the anticipation of experiencing approval or disapproval. Such an interpretation makes sense of Hume’s statement that a “considerable motive to virtue . . . [is] antipathy to treachery and roguery” (EPM 9.2.23). A person moved by this kind of consideration, at the moment she decides to act, is not occurrently feeling antipathy to her own treachery and roguery. She is, rather, motivated to avoid acting in a certain way by the anticipatory thought that if she were to act in that way she would feel self-disapproval—just as a person is motivated to avoid touching a hot pan by the anticipatory thought that if she were to touch it she would feel pain. Baumeister et al. tell us that guilt “may be a useful guide to behavior even if strong guilt is rarely felt” (2007: 189), and that “[g]uilt can exert a strong effect on behavior even if people rarely feel guilty, simply because people learn what will make them feel guilty and the change their behavior so as to avoid guilt” (2007: 193). Hume’s “ingenuous natures” are just such kinds of people, those whose behavior is often motivated by thoughts about how to avoid the painful feeling of self-disapproval. Such people may also be moved by anticipatory thoughts about what will produce “a pleasing consciousness or remembrance . . . of having done our part towards mankind and society” (EPM 9.2.21). That is, they are motivated to act in certain ways because they think that doing so will produce the pleasurable feeling of self-approval, just as a person is moved to take a bite of cake not because she is occurrently experiencing the pleasurable taste of chocolate but because she anticipates that she will have that pleasurable experience if she takes a bite.

3. Moral Motivation in T 3.1.1 At T 3.1.1.5–6, Hume argues against the view that morality originates in reason by claiming that morality has a motivational influence that reason

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lacks. When making this argument, what kind of motivational influence does Hume have in mind: virtuous trait, approval-of-another, or approval-of-self? In this section, I will argue that he has in mind approvalof-self motivation. When Hume says at T 3.1.1.6 that “morals . . . have an influence on the actions and affections,” he has in mind situations in which a person is motivated to avoid doing something because she has the anticipatory thought that if she were to do it she would come to think she has acted viciously, and motivated to do something because she has the anticipatory thought that if she does it she will come to think she has acted virtuously. Of the three kinds of moral motivation, we can quickly eliminate approval-of-another motivation as being what Hume has in mind at T 3.1.1.5–6. Approval-of-another motivation is motivation to promote the happiness of a person we have observed acting virtuously. But Hume bases his argument on the claim that “common experience . . . informs us, that men are often govern’d by their duties, and are deter’d from some actions by the opinion of injustice, and impell’d to others by that of obligation” (T 3.1.1.5). Hume is not pointing here to the effect on someone of observing another person act virtuously. He is pointing to the motivation someone has to do her duty herself. The same claim of Hume’s—“that men are often govern’d by their duties, and are deter’d from some actions by the opinion of injustice, and impell’d to others by that of obligation”—precludes interpreting the anti-rationalist motivation argument as being based in virtuous trait motivation. An essential feature of virtuous trait motivation is that it is independent of conscious, explicitly moral thoughts. It is motivation to perform an action that is distinct from “a regard to the virtue of that action” (T 3.2.1.4). But at T 3.1.1.5–6 Hume is discussing an agent’s “opinion of injustice,” her thoughts about her “duties” and “obligation.” He is talking about “that multitude of rules and precepts, with which all moralists abound.” This is explicitly moral stuff. Throughout T 3.1.1, moreover, Hume intends to oppose a rationalist account of our explicitly moral thoughts. Hume’s rationalist opponents (he tells us) are those who have maintained that reason alone is the basis of our thoughts about the “distinction betwixt moral good and evil,” about “moral deformity,” and about what is “allow’d to be vicious” (T 3.1.1.10, 22, 24, and 26). What Hume argues is that such thoughts—thoughts with explicitly moral content—do not come from reason alone. And he makes that argument by claiming that such explicitly moral thoughts have a motivational influence that reason alone does not. The reasons for thinking that at T 3.1.1.5–6 Hume does not have in mind virtuous trait motivation or approval-of-another motivation are also reasons for thinking that Hume does have in mind approval-of-self motivation. For approval-of-self motivation is our motivation to perform acts that we think our duty demands and to avoid acts we think our duty forbids. It is our motivation to do what we explicitly represent to

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ourselves as being morally right and to avoid doing what we explicitly represent to ourselves as being morally wrong. Another reason to interpret T 3.1.1.5–6 as concerned with approval-ofself motivation is that approval-of-self motivation is anticipatory rather than occurrent. As we have seen, Hume describes the moral motivation he has in mind in this section by saying that “men are . . . deter’d from some actions by the opinion of injustice, and impell’d to others by that of obligation,” which is just what we would expect from someone talking about anticipatory motivation. When an agent has the thought that if she were to perform an action she would think she had done something unjust, she is deterred from performing that action. When an agent has the thought that if she were to perform an action she would think she had fulfilled her obligation, she is impelled to perform it. The anticipatory reading fits the general picture of motivation that forms the backdrop of Hume’s motivation argument. At T 3.1.1.8, Hume refers to his previous claims in “Of the influencing motives of the will,” where he discusses the following kind of motivation: ’Tis obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity, and are carry’d to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasiness or satisfaction. . . . ’Tis from the prospect of pain or pleasure that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object. (T 2.3.3.3) We are motivated to perform actions, Hume tells us here, by the “prospect of pain or pleasure.” If I think touching a hot pan will cause me pain I will be motivated not to touch the pan. I am not, of course, occurrently experiencing the painful impression of touching a hot pan. I am acting, rather, to avoid that impression. This kind of motive is anticipatory: it depends on the agent’s anticipation of the experience of future states. Hume describes the same anticipatory motivation when discussing the will a few sections later: “The will exerts itself, when either the good or the absence of the evil may be attain’d by any action of the mind or body” (T 2.3.9). We are motivated to act in certain ways because of what “may be attain’d” by doing so. An anticipatory reading of the motivation argument also accords with the passage in the Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals that is most similar to the motivation argument of T 3.1.1.5–6, “Appendix I: Concerning Moral Sentiment,” where Hume argues against moral rationalism by pointing to “the ultimate ends of human action” and “motives to action.” People perform actions, Hume tells us in the Appendix passage, because they think those actions will enable them to achieve their ultimate ends. Hume’s first example of an ultimate end is health. He writes,

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Ask a man why he uses exercise; he will answer, because he desires to keep his health. If you then enquire, why he desires health, he will readily reply, because sickness is painful. If you push your enquiries farther, and desire a reason why he hates pain, it is impossible he can ever give any. This is an ultimate end, and is never referred to any other object. (EPM App. 1, 18) This is an anticipatory account of the motivational influence of health. The prospect of the pleasure of feeling healthy in the future—and, perhaps more saliently, the prospect of the pain of feeling sick—motivates a person to exercise in the present. We explain a person’s motive to exercise by pointing to her anticipation that exercising now will enable her to avoid the painful experience of feeling sick in the future. After giving the example of health as an ultimate end, Hume maintains that virtue is an ultimate end in just the same way. Now as virtue is an end, and is desirable on its own account, without fee and reward, merely for the immediate satisfaction which it conveys; it is requisite that there should be some sentiment which it touches, some internal taste or feeling, or whatever you may please to call it, which distinguishes moral good and evil, and which embraces the one and rejects the other. (EPM App. 1, 20) Having virtue as an end explains a person’s motivations—is an answer to the question of why someone does something—in the same way having health as an end is. The anticipation of the experience of thinking that I’ve failed to do my duty gives rise in me to a motive to do my duty in the same way that the anticipation of having the experience of feeling sick gives rise in me to a motive to exercise. This anticipatory reading of the motivation argument holds that agents are motivated to do what garners self-approval and to avoid what garners self-disapproval. These agents will, of course, be in some occurrent state. What is the occurrent state of an agent with that kind of anticipatory motivation? The anticipatory reading is neutral on that question. There are several plausible options for what the occurrent state can be. All the options include in the occurrent state the agent’s belief that if she performs that action she will in the future experience self-disapproval. The differences between the options concern what, if anything, has to be added to that “self-disapproval belief.”10 According to Pigden (2009) and Owen (2016), nothing needs to be added; the self-disapproval belief can be the entirety of the occurrent state of the agent who is motivated to avoid an action. (This position does not conflict with the claim that reason alone does not motivate, according to Pigden and Owen, because the

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self-disapproval belief does not come from reason alone.) According to Sayre-McCord (1997), Karlsson (2006), and Radcliffe (2012), the occurrent state will be the self-disapproval belief combined with the agent’s passionate nature. According to Harrison (1976) and Stroud (1977), the occurrent state will be the self-disapproval belief combined with the agent’s standing general desire to avoid pain. According to Cohon (2008), the occurrent state will be the self-disapproval belief combined with a desire that has been caused by that belief. (This position does not conflict with the claim that reason alone does not motivate, according to Cohon, because causality is intransitive: that a belief causes a desire and that that desire causes a motive does not entail that the belief causes the motive.) Each of those positions on the occurrent state of the motivated agent has interpretative strengths.11 But we do not need to decide between them in order to understand the motivation argument at T 3.1.1.5–6. For the motivation argument is based on anticipatory motivational influence, and that argument works against rationalism regardless of which position we take on occurrent motivation.12 This might seem surprising, as much of the scholarly literature on Hume on moral motivation is concerned precisely with occurrent motivation—i.e., with the question of the nature of the occurrent experience that moves a person to act. But if the anticipatory reading is correct, then that question about occurrent motivation is beside the point for the argument of T 3.1.1.5–6. Let me explain now why, if the anticipatory reading of the motivation argument is correct, the question of occurrent motivation is irrelevant to T 3.1.1.5–6. Consider three kinds of states an agent can anticipate experiencing. 1. Anticipated states that an agent will have a motive to avoid regardless of whatever other goals she has; i.e., states we can conclude the agent will have a motive to avoid even if we know nothing else about what she anticipates experiencing. An explanation of an agent’s possessing a motive to avoid this kind of state does not need to cite any other goals the agent has. The experience of being severely burned is an example. I can conclude that if you think an action will cause you to experience burning, you will have a motive to avoid that action without having to know anything else about your goals or what other states you might anticipate. 2. Anticipated states that an agent will have a motive to pursue regardless of whatever other goals she has; i.e., states of mind we can conclude the agent will have a motive to pursue even if we know nothing else about what she anticipates experiencing. An explanation of an agent’s possessing a motive to pursue this kind of state does not need to cite any other goals the agent has. The experience of eating something delicious is an example. I can conclude that if you think an action will cause you to experience deliciousness, you will have a

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motive to pursue that action without having to know anything else about your goals or what other states you might anticipate. 3. Anticipated states that an agent will have a motive to pursue or avoid only because she has other goals or anticipates other states; i.e., states we cannot conclude the agent will have a motive to pursue or avoid unless we know something else about her goals or other states she anticipates. An adequate explanation of an agent’s possessing a motive to avoid or pursue this kind of state will need to cite other goals or states the agent anticipates. On the anticipatory reading, the first step of the motivation argument claims that the state of thinking that you have acted viciously is an instance of 1, and the state of thinking that you have acted virtuously is an instance of 2. The first step claims that if I know nothing about your goals or other states you anticipate except that you anticipate that performing a certain action will put you in the state of thinking that you have done something vicious, I can conclude that you will have a motive to avoid that action. And if I know nothing about your goals or other states you anticipate except that you anticipate that performing a certain action will put you in the state of thinking that you have done something virtuous, I can conclude that you will have a motive to perform that action. According to the anticipatory reading of the first step of the motivation argument, common experience informs us that human beings have motives to avoid doing what they think is vicious as consistently as they have motives to avoid touching things that they think will burn them, and they have motives to pursue doing what they think is virtuous as consistently as they have motives to eat what they think is delicious. That someone thinks acting in a certain way will lead her to think she has acted viciously is as good an explanation of her having a motive to avoid acting that way as someone’s thinking that touching a pan will cause her to experience burning is an explanation of her possessing a motive to avoid touching the pan. The second step of the motivation argument claims that anticipations of mental states that come from reason alone are instances of 3. That is, an agent will have a motive to pursue a purely rational mental state only if she also has some other goal—only if there are other (non-purely rational) mental states she also anticipates experiencing. An adequate explanation of an agent’s possessing a motive to pursue any purely rational mental state will have to include claims about other goals of the agent or states she expects to experience. There are two kinds of purely rational mental states that this second step applies to: 3a. Purely rational mental states based in “demonstration” or “the abstract relations of our ideas,” and 3b. Purely rational mental states based in “probability” or “relations of objects, of which experience only gives us information.”

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An example of the first sort of rational mental state (“demonstration”) is the conclusion you draw from performing a mathematical operation. You will anticipate, for instance, that if you multiply 1,583 by 209 you will be in the mental state of having a belief about what the product of those two numbers is. But your anticipating that you will be in that mental state (having a belief about what 1,583 times 209 is) if you perform a certain action (multiplying the two numbers together) does not on its own tell us whether you will have a motive to perform that action of multiplication. Your anticipation of that mental state does not produce in you a motive to perform the action in the same way that your anticipation of pain produces in you a motive to avoid touching a hot pan.13 If you have the motive to multiply 1,583 by 209, we will not be able to explain that motive of yours simply by pointing out that performing that action will produce in you the mental state of believing what the product of those two numbers is. The explanation of why you are motivated to perform that multiplicatory action will have to include something else about other goals or states you anticipate being in—such as that knowing the product of those two numbers will earn you a better grade on a test, or enable you to figure out how to price an item to turn a profit, or help you build a bridge. An example of the second sort of anticipated state that comes from reason alone (“probability”) is the conclusion about dandelion growth one can come to from carefully observing the numbers of dandelions in several different fields. Let us say that a person believes that if she engages in weeks of such careful observation, she will be in a mental state of believing that dandelions grow best under one kind of condition rather than another. From the fact that she thinks that weeks of careful observation will produce in her this belief about dandelion growth, can we draw any conclusions about this person’s motivations? No. If someone is motivated to engage in weeks of careful observation so she can arrive at a belief about dandelion growth, we will be able to explain that motivation only by also referring to some other goal or mental state she anticipates experiencing.14 We will also have to refer, say, to the person’s desire to grow dandelions (because she has the goal of making dandelion wine) or her desire to eradicate dandelions (because she has the goal of cultivating putting greens). The prospect of merely holding a belief about dandelion growth is not a mental state that on its own explains a person’s motives. That explanation will have to include something about other goals or states the person expects to experience. According to Hume at T 2.3.3.2, the anticipation of an affective state has a motivational influence that the anticipation of a purely rational state does not have. If an agent believes that doing something will produce in her an affectively painful or pleasurable mental state, we do not need to know anything about other states she anticipates in order to infer that she will have some motivation to avoid or pursue it. But if a person

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believes that doing something will produce in her a purely rational state of mind, we do need to know something about other states she anticipates in order to infer anything about her motives. According to Hume at T 3.1.1.5, if a person believes that doing something will lead her to think she’s done something vicious, we can infer that she will have some motivation to avoid doing it. Anticipation of the mental state of thinking that she’s done something vicious can explain her possessing a motive without the need to attribute to her any other goals or anticipations of other states. According to Hume at T 3.1.1.6, therefore, anticipation of the mental state of thinking that she’s done something vicious must be anticipation of an affective state and not anticipation of a purely rational state. And this anti-rationalist conclusion follows regardless of whether the occurrent cause of her motivation involves only a belief about future self-disapproval (as Owen (2016) and Pigden (2009) argue), or a belief about future self-disapproval plus a standing general desire for pleasure (Harrison (1976) and Stroud (1977)), or a belief about future selfdisapproval and her passionate nature (Sayre-McCord (1997), Karlsson (2006), Radcliffe (2012)), or a belief about future self-disapproval and a newly arisen but causally non-transitive aversion (Cohon 2010), etc. Here’s a metaphoric way of putting the point that the anticipatory reading of Hume’s motivation argument can work independently of views about the occurrent state of an agent who is motivated to avoid the state of thinking she’s acted viciously. Black Box 1 (BB1) has a certain kind of slab in it. Whenever BB1 is placed near metal shavings, the shavings move towards it. Black Box 2 (BB2) has a different kind of slab in it. When BB2 is placed near metal shavings, the shavings do not move. Black Box 3 (BB3) has a slab in it and we are trying to figure out whether that slab is of the same kind as the one in BB1 or the one in BB2. We find that whenever BB3 is placed near metal shavings the shavings move towards it. We can therefore conclude that the slab in BB3 is the same kind as the slab in BB1 and not the same kind as the slab in BB2. And our conclusion that slab 3 is like slab 1 and not like slab 2 is justified regardless of the causal explanation of how certain kinds of slab attract metal shavings. Our conclusion can be consistent with multiple competing explanations of the occurrent causal forces at work. Now to make the metaphor explicit: movements of the metal shavings are a person’s motives to produce in herself future mental states. The slab in BB1 is an affective mental state the person could experience, and which on its own attracts a person to try to produce it. The slab in BB2 is a rational mental state the person could experience, and which on its own does not attract a person to try to produce it. The slab in BB3 is the mental state of thinking one’s done something vicious or virtuous, which on its own attracts a person to try to produce it, which it turn gives us reason to think it’s an affective rather than a rational mental state. A further consideration in favor of the anticipatory reading of the motivation argument is the argument’s context. Hume does not delve into any

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views of occurrent motivation in T 3.1.1. He introduces his argument by saying that all the reader needs to know of Books 1 and 2 of the Treatise is the distinction between impressions and ideas.15 Hume makes explicit that distinction fits with the anticipatory reading because on the anticipatory reading the motivation argument is based precisely on the view that if a perception has an anticipatory motivational influence it must be an impression and not an idea.16

4. Objection: Wrong Motive I have argued that Hume’s motivation argument is based on approval-ofself motivation. In this section I address an objection: that this reading takes the motivation argument to be based on a motive that Hume himself dismisses as unsound, second-rate, or anomalous.17 The main text for this objection is T 3.2.1.9, where Hume distinguishes two different motives a person can have for performing a virtuous action. One motive is a “regard to the virtue” of the action. The other motive is a trait distinct from regard to the virtue of actions. Hume says “that no action can be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be in human nature some motive to produce it, distinct from the sense of its morality,” and that while in some cases an action may be performed “merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet still this presupposes in human nature some distinct principles, which are capable of producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the action meritorious” (T 3.2.1.7–8). Examples of people who act out of a “regard to virtue” are a dutiful father who lacks parental affection for his children and “hate[s] himself” as a result (T 3.2.1.8), and the beneficiary of a kindness who repays his benefactor without feeling any true gratefulness. That these people act from explicitly moral motives seems to be abnormal and non-admirable. What would be normal and admirable is for a father to act from a feeling of true parental concern and for a friend to show gratitude out of feeling of true gratefulness. The anticipatory reading takes the motivation argument to be based on explicitly moral motivation. But in T 3.1.1 Hume is making a point about the motivation of typical, admirable folks, not abnormal, non-admirable ones. Therefore, according to this objection, in T 3.1.1 Hume must have in mind a kind of motivation other than the explicitly moral motive the anticipatory reading attributes to him. This objection misfires because it conflates the lack of one kind of motive (a non-explicitly moral motivate based on a virtuous trait) with the presence of another kind of motive (an explicitly moral motive based on a regard to virtue). As Reed explains, “Hume allows virtuous actions to have all sorts of motives . . . Hume observes an array of motives that might jointly compel virtuous action and he hardly does this disapprovingly” (2012: 142; see also 136–7).18

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Imagine you see someone in distress by the side of the road and you are motivated to stop and help. You could have two kinds of motives to stop and help: [1] a motive that essentially involves representing to yourself a particular course of action as virtuous or morally required, a motive that essentially involves explicitly moral thoughts, and [2] a motive that does not involve any thoughts with explicit moral content, a motive you could have even if you are not explicitly representing to yourself anything as being virtuous or morally required. Your non-explicitly moral motive to stop and help is a motive based on your feeling of compassion for the person. You could have this motive even if you had no thoughts about what is morally required, even if it never consciously occurred to you that you morally ought to stop and help. But you could also have an explicitly moral motive to stop and help, a motive to stop and help because you consciously think that doing so is morally required. Hume’s point in 3.2.1.9 is that humans must have had non-explicitly moral motives prior to their having explicitly moral motives—that the former must pre-date the latter, that the latter could never have come into existence without the former, that the former come chronologically first. But he does not deny the existence of explicitly moral motives. He maintains, rather, that explicitly moral motives play a common and significant role in our moral lives. The “very equity and merit” of the observance of the laws of justice is our “real or universal motive” for the observance of those laws (T  3.2.1.17; see also 3.2.2.27).19 His point is just that such a motive arrives later. It will, perhaps, be said, that my regard to justice, and abhorrence of villainy and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if I have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation. And this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his civiliz’d state, and when train’d up according to a certain discipline and education. (T 3.2.1.9) It will perhaps be said, Hume is telling us here, that one’s regard to virtue will on its own constitute a motive for one to perform an action that one believes is morally required, and this explanation is perfectly apt for people like us, who have been reared and live in civilized societies. It is just this kind of phenomena—of (civilized) people often being motivated to perform actions because they represent those actions to themselves as morally required—that the anticipatory reading claims Hume has in mind when stating the first premise of the motivation argument. Indeed, Hume’s examples of chronologically later motives are a “regard to virtue” and a “regard to justice.” And it is exactly these motives—of being “deter’d from some actions by the opinion of injustice, and impell’d to others by that of obligation”—that Hume cites in his motivation

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argument, which is compelling evidence that at T 3.1.1.5–6 Hume has in mind explicitly moral motives. At T 3.2.1.8 Hume describes a situation in which a person performs an action simply because he thinks it is morally required—a situation in which someone “may perform an action merely out of regard to its moral obligation.” And this may seem to be problematic for the anticipatory reading, as Hume’s point at T 3.2.1.8 is that there is something anomalous and inferior about a person who is motivated to virtuous action only by “the sense of morality or duty.” Such a person, Hume tells us, is “devoid” of the “virtuous motive or principle” that is “common in human nature” and “may hate himself upon that account,” leading him to try “to disguise to himself, as much as possible, his want of it.” Given that Hume seems to think there is something anomalous and inferior about this person’s motivation—something that is cause for him to “hate himself” and to try to “disguise” his true motivation—it might seem problematic to take Hume to be referring to just that kind of motivation when, at T  3.1.1.5–6, he says that “men are often govern’d by their duties.” But actually it is not problematic at all. And that is because the anomalous and inferior feature of the person Hume is describing is not that he is motivated by a regard to the obligatoriness of an action. It is “just and satisfactory” to attribute such motivation to people in societies such as ours. The anomalous and inferior feature of the person of T  3.2.1.8 is that his regard to obligatoriness is his only motive to perform virtuous actions. Normal people will be motivated to perform virtuous actions when they come to think that they are morally required. But normal people will commonly possess another motive to perform those actions as well. A normal person may be motivated to express gratitude toward a benefactor not merely because she thinks it is the morally right thing to do but also because she really feels grateful. A normal father may be motivated to care for his children not merely because it is his duty but also because he cares for them. The person Hume describes at T 3.2.1.8 is anomalous and inferior because he lacks the latter motivation, not because he possesses the former. That Hume thinks there is nothing amiss about having these multiple motives to virtue—explicitly moral and non-explicitly moral—is evident from passages at the end of both the Enquiry and the Treatise. Here is the passage from the final section of the Enquiry (I’ve added the numbers): [1] [T]he immediate feeling of benevolence and friendship, humanity and kindness, is sweet, smooth, tender, and agreeable, independent of all fortune and accidents. [2] These virtues are besides attended with a pleasing consciousness or remembrance, and keep us in humour with ourselves as well as others; while we retain the agreeable reflection of having done our part towards mankind and society. [3] And though all men show a jealousy of our success in the pursuit of avarice and

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ambition; yet are we almost sure of their good-will and good-wishes, so long as we persevere in the paths of virtue, and employ ourselves in the execution of generous plans and purposes. What other passion is there where we shall find so many advantages united; [1] an agreeable sentiment, [2] a pleasing consciousness, [3] a good reputation? (EPM 9.2.21) Hume tells us here that there are three different but converging reasons a person will be happier if she is virtuous. [1] The affections that are virtuous (e.g. “humanity and kindness”) are themselves pleasant. [2] If one is virtuous one will feel the pleasure of approval toward oneself (i.e. one will have “a pleasing consciousness” and a good “humour with [oneself]”). [3] Virtue will secure a “good reputation” and elicit the “goodwill and good-wishes” of others. [1] concerns virtuous trait motivation. [3] concerns one’s motive to have others feel approval for one.20 And [2]  concerns explicitly moral approval-of-self motivation. There is no suggestion here that [2] is any less legitimate than [1] or [3]—no suggestion that being moved by [2] is occasion for regret or recrimination. Indeed, two paragraphs later, when responding to the sensible knave, Hume dilates on the importance of the “considerable motive” to virtue that is that the desire to think oneself virtuous (EPM 9.2.5). In the final paragraph of the Treatise, Hume makes the same point about the influence of explicitly moral and non-explicitly moral motives. He writes (again, with numbers added), Who indeed does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits of knowledge and ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides [1] the advantage, which immediately result from these acquisitions, they also give him [2] a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally attended with esteem and approbation? And who can think any advantages of fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the social virtues, when he considers, that not only his character with regard to others, but also [3] his peace and inward satisfaction entirely depend upon his strict observance of them; and that a mind will never be able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its part to mankind and society? (T 3.3.6.6) Here too we find three different but converging reasons to be virtuous: [1] the advantages that immediately result from virtuous traits, [2] luster in the eyes of others that results from esteem, approbation and regard, and [3] the peace and inward satisfaction that result from one’s own awareness that one has observed the social virtues and done one’s part to mankind and society. Hume presents all three as equally copacetic.

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Note the contrast between Hume’s multifarious account of our moral motivations and the monistic views Kant and Williams advance. Kant disdains all motives other than a regard to the obligatoriness of an action, dismissing as morally irrelevant reasons based on emotional attachments and concerns that have no explicitly moral content. Williams disdains motivation based on explicitly moral thoughts, disparaging as interpersonally destructive reasons based on obligation rather than emotional attachment and concern. Hume explains why people have both kinds of motives, and he doesn’t seem to think there is any reason to denigrate or regret either.21

5. Conclusion Hume recognizes that there are different types of human motivation that play a role in the moral life. When Hume argues at T 3.1.1.5–6 that morality does not originate in reason alone by citing morality’s motivational influence, he is relying only on the motivational influence of explicitly moral thoughts. This narrow focus is appropriate because at T 3.1.1.5–6 he is arguing against rationalist claims about the nature of explicitly moral thoughts. But in his own positive account, Hume explicates several other motives, such as: the motives of others we approve of that do not involve explicitly moral thoughts, the motives we develop when we approve of others, and the motives we have to garner others’ approval of ourselves. Recent empirical work in moral psychology supports much of what Hume says about these motives. The key to understanding Hume on moral motivation (and much else besides) is to see that he is a fox, not a hedgehog. He is less concerned with bringing everything together under a single organizing master idea than with explaining a wide array of different phenomena where he finds them. And given the vast and varied terrain of human motivation and moral thinking, a foxy approach to this subject (and many others besides) might very well be best.

Notes 1. Illustrative examples of a number of the interpretative difficulties, with plentiful connections to current meta-ethical debates can be found in the following essays in the Pigden-edited anthology Hume on Motivation and Virtue: Joyce, “Expressivism, Motivation Internalism, and Hume”; Lo, “Is Hume Inconsistent?”; Oddie, “Experiences of Value”; Pigden, “If Not NonCognitivism Then What?”; Sandis, “Hume and the Debate on ‘Motivating Reasons’”; and Smith, “The Motivation Argument for Non-Cognitivism.” For an overview of contemporary issues related to Hume on moral motivation, see Tiberius (2014: 29–107). 2. The motives we are speaking of here may not actually produce any action, for the agent may have other, countervailing motives that override the motives we are speaking of here. When I say someone has a motive to do something,

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6. 7. 8.

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I mean that if that person had no other motives, she would do it. But because the person may have other motives, it does not imply that the person will actually do it. See Brown (1988: 79). Philip Reed has suggested a distinction between performing an action from a sense of duty, and performing an action because one believes doing so will cause one not to disapprove of oneself. As I explain in Section 3, I believe that for Hume this is a distinction without a difference. On the reading of Hume I argue for later, acting from the sense of duty is just acting from thoughts about what will produce approval and disapproval. A fourth kind of motivation that can be called “moral motivation” is the desire to garner the approval of others. Hume mentions the desire to garner others’ approval at T 3.3.6.6 and EPM 9.2.21. We desire that others approve of us at least in part because when people approve of someone, they develop positive motivation towards her—which is the phenomenon I have called approval-of-another motivation. See also Baumann et al. (1981), Tangney et al. (2007: 347), and Nelissen et al. (2011: 79). I discuss Hume’s view of the motivational influence of pride and humility in Gill (2014: 63–8). Pleasure and pain can motivate in both anticipatory and occurrent ways. When I see the stove is hot, I am motivated to avoid touching it because I anticipate that touching it will cause me pain. When I touch the hot stove, I am motivated to remove my hand because I am occurrently experiencing pain. For discussion of how pleasure and pain can motivate occurrently, see Cohon (2010: 202–4). Baumeister et al.’s distinction between direct and indirect motivation and Hume’s distinction between direct and indirect passions do not track each other. Humean love, for instance, is an indirect passion, but Hume thinks it produces motivation in a way that Baumeister et al. would label “direct.” Baumeister et al. suggest that the occurrent state involves some kind of “twinge” that reflects painful or pleasurable past experiences and that has a kind of immediate, automatic motivational effect (2007: 169, 173, 174, 189, 190, 195). I believe the anticipatory reading I present is consistent with all of the positions just described on the agent’s occurrent state. Much of what I say about the anticipatory reading is similar to points made in Karlsson (2006), Cohon (2008), Radcliffe (2012), and Owen (2016). My position is different in that I think these points of similarity about what the agent expects are all that is needed to explain Hume’s motivation argument, while others seem to think that that argument will not work unless we include in it a position on the occurrent cause of the agent’s motivation. I say here that the “argument works,” but what I actually mean to show is that there is good reason to think Hume thought such an argument works— that the anticipatory interpretation makes sense of why Hume thought he had a strong argument against the rationalists at T 3.1.1.5–6. I myself am far from confident that the motivational aspect of morality is incompatible with a rationalist view of morality. See T 2.3.10.2–4. See T 2.3.10.5 See “Advertisement” to Book 3 and T 3.1.1.2–3; see also 3.1.2.1. At T 1.3.10, Hume discusses the “influence of belief,” explaining how certain ideas (i.e., beliefs) have “the power of actuating the will” (T 1.3.10.3). What he is describing there is the occurrent motivating influence of certain beliefs—i.e., how it is that holding a belief about what will produce in us

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Michael B. Gill pleasure or pain can have a direct motivating influence. He does not say there that beliefs have an anticipatory motivating influence—i.e., he does not say that the prospect of holding a belief we currently do not hold has on its own indirect motivating influence. And all the second premise of the anti-rationalist argument at T 3.1.1.5–6 requires is the claim that beliefs lack anticipatory influence. (T 1.3.10.3 seems to me to be strong evidence for Pigden and Owen’s interpretation of Hume on occurrent motivation.) Versions of this objection can be found in Brown (1988: 81) and Korsgaard (1989: 317); see also Baron (1988) and Darwall (1993). Similar views can be found in Coleman (1992), Abramson (2002), and Cohon (2008). Reed points out that there is an important distinction to be drawn here between motivation of the natural virtues and motivation of the artificial virtues (2012: 138–43). According to Reed’s interpretation of Hume, to instantiate a natural virtue a person must be motivated by a motive other than the regard to virtue (although it’s okay to be motivated by a regard to virtue as well), while to instantiate an artificial virtue it is enough to be motivated by a regard to virtue (because there is no original motive to an artificial virtue). My main point is that if a person thinks performing an act is virtuous/vicious, she will have a motive to perform/avoid it. This applies to thoughts about both the artificial and the natural virtues (which is consistent with Reed’s point that it is only the natural virtues that require another, non-explicitly moral motive in order for the agent to be fully virtuous). This is the fourth kind of moral motivation I discuss in footnote 5. Pigden gives a penetrating and more expansive account of the kind of view I attribute to Hume here, and connects these issues to contemporary debates about internalism and externalism (2009: 88–90). Reed also develops an elucidating comparison between Hume’s views on moral motivation and Williams’s virtue theory (2012: 143–4).

References Abramson, Kate. 2002. “Two Portraits of the Humean Moral Agent.” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 83: 301–34. Algoe, Sarah B., and Jonathan Haidt. 2009. “Witnessing Excellence in Action: the ‘Other-Praising’ Emotions of Elevation, Gratitude, and Admiration.” The Journal of Positive Psychology 4 (2): 105–27. Baron, Marcia. 1988. “Morality as a Back-up System.” Hume Studies 14 (1): 25–52. Baumann, D. J., R. B. Cialdini, and D. T. Kenrick. 1981. “Altruism as Hedonism: Helping and Self-Gratification as Equivalent Responses.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 40: 1039–46. Baumeister, Roy, Kathleen Vohs, Nathan DeWall, and Liqing Zhang. 2007. “How Emotion Shapes Behavior: Feedback, Anticipation, and Reflection, Rather than Direct Causation.” Personality and Social Psychology Review 11: 167–203. Brown, Charlotte. 1988. “Is Hume an Internalist?” Journal of the History of Philosophy 26: 69–87. Cohon, Rachel. 2008. Hume’s Morality: Feeling and Fabrication. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cohon, Rachel. 2010. “Hume’s Moral Sentiments as Motives.” Hume Studies 36: 193–213. Coleman, Dorothy. 1992. “Hume’s Internalism.” Hume Studies 18: 331–48.

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Darwall, Stephen. 1993. “Motive and Obligation in Hume’s Ethics.” Nous 27: 415–48. Fehr, Ernst, and Urs Fischbacher. 2004. “Third-party Punishment and Social Norms.” Evolution and Human Behavior 25: 63–87. Fessler, Daniel, and David Navarrete. 2004. “Third-Party Attitudes Toward Sibling Incest: Evidence for Westermarck’s Hypotheses.” Evolution and Human Behavior 25: 277–94. Gill, Michael. 2014. Humean Moral Pluralism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harrison, Jonathan. 1976. Hume’s Moral Epistemology. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 2000. A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hume, David. 2006. An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Joyce, Richard. 2009. “Expressivism, Motivation Internalism, and Hume.” In Hume on Motivation and Virtue, edited by Charles Pigden, 30–56. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Kant, Immanuel. 1785/1997. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, translated by Mary Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Karlsson, Mikael. 2006. “Reason, Passion, and the Influencing Motives of the Will.” In The Blackwell Guide to Hume’s Treatise, edited by Saul Traiger, 235–55. Oxford: Blackwell. Korsgaard, Christine. 1989. “Kant’s Analysis of Obligation.” The Monist 72: 311–40. Lo, Norva. 2009. “Is Hume Inconsistent?—Motivation and Morals.” In Hume on Motivation and Virtue, edited by Charles Pigden, 57–79. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Nelissen, R. M. A., M. C. Leliveld, E. van Dijk, and M. Zeelenberg. 2011. “Fear and Guilt in Proposers: Using Emotions to Explain Offers in Ultimatum Bargaining.” European Journal of Social Psychology 41: 78–85. Oddie, Graham. 2009. “Experiences of Value.” In Hume on Motivation and Virtue, edited by Charles Pigden, 121–41. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Owen, David W. D. 2016. “Reason, Belief and the Passions.” In The Oxford Handbook of David Hume, edited by Paul Russell, 333–55. New York: Oxford University Press. Pigden, Charles. 2009. “If Not Non-Cognitivism then What?” In Hume on Motivation and Virtue, edited by Charles Pigden, 80–104. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Radcliffe, Elizabeth. 2012. “The Inertness of Reason and Hume’s Legacy.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 42: 117–33. Reed, Philip A. 2012. “Motivating Hume’s Natural Virtues.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 42: 134–47. Sandis, Constantine. 2009. “Hume and the Debate on ‘Motivating Reasons.’” In Hume on Motivation and Virtue, edited by Charles Pigden, 142–54. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Sayre-McCord, Geoffrey. 1997. “Hume’s Representation Argument Against Rationalism.” Manuscrito 20: 77–94. Smith, Michael. 2009. “The Motivation Argument for Non-Cognitivism.” In Hume on Motivation and Virtue, edited by Charles Pigden, 105–20. London: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Sober, Elliott, and David Wilson. 1998. Unto Others: The Evolution and Psychology of Unselfish Behavior. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Stroud, Barry. 1977. Hume. London: Routledge. Tangney, J. P., J. Steuwig, and D. J. Mashek. 2007. “Moral Emotions and Moral Behavior.” Annual Review of Psychology 58: 345–72. Tiberius, Valerie. 2014. Moral Psychology: A Contemporary Introduction. London: Routledge. Williams, Bernard. 1981. Moral Luck. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

13 Passionate Regulation and the Practicality of Reason Elizabeth S. Radcliffe

One thesis prominent among many 17th- and 18th-century philosophers and clerics was that while the passions are necessary to motivation, they need to be regulated. Reason is required to control them and direct them, both because they often prompt us to improper ends and because it is dangerous to use one passion to impede the effects of another.1 Hume, on the other hand, portrays us as always subject to the forces of the passions, which sometimes create upheaval and conflict, and reason cannot change their dynamics directly. The passions do not (in fact, cannot) fall under the jurisdiction of reason, since reason’s function is to determine truth and falsity, which are not properties of passions. However, some degree of moderation of the passions is not out of reach, even on Hume’s view. The way to regulate a passion is to do what many of the rationalists disparage: acquire other passions that oppose it and prompt us in another direction. On Hume’s view, passions can be virtuous or vicious, strong or weak, calm or violent, useful or harmful, and so on, but they cannot be opposed to or in accord with reason. This fundamental disagreement between the rationalist approach and the sentimentalist approach exemplified in Hume is reflected in current philosophical discussions among those who debate the nature of practical reason. While most contemporary Humeans do not subscribe to all of the details in Hume’s analysis of reason and passion, they agree with the notion that reason by itself does not generate motives to oppose the passions. Yet, contemporary Humeans attempt to offer strategies by which one can subscribe to the thesis about the inertness of reason alone and still make sense of our having good and bad reasons for actions. They remain opposed to the rationalist line that reason can control the passions (or desires) that motivate action, while attempting to make sense of the rationality and irrationality of action. Hume’s own theory, on the other hand, implies that action and its motives are neither rational nor irrational. Contemporary psychologists and psychiatrists recognize emotional regulation as necessary to mental health and well-being. Their concern is not with whether the work of moderating stressful or destructive emotions

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is done by reason alone, but with what techniques are most effective, in whom they succeed, and under what conditions. My goals in this chapter are two: (1) to show that many of the details of Hume’s theory of passionate self-moderation are verified in contemporary studies, and (2) to argue that reason, for Hume, has a kind of practicality, given its role in passionate regulation—one that is often overlooked in discussions of practical reason. My claim is not that actions and passions are reasonable or unreasonable, on Hume’s view. Rather, it is that empirical studies of the emotions and the application of their conclusions to the project of character cultivation and passionate moderation, in Hume’s theory, show that reason is practical, in a certain sense. It does not offer, on its own, either categorical or hypothetical “oughts.” But it does yield general “oughts” that hail from reason combined with certain normative passions. My discussion here falls into the following divisions. In Section 1, “Interpretations of Hume on Practical Reason,” I briefly address the two main interpretations that have been offered of Hume’s view on the relation between reason and action. There I outline a third alternative that involves a structure of reasoning using as a premise a claim that depends on a normative passion, which allows inference to a normative conclusion. In Section 2, “Normative Passions,” I highlight how certain passions embody norms of character, for Hume, and so can be used in this line of practical reasoning I reference in Section 1. In Section 3, “Hume’s Chemistry of the Passions and Contemporary Psychology,” I investigate Hume’s portrayal of our capacity to regulate and cultivate healthy and proper passions, comparing it to the principles that emerge from the contemporary psychological literature. Section 4, “The Practicality of Reason,” then explains the practicality of reason in light of the foregoing considerations: it draws upon normative passions and conclusions about our psychology. Finally, Section 5, “Hume and Contemporary Humeans on Normative Passions and Practical Reason,” addresses the differences between the interpretation I have attributed to Hume and one popular approach to practical reason that has been adopted by Humeans.

1. Interpretations of Hume on Practical Reason The arguments Hume offers about reason and passion and their relationship are familiar, but they have led to divergent readings. First, I take a brief look at what is not disputed among interpreters. Hume claims that reason is “the discovery of truth or falsehood” (T 3.1.1.9; SBN 458), which consists either in a genuine relation of ideas, discovered by demonstration, or in agreement between ideas and matters of fact, discovered by causal reasoning (T 3.1.1.9; SBN 458). Reason does not function to motivate or cause action (on its own), since it does not originate an impulse to act. Certain passions serve as the motives to action, since they initiate attractions or aversions toward certain ends that hold the prospect of

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pleasure or pain, respectively, for us. However, “[i]t can never in the least concern us to know, that such objects are causes, and such others effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent to us” (T 2.3.3.3; SBN 414). So, it is widely agreed that a passion, on Hume’s view, must be in place first, and then reason’s role in producing action is (metaphorically) to “direct” the aversion or propensity that already exists—by discovering an object that fits the description of the end, or by discovering what is causally related to such an object (T 2.3.3.3; SBN 414). Obviously, then, reason is not motivating on its own.2 Furthermore, it is uncontroversial to say that Hume holds that reason cannot oppose passion in the causation of action. “If reason has no original influence, ’tis impossible it can withstand any principle, which has such an efficacy. . . . We speak not strictly and philosophically when we talk of the combat of passion and of reason” (T 2.3.3.4; SBN 415). He thinks this view is affirmed by an analysis of passion, which he characterizes as “an original existence” that contains no representative quality and makes no reference to anything outside of itself. He concludes that it is impossible that a passion can be opposed to reason, since to oppose reason is to represent something contrary to the ideas that reason produces (T 2.3.3.5; SBN 415). Commentators disagree about what follows from some of the preceding assertions in conjunction with other details in Hume’s view. One interpretation has it that Hume is an instrumentalist about practical reason: we are practically rational when we take the proper means to our ends—that is, when we take action based on accurate beliefs about the means (beliefs formed by reason).3 Another interpretation says that Hume is a skeptic about practical reason: that nothing counts as a reason for or against an action whatsoever. So, even if one has beliefs, accurate or not, about how to achieve the state of affairs the passion focuses one on, the actions one undertakes in light of those beliefs are not justified or unjustified by reason.4 Evidence for the instrumentalist reading lies largely in claims that Hume makes about a non-technical sense of rationality that is “obvious and natural” and applies to passions: “that passions can be contrary to reason only so far as they are accompany’d with some judgment or opinion” (T 2.3.3.6; SBN 415–16). He describes two ways in which this might happen (although, in my view, they really come to the same thing). We might experience a passion based on a mistaken belief about the features of an object (I desire to eat a sweet and mistakenly think this pretzel is sweet—so I desire to eat it); or we might take an insufficient means to our ends because of a false belief about causes and effects (I desire a sweet and mistakenly think that eating this pretzel is the means to satisfying my desire—so I desire to eat it). On the instrumentalist interpretation, Hume here countenances a sense of rationality in action according to which taking the means to one’s ends, based on accurate belief, is rational, and

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acting on false belief and not achieving one’s ends is irrational. A passage in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals lends further support to the instrumentalist reading. There, Hume seems to affirm that we can have reasons for ends that are instrumental to other ends, but we cannot make sense of reasons for ultimate ends: Ask a man, why he uses exercise; he will answer, because he desires to keep his health. If you then enquire, why he desires health, he will readily reply, because sickness is painful. If you push your enquiries farther, and desire a reason, why he hates pain, it is impossible he can ever give any. This is an ultimate end, and is never referred to any other object. (EPM App 1.18; SBN 293) On the other hand, that Hume is a skeptic about practical reason is supported by the vivid examples he uses to illustrate the disconnection between the domains of reason and preferences or actions based on them: ’Tis not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger. ’Tis not contrary to reason for me to chuse my total ruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian or person wholly unknown to me. ’Tis as little contrary to reason to prefer even my own acknowledg’d lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent affection for the former than the latter. (T 2.3.3.6; SBN 416) Hume here seems to reject the common view that rational preferences include preferences for virtuous over vicious ends, preferences for selfpreservative over self-destructive ends, or preferences for prudent over imprudent ends. Of course, the real point is that they are neither rational nor irrational. However, Hume’s treatment of these cases in this passage is not enough by itself to undermine the attribution of instrumentalism; it seems he could hold that, while preferences for ends are not assessable by reason, whether we take the appropriate means to them is. But some commentators point out that if there are no reasons to adopt one end over another, then there can be no reasons to take steps toward one end over another.5 If these commentators are right, this would show that instrumentalism itself is an incoherent position, not that Hume did not intend to hold it. However, given Hume’s causal view of action, it must be the case that if some end is the subject of a person’s strongest desire, that person will pursue it. Then Christine Korsgaard would be right to say of Hume’s theory of action: “[T]o say that something is your end is not to say that you have a reason to pursue it, but at most to say that you are going to pursue it” (1997: 223). It looks, then, as though Hume would be a skeptic about practical reason. At most, he could treat passions, the

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causes of action, as motivating reasons, but he would have no theory of normative reasons for action. The issue of concern here is, of course, with justifying, or normative, reasons, rather than with motivating or explanatory ones. I want to argue that Hume’s view allows that reason is practical; however, not in the sense that is ordinarily meant by “practical reason.” Instrumentalism assumes what is typically called “the hypothetical imperative”; that we ought to take the means to our ends (whatever they may be). This is supposedly a directive hailing from reason. Non-instrumentalist theories allege that a hallmark of practical reason is that we are able to reason about what ends we ought to pursue. Hume holds neither of these views. However, I want to argue that reason is practical, for Hume, in the sense that it provides practical information, which provides the content for a premise in a line of reasoning to a conclusion about what one ought to do. The line of reasoning itself, however, must contain a premise with an “ought,” which, of course is not derived from reason: (1) I ought to do or become G. (2) To do G, or to become G, requires that I to do  and ß. (C) Therefore, I ought to do  and ß. Since Hume maintains that actions are signs of character (or motives) and that character is the object of moral judgment, it is more appropriate to say: (1) I ought to become G (for instance, generous). (2) To become G requires that I do  and ß (for instance, that I “practice” being generous by giving more to others than I do now and that I focus on others’ needs and less on my own concerns). (C) Therefore, I ought to do  and ß (for instance, practice generosity, focus on others, etc.). Premise (2) is given its content by the investigations of inductive reason. The evaluation in premise (1), however, does not hail from reason, but is generated by the passionate or sentimental part of our nature. It is not, however, generated from just any sentiment or desire that might give us an aim or end. Hume’s theory of the passions, reason, and action show that he is not committed to endorsing the following: (1) I desire A. (2) Doing  and  are the means to achieving A. (C) I ought to do  and  It may very well happen that I in fact do  and . This would be the case when A is my strongest desire, and I understand that doing  and  are

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the means to A. However, the only way we can conclude by reasoning that there is some action we ought to do is to have among the premises an “ought” judgment. On Hume’s theory of the origin of “oughts,” such a premise would hail from certain sentiments (passions) felt under certain conditions. How do we impute normativity to passions, on Hume’s view?

2. Normative Passions We have practical certainty about many matters of human nature, according to Hume. He writes, Why do philosophers infer, with the greatest certainty, that the moon is kept in its orbit by the same force of gravity, that makes bodies fall near the surface of the earth, but because these effects are, upon computation, found similar and equal? And must not this argument bring as strong conviction, in moral as in natural disquisitions? (EPM 6.6; SBN 236) He goes on to say that reflection on what is part of everyday experience is all that is necessary to remove doubt and hesitation on such matters. Then Hume makes various claims about the virtues and vices, based on a few observations. Among his claims are: that no virtue is more important to success and avoidance of disappointment than discretion, that the best temperament employs enterprise and caution, that reasonable frugality is required for any achievement, and that lack of chastity ruins a woman’s character and reputation. In this context he claims that all are equally desirous of happiness; but few are successful in the pursuit: One considerable cause is the want of STRENGTH of MIND, which might enable them to resist the temptation of present ease or pleasure, and carry them forward in the search of more distant profit and enjoyment. (EPM 6.15; SBN 239–40) Thus, it is clear that Hume believes we have good grounds upon which to attribute generally to people a desire for happiness in terms of the psychological tranquility that strength of mind brings by allowing us to meet our distant, but most cherished goals. The mere desire for peace of mind is not enough, however, to make the character that exhibits strength of mind a norm or exemplar for us. That it is an exemplar is due to the fact that we consider it a virtue, that is, that we approve it from “a steady and general” point of view, just as we do all traits that are virtues (T 3.3.1.15; SBN 581–2). That we so respond to such traits of character is exactly what makes them virtues, on Hume’s view, rather than personally favored features. Moral normativity,

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for Hume, derives from the fact that people approve of character or character traits from a socially shared perspective; thus, the approvals are significant of shared values or interests in the way that idiosyncratic approvals are not. Some virtues are oriented toward the good of others; some are oriented toward the good of the self. Strength of mind is largely a prudential virtue, of which Hume says “Nothing contributes more to happiness” than its possession (EMPL 168). But strength of mind is not just a prudential virtue, since living harmoniously with others, which is one result of recognizing and adhering to long-term interest over short, is to the benefit of all. In fact, Hume notes that if we all possessed strength of mind, we would not need government and the rules of justice (EPM 4.1; SBN 205). If we are able to take up a general point of view and experience the sentiments indicative of normative distinctions, then we can acquire the judgments or beliefs that we ought to be certain ways that we are not. Here I assume an interpretative line that I have argued for elsewhere, that on Hume’s view, we do have beliefs about morals and about what we should be, and that those beliefs are based on sentiments.6 I cannot present those arguments here, but given that this is so, we can engage in practical reasoning about what we ought to do to achieve the appropriate character traits that we lack. This reasoning is means-ends reasoning of the sort that the instrumentalist highlights, but the view that I am here arguing for on Hume’s behalf does not assume that we are rational when we take the means to our ends, whatever they may be, and irrational when we do not. I am suggesting instead that (1) we engage reason when we arrive at an understanding of how to cultivate certain passions that are generally approved and admired, and (2) that the results of such understanding can figure in a practical argument about what we ought to do, given that a premise of the argument is a normative claim (for Hume, dependent upon a sentiment). Psychology contributes to the project of understanding how to moderate our harmful passions and cultivate the beneficial ones. We are not irrational when we fail to act on the conclusion of such an argument, but we are morally, including prudentially (on Hume’s broad view of morality), deficient.

3. Hume’s Chemistry of the Passions and Contemporary Psychology The psychological principles that we can implement to transform our passions into valuable ones derive most readily from Hume’s treatment of contrary passions. Hume’s theory of the passions recognizes many sources of conflict that undermine our peace of mind. Annette Baier suggests that Book 2 of the Treatise begins with addressing the contrariety of the passions, “a theme that had been dramatically introduced in the conclusion of Book One, where, in the space of a few pages, despair and

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merriment, spleen and good humor, ambition and diffidence, compete for possession of the would-be self-understander’s soul” (1991: 131). It seems right to think that, on Hume’s view, the passions can be contrary in a few ways: they can be opposed in their production (being produced by pleasure or by pain); they can be contrary in producing favorable and unfavorable attitudes, respectively, toward the same object; or they can be opposed in their motivational effects, urging us in opposite directions.7 Discovering the means to overcome the prevailing contrariety, to achieve a stable and settled emotional state, and to become a person with strength of mind is a function of reason and observation of human nature. Furthermore, psychological studies have shown that the belief on the part of an agent that she can control her emotions affects how successful she is in so doing.8 The actual production of the desired state, however, depends on the work of the passions. Perhaps some of the passions’ moderation of themselves is instinctive or non-reflective, but an understanding of the psychological principles that describe passionate interactions can offer the means for some individuals to manipulate their own feelings and engage in some kind of project of self-cultivation. Here, I want to excavate those principles from Hume’s discussion and show how they receive support from some of the relevant findings in contemporary psychology. Recent work in empirical psychology confirms that emotional conflict is related to how and when individuals regulate their emotions. Aldao and Wisco report that the most common form of motivational conflict is the approach-avoidance type, in which individuals are pushed toward approaching and avoiding two competing goals, such as eating cake and staying on a diet (2015: 943). This is the contrariety I identify as the third sort in the discussion of Hume just preceding. Psychologists generally acknowledge that conflict produces anxiety and that anxiety left unregulated results in further conflict and the inability to act for the goals one cares most about (Barlow 2002; Mennin and Fresco 2014). When subjects are put in emotional conflict situations, such as viewing disgust-eliciting videos, following by a food-tasting task, the level of anxiety was overall higher than in situations where subjects had no approach-avoidance conflict (Mennin 2014: 948–50). Such studies provide evidence that conflicting passions, to use Hume’s terms, exacerbate passionate “violence,” given that the presence of anxiety is typically the presence of internal turmoil. A distinction crucial to Hume’s discussion of passionate motivation and moderation is that between violent and strong passions, on the one hand, and between calm and weak ones, on the other. Violence and calmness are phenomenal dimensions of a passions, while strength and weakness are causal. Hume describes violence and calmness in terms of the internal upheaval with which a passion is felt: calm passions cause “no disorder in the soul,” are known by their effects, and are often mistaken for reason.

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Among calm passions are generally the sentiments of beauty and morality (T 2.1.1.3; SBN 276) and the natural instincts of benevolence, resentment, love of life, and kindness to children (T 2.3.3.8; SBN 417). Violent passions usually include love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility (T 2.1.1.3; SBN 276). The passions that fall under each description can change with the circumstances, however. Calm passions can at times have more motivational strength than violent ones, and so be effective in action, even in the presence of a passion felt with greater internal turmoil. The person with strength of mind is in fact defined as the person who has a character such that the calm passions are consistently motivationally stronger than the violent (T 2.3.3.10; SBN 418); this is what makes it possible for that person to be moved by the prospect of long-term good over immediate pleasures.9 Yet, Hume also thinks that persons more frequently act on violent passions over calm ones. Consequently, if we want to drive someone to an action, “’twill commonly be better policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and rather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly call’d his reason” (T 2.3.4.1; SBN 419). Empirical investigations into motivational conflict show that the attempts by persons to regulate emotional upheaval take place early in the experiences of emotional turmoil. This means that such attempts happen quickly in response to the causes of the distress (Aldao and Wisco 2015: 950). Emotion regulation is also applied to avoid unpleasant, agitated (violent) feelings in general: it is “the process by which people stay positive in the face of adversity, keep calm under pressure and prevent themselves from becoming overwhelmed by feelings such as disgust, anger, or sadness” (Christou-Champi et al. 2015: 319–20). The sorts of techniques used include: experiential avoidance or suppression (attempts to avoid evoking the unpleasant feeling), perseverative cognition (mental representation of the sources of stress, before or after the occurrence), cognitive reappraisal (reframing the source of stress in a more positive light), and mindfulness (being aware of one’s emotional states).10 If we refer to Hume’s account of the principles at work in our experience of contrary passions, we also find strategies for blocking certain violent passions or their effects, some of which are consonant with the contemporary psychological techniques. Here I identify five strategies from Hume. 1. Since we are more likely moved by violent passions than calm ones, we might bring to mind a lively idea of a good in order to provoke a violent passion for it. Furthermore, Hume claims that a more violent passion will absorb a less violent one when the two are produced by separate causes: “[t]he predominant passion swallows up the inferior, and converts it into itself,” and the reigning passion will of course determine the direction of action (T 2.3.4.2; SBN 420). So, for example, a man’s love for his mistress is intensified by the jealousy and quarrelsome affections her faults give rise to; a politician raises

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a question that he delays in answering, producing anxiety in order to heighten curiosity on the part of the public. Likewise, we might try to generate a beneficial passion that incorporates a harmful one. We thereby thwart the effect of the deleterious affection and intensify the effect of the favorable one. My appetite for a sugary drink might be overcome when I imagine the refreshing and healthy effects of a cold, sparkling water, and my appetite for the latter will increase as it incorporates the force of the original thirst for the sweet drink. So, this strategy involves transformation of a harmful emotion by a stronger, more violent, but healthy one; it is as though the violent emotion sucks the motivational force out of the weaker emotion, and channels that force to its own end. 2. When we have conflicting passions resulting from alternate views of an object, Hume suggests that the two will neutralize one another and leave the mind in a state of composure or tranquility, in the way that “an alcali and an acid, which, being mingled, destroy each other” (T 2.3.9.17; SBN 443). So, we might apply this psychological principle to alter our own feelings. If I feel stress at having to meet an urgent work deadline, I might imagine the consequences and benefits of the product I am aiming for, in order to produce a counteremotion, even if weak, that dispels the unpleasant stress. I think that this strategy involves a combination of experiential suppression and cognitive reappraisal, in the psychological vernacular. Since the goal is to neutralize the unpleasant emotional reaction, this tactic involves a kind of suppression, but the suppression is achieved by conjuring up an alternate perspective on the object. Such a blend of approaches might be appropriate in cases when the prospect of replacing the detrimental passion by a positive one seems futile, but the goal of neutralizing the harmful appears within reach. 3. If we have uncertainty about the nature of an object, we will experience contrary passions of joy and sadness, which alternate, and whose intensities are amplified by the insecurity. These emotions eventually blend into a new passion of hope or fear. Hume’s observations on this matter suggest that we might make ourselves more optimistic persons in general by concentrating in each such instance on the possibility that good, rather than evil, will result. Since understanding probabilities is a crucial factor in how and to what degree the passions of joy and sadness alternate, attending closely to the odds of a certain outcome can affect whether the emotion of hope or fear is predominant as well. While we might prefer hope over fear, the realization that the less preferred outcome is more likely might very well mitigate the insecurity we feel when we do not attend closely to the chances, thereby lessening emotional instability and stress. So, for instance, if I realize that the chances that my biopsy will be positive for cancer are 85%, I can use my awareness of these odds to build proper expectations and “prepare for the worst.” This

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most salient contemporary psychological strategy involved here is mindfulness, since we must attend not only to the odds of various outcomes, but also to the emotions that uncertainty creates and the interplay between hope and fear, in order to stabilize our reactions. Hume also offers other techniques, not derived from the principles of passionate conflict, for calming the passions and for strengthening the motivational force of the calm passions. The efficacy of these are also corroborated by psychological investigations. 4. A way to acquire calm passions is to take up what Hume calls the “steady and general points of view” on objects, situations, and persons that are indicative of our value judgments. To take such a perspective is to react emotionally to the person or object as though one is psychologically divested of particular ties to the person or thing. We thus respond to a person or an object in light of the effects on others closely connected to the person or the thing, by sympathizing with those persons, rather than in light of our own personal connections of causation, contiguity, or resemblance. Taking up this point of view renders our passions calm and steady and allows them a normative status that they do not possess in their unregulated form. While our feelings toward our loved ones from our personal perspectives are not necessarily indicative of the moral value of their characters, when we experience those feelings from a general (or “common”) point of view, we can take those sentiments as revelatory of moral qualities. Appreciation of aesthetic qualities likewise requires that we not rely on our reactions from a personal perspective: We may observe, that every work of art, in order to produce its due effect on the mind, must be surveyed in a certain point of view, and cannot be fully relished by persons, whose situation, real or imaginary, is not conformable to that which is required by the performance. (EMPL 239) Likewise, when we step away from our immediate situation and take a broad viewpoint on our own passions and goals, we can more finely see what is in our long-range interest and perhaps develop affections for ends that better serve our welfare. When we assess ourselves, Hume says that our opinions are often frail and shaken easily by the judgments of others, who are better situated to make a proper judgment. Our consciousness of partiality still makes us dread a mistake: And the very difficulty of judging concerning an object, which is never set at a due distance from us, nor is seen in a proper point of view, makes us hearken anxiously to the opinions of others, who are better qualified to form just opinions concerning us. (DP 2.33)

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So, for instance, I may realize that my constant complaining (due to my sour disposition) is affecting my relationships with others when I step back and view myself in the way others perceive me. 5. Custom and habit is a principle that we might call upon to increase the motivational effect of calm passions. The more accustomed we become to acting for a long-term good over a short-term one or to acting from calm benevolence over disgust, etc., the more strongly we are inclined to act on the relevant passion again. This is because custom bestows “a facility in the performance of any action or the conception of any object; and afterwards a tendency or inclination towards it” (T 2.3.5.1; SBN 422). It requires some degree of exertion and effort to initiate unfamiliar action toward an object caused by a novel passion; at the same time, the experience is exciting and produces surprise. Surprise, for Hume boosts both agreeable and disagreeable feelings. When the passion recurs and we act upon it again and again, the novelty is diminished, and the passion, which was violent, becomes calmed. Similarly, our proficiency at the practice is augmented and becomes a source of serene pleasure. The pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of the spirits, as in their orderly motion; which will sometimes be so powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a relish in time for what at first was most harsh and disagreeable. (T 2.3.5.3; SBN 423)12

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Thus, I might undermine my tendency to binge watch movies and stay up too late by getting myself to turn off the television at a certain hour one evening, and then another evening, and so on, until the upheaval to my routine is diminished and the pain of missing that form of entertainment is replaced by a feeling of calmness. Psychological studies confirm this role of habit in easing the passions as it facilitates action. First, it has long been granted that repetition of action until it becomes habitual makes its performance virtually unconscious. George Herbert Mead studied the importance of habit and its effects on self-awareness of motivation from the 1910s through the 1980s and concluded that habitual behavior, often acquired by trial and error, becomes motivationally imperceptible to the agent as she becomes accustomed to it: “Not only do our inherited and acquired habits exhibit manners that do not disclose mental operations but a great deal of direct influence lies outside of the processes ordinarily termed ‘thinking’” (1938: 68). He also claims, “In fact it is essential to the economy of our conduct that the connection between stimulation and response should become habitual and should sink below the threshold of consciousness” (1964: 127). An implication of this view is that we are unaware of effort and emotional exertion in performing customary actions, a verification of Hume’s view that habituation calms the passions, while lending stronger motivational force to the habitual, calm motive. Second, emotional regulation in the form of reappraisal happens automatically and with greater ease as it is practiced, making emotional moderation possible in crisis situations. Studies have shown that professionals who are subjected to frequent pressure, such as emergency room staff, will likely find the enhanced resilience produced by more automatic forms of emotional regulation to be advantageous.13 The use of effortful forms of ER [emotional regulation] under these circumstances would not permit sustained regulation of emotional responses. More automatic forms of ER, on the other hand, use fewer self-regulatory resources, thereby allowing prolonged regulation of emotional responses. (Christou-Champi et al. 2015: 326)

4. The Practicality of Reason I have presented here much evidence for the theses (A) that there are strategies for achieving strength of mind that can be extracted from Hume’s psychological theory and (B) that the efficacy of these strategies has been corroborated by psychological studies. While given the technical limits of reason in Hume’s theory, it does not make sense to say that persons have normative reasons to employ these tactics, it is sensible to say that they ought to employ them. That I can mitigate my distress at a coming medical

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procedure by attending closely to its beneficial consequences is a fact that indicates that I ought to bring an idea of those consequences to mind vividly, if I have the emotional capacity to produce a vivacious conception and sustain it. Given that I can experience a calm but causally strong passion for a distant good that will make my life better in the long run by taking a broad, shared perspective on my own character, then I ought to take up this broad perspective, if I am psychologically able to do so. However, in neither of these circumstances do I have an injunction independent of the normative passions that indicate which ends are good. Furthermore, these are not injunctions independent of facts about my particular constitution, since I have to be the sort of person who has it within herself to muster this imaginative appeal and thereby alter her emotions. This means, however, that I need to be aware both of my emotional states (“mindfulness” in the psychological literature) and aware of the means of altering the distressful ones. Granted, some of the techniques of emotional regulation come naturally and without conscious effort, but in many cases, moderation of difficult emotions takes a good deal of practice (Christou-Champi et al. 2015: 327–9). It follows, therefore, that while regulation of the passions, on Hume’s theory, is prompted by the passions themselves, its undertaking and success must draw on contributions from reason. It is in this sense that I contend that reason is practical. I want to clarify what my argument entails. First, my argument is not a case for the thesis that Hume’s theory of reason and motivation allows that reason tells us what passions or ends we ought to have. Rather, my argument supports the thesis that reason delivers beliefs about how to acquire those passions that are conducive to peace of mind, the pursuit of long-distance goals over short-range pleasures, and virtuous aims over vicious. Second, my argument does not include the claim that everyone ought to develop the calm passions; rather, the claim is that those who are capable of such cultivation should. Some persons, given their emotional constitution, may simply not have the ability to undertake the steps necessary to increase the force of calm passions over violent. Attending to the merits of my competitor’s character might produce within me a sentiment of admiration to combat my feeling of envy; this is a consideration whose believing might give me a reason to contemplate her virtues. But if I simply lack the capacity to focus on my opponent’s good features, it would make no sense to say that I have reason to do so, even if, per impossible, my doing so would increase my peace of mind. Third, I am not claiming that desires or passions themselves are reasons or even components of reasons. Instead, I am claiming that the passions that are normative make the conclusions of practical arguments possible, for they provide the “oughts” that give some persons ends, namely, those who possess the capacity to work on character change. To return to the structure of practical reasoning in Hume that I earlier offered, using strength of mind as the virtue for which to aim (since it is most general):

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(1) I ought to become a person with strength of mind (one who experiences calm passions with a causal strength greater than violent passions), if I can. [This premise is based upon persons’ approvals (passions) from a general point of view.] (2) To become a person with strength of mind requires that I undertake various strategies of passionate regulation and that I use them often enough to make them habitual (mindfulness, experiential suppression, cognitive reappraisal, etc.). [This is a premise supplied by reason—by reflective introspection and by psychological studies of the passions.] (C) Therefore, I ought to undertake these strategies for regulation of the passions, if I can. The “ought” in the conclusion is not a directive that comes from reason alone; it is derived from a premise that depends upon passion in combination with a premise that depends upon reason. Note that this argument is not an illustration of instrumentalism, since instrumentalism presumes that I ought to take the means to my ends, and that I am irrational if I do not. On Hume’s view, if I do not possess the desire to develop strength of mind, I still ought to become a person who has that virtue (and other virtues); thus, the preceding argument would nonetheless apply to me, as long as I am constitutionally able to act on the conclusion and initiate the project of changing my character. Furthermore, it is not that I am irrational if I do not undertake the projects indicated by the conclusion (when I can); rather, I am morally deficient. I have so far maintained that there are practical arguments that derive from Hume’s claims about passions, normativity, our psychological chemistry, and moderation of the passions. This is not to assert that Hume’s theory countenances practical reasons in the sense that contemporary philosophers write about them: as commands hailing from reason that tell us which ends we ought to pursue. Rather, it is to say that Hume’s theory recognizes inferences with “ought” conclusions that contain a combination of premises based on passion and on reason. Reason is practical in application.

5. Hume and Contemporary Humeans on Normative Passions and Practical Reason I want to conclude this discussion by showing how the view I derive from Hume has common features with one popular Humean theory of practical reason. Many Humeans argue for the thesis of desire-based reasons, the view that reasons for actions depend on the desires one possesses. The ground for this view is that one cannot have a reason to do an action for which one has no motivation, and motivation must be

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supplied by the desires (passions) one has for particular objects or states of affairs. This move relativizes reasons to desires, however, which still makes reasons, not about ends, but about acting to achieve ends that desires set.14 Others, however, attempt to offer a more robust theory of reasons for action that focuses on justification of ends, rather than on means. This line looks prima facie incompatible with Hume’s thesis about the inertness of reason, since reason’s inertness is due to its producing cognitions, rather than passions or preferences for ends. So, other modifications are needed if Humeanism is to offer an evaluation of ends. Consequently, a route Humeans have taken to account for normative reasons for actions that is true to the thesis of desire-based reasons is to argue that second-order desires have a normative status that provides justification for certain ends over others. The second-order desire view has commonalities, I think, with Hume’s conception of passions or sentiments experienced from a general or common point  of view. Both involve stepping into a higher-order perspective to assess our first-order desires. (The second-order desire view, however, does not explicitly reference our sympathy with others in developing our reactions to our first order desires.)15 Here I discuss two versions of the second-order desire view, one from Donald Hubin and one, more recently, from Neil Sinhababu. I believe that Hubin’s view runs into difficulties that the sketch of practical reasoning I have derived from Hume does not. In an often-cited article, “What’s Special About Humeanism,” Hubin characterizes Humeanism as the conjunction of two logically independent theses: the thesis of “pure instrumentalism” (as he calls it) and the thesis of “desire-based reasons.” The first thesis, Hubin argues, is uncontroversial: anyone who understands it should subscribe to it as part of a theory of practical reason. He describes the two in this way: 1. The thesis of pure instrumentalism holds that reasons are communicated from ends to means—that he who has a reason for the ends also has a reason for the means. . . . Pure instrumentalism . . . makes no claims about the source of reasons. (1999: 32)16 2. The thesis of desire-based-reasons, on the other hand, holds that the ultimate source of reasons for an agent to act, in the sense relevant to rational advisability and to the rational appraisal of agents, is in the subjective, contingent, conative states of that agent. (1999: 32)17 Humeanism allows, he says, that we can judge that a person who fails to take the means to his or her (valued) ends is practically irrational. Hubin argues that the theory has a distinctive virtue, namely:

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The charge of Humean irrationality is “unshruggable” in a way that other conceptions of rationality are not. For the agent who is irrational in the Humean sense cannot avoid the motivational force of our judgment about him by pleading that he does not care about the ends in question. (1999: 39) Since thesis [1] concerns the transference of reasons for the ends to the means (and thus to the action of taking the means), it implies that the ends are themselves justified by reasons, which seems to be just what Humeans deny. Hubin, however, offers the thesis of value-based reasons as a variation on the thesis of desire-based reasons: “According to the Humean, it is the agent’s valuations that generate (through the vehicle of pure instrumentalism) reasons for acting. Let’s say that these evaluations define the agent’s evaluative point of view” (1999: 38). Since reasons for acting are purportedly produced through transference of reasons from the ends to the means, the value-based Humean as depicted here is committed to the view that her values give her reasons for having certain ends, and because those reasons transfer to the means, they create the reasons for acting.18 Thus, on this (Hubin’s) view, it must be that taking the means to achieve one’s valued ends is rational because valuing “rationalizes” or justifies the corresponding ends. Whatever one’s method of evaluation, it must be the case that valuing, which is a conative state, does not arise from reasoning in isolation from the agent’s own motivations. For, Humeanism is left behind if we allege that a person can reason about what is most important for her without reference to something she already cares about.19 On a Humean theory of valuing, there must be some ends that one values, not because they are instrumental to other cherished ends, but because of what they are: they are valued for themselves.20 Rather, their existence must provide the ultimate justification for any subsidiary or contributory ends we ought to adopt and any actions we ought to do. In light of this, something looks wrong with pure instrumentalism as part of the Humean position: for if our values are reasons, in the normative sense, for our ends, the Humean is logically committed to the possibility of a gap between the ends for which she has a reason and the ends she actually has. That is, there is no point to our having a reason or justification for an end if we cannot fail to have the end; and saying that a desire or value makes its object our end implies that we cannot fail to have it as our end, when we desire or value it. Hence, there is no point to our desires or values giving us reasons or justifications for their ends. Thus, on the view that values give us reasons for the ends, the door must be left open to the actor’s claiming that she does not care about (in the sense of “caring” in which caring has motivational force) what she values; we can admonish her, on pain of irrationality, to care about, that

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is, have as a goal, things that she does not. Consider an example. From Hiram’s evaluative perspective, cheating is undesirable and so not among his values. Does it follow on a Humean view that he has reason to adopt honesty as an end? This analysis is apt on some (rationalist) theories of practical rationality, but what the Humean should say is that Hiram already has, in light of his evaluation of cheating, adopted honesty as an end. Perhaps it is not the end for him with the strongest drive or motivation behind it, but it is an end of his. For if Humeans say that he has reason to adopt honesty as an end, then there is the possibility that Hiram, on the occasion when he gives in to temptation and cheats, can simply deny that honesty was a goal of his. So, the implications of the thesis of pure instrumentalism are inconsistent with the thesis of desire-based reasons. The former, because it implies that there are justifications for the ends, implies the possibility of a difference between my actual ends and the ends I ought to have (specified by my values); the latter implies that I can only have a reason to do an action that is a means to an end I actually possess.21 The sense in which reason is practical on the sketch I have offered using Hume’s own tenets does not have this difficulty. It is committed to the normativity of ends being dependent upon certain regulated and shared passions, rather than upon an individual’s desires, even secondorder. The common point of view from which we assign value in Hume is one that not everyone does occupy, at least not all of the time. So, its description does imply that some of us might not have the proper ends in sight, while they are nonetheless normative for us. Reason is practical in that it reveals psychological facts about what we must do to make the proper ends our own. It does not give us reasons for ends that transfer to the means; the ends are only justified by certain kinds of passions. Neil Sinhababu also advocates for a second-order desire view of Humean reasons, which I think is more successful and edges more closely to the view of practical reason that I have found in Hume’s own motivational psychology. Sinhababu develops his view in response to various critics of Humeanism who think that Humean theories of motivation cannot take into account deliberation and intentionality. Tim Scanlon alleges that Humeanism implies that deliberation is simply the weighing of competing desires, a view that neglects to acknowledge that agents can put aside the motivating force of certain desires in deliberation and prevent those desires from moving them to action (1998: 52). For instance, sometimes we do not weigh personal desires in our decision making, due to the nature of the goal we are pursuing: I put aside my personal connections when I am trying to make a professional decision, such as whom to hire. However, Sinhababu argues that Humeans can explain this phenomenon by appealing to second-order desires we have about how our desires will influence us. Sinhababu’s account emphasizes the hedonic aspect of desire, noting the displeasure we will take in ourselves when we imagine

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ourselves acting on the very desires whose influence we want to undermine, a feature of our mental life that Scanlon’s account leaves out (Sinhababu 2009: 489–95). Sinhababu also tries to show how Humeanism in fact provides better explanations of the essential features of intentionality than non-Humean theories. For instance, Kieran Setiya maintains that to have an intention requires an agent to have a belief about what she is doing and the ability to choose reasons for her actions (2008: 391). Sinhababu’s response is to explain intention in terms of belief and desire, characterizing an “appropriately situated” desire as an intention. An agent intends an action when the agent desires a goal that she believes is more likely to obtain in a particular situation if she does that action than if she does not, such that when she believes that situation obtains, she will do the action from that belief and desire with no further reasoning (2013: 680–2). In reply to the allegation that the belief-desire model cannot explain the reason-choosing aspect of intentionality, Sinhababu here appeals to the second-order desire view, whereby our desires about our desires constitute our favoring of some of our reasons over others (2013: 686–8). Michael Bratman’s objections to Humeanism have mostly to do with the supposed inability of the belief-desire model to explain deliberation, as when one reconsiders one’s intentions (1987: 17–19). But if desires are treated as “inputs” to deliberation that make us (borrowing from Hume) “cast our view on every side” to figure out what is related causally to the object of desire, then, as we deliberate, desires combine with new means-ends beliefs to form new intentions. Intentions, Sinhababu says, involve having an appropriately related desire and belief; and since intentions are made of desires, intentions are inputs to deliberation as on a Humean view as well (2013: 693). Sinhababu’s view is an appealing form of Humeanism that stays true to the desire-based view, countenances deliberation, and incorporates a normative perspective with the invocation of second-order desires. The description of practical reasoning I have put forth on Hume’s behalf is one in which reasoning is practical because it allows us to draw normative conclusions about action from a normative premise about character (passions) and a descriptive or psychological premise about the means to that character. It derives an “ought” from an “ought,” but acknowledges that the derivation relies on the use of reason. It does not refer to reasons for action, but to practicality of reasoning. It acknowledges that some passions are authoritative and others are not, and keeps the function of passion (motivation) separate from that of reason (assessing truth). Contemporary Humeans, like Sinhababu, want to offer a theory of practical reason by which there are reasons for action that incorporate certain sorts of desires that are authoritative. If we are willing to allow that reason assesses not only truth, but also the way in which truth affects a person’s actions (given what they care most about), we can make the move to Humeanism. Hume, however, was perfectly consistent in his portrayal

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of reason and passion and in his theory of passionate regulation and did not make that move. That he did not is why we have excellent materials at our disposal for moving toward a Humean theory of practical reason and passionate self-regulation.

6. Conclusion Moderation of the passions (or emotional regulation in contemporary psychology) requires, in many cases, a sophisticated ability for self-awareness and reasoning. It seems safe to say that a majority of non-human animals do not engage in it, except insofar as it involves unconscious processes, such as habituation imposed by the environment. I have argued in this chapter that Hume’s chemistry of the passions embodies the elements for self-regulatory principles that find support in contemporary psychological studies. Our application of these principles to ourselves (and to others) to cultivate motivation for prudential and moral goods involves a kind of practical reasoning that Hume can recognize and that Humeans should take seriously.22

Notes 1. Not all agree with this remark, but Jean-François Senault (1641), Francis Bragge (1708), and Samuel Clarke (1724) do. 2. There is some disagreement over what “reason” refers to here: the faculty of reason, the functions of reason (the reasoning process), or the products of reason (cognitions, beliefs). See Cohon (2008: 73–7), Kail, (2007: 192), David W.D. Owen (2016: 346–9), and Radcliffe (2012: 117–33). 3. See Audi (1989: 43) and Smith (1987, 1994). 4. See Hampton (1995: 59), Korsgaard (1986: 6), and Millgram (1995: 76–8). 5. See, for example, Korsgaard (1997: 251–4). 6. See Radcliffe (2018: ch. 3). 7. For more on passionate conflicts in Hume, see Radcliffe (2017). 8. See, for instance, Gutentag et al. (2017) and Bigman et al. (2016). 9. On calm and violent passions and strength of mind, see McIntyre (2006), Paxman (2015), and Radcliffe (2015). 10. These techniques are discussed in a vast number of articles and books in the psychological literature, such as Berking and Whitley (2014), Hanley et al. (2017), LeBlanc et al. (2017), and Prakash et al. (2017). 11. See also Ayduk and Kross (2009). 12. Philip Reed argues that custom, including habituation by education, is the most effective technique for character cultivation (2017: 306–13). 13. See, for instance, Jensen et al. (2013). 14. See Goldman (2006), Heathwood (2011), and Sinhababu (2016). 15. If Hume is right that we naturally sympathize with others, then the perspective from which we acquire second-order desires actually should take our natural sympathies into account. 16. Hubin explains the appearance of supposed counterexamples to pure instrumentalism—that is, cases in which the purported means to an end appear undesirable to an agent, even when the end itself is judged desirable by that person. So, on a Humean view, one has reason for the end, but, it

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18. 19. 20.

21.

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seems, not for the means. His explanation of these cases is that the outcomes or ends are not actually correctly and fully described. They must be redescribed in such a way so as to include all that is relevant to the desirability of the result. When the means to the result are relevant to the agent’s judgment of desirability, they must be incorporated into the description of the state of affairs that one is bringing about. For instance, Horace may desire to pass his philosophy class, but value honesty so highly that he does not desire to pass the class by cheating. If he simply cannot master a percentage of the material required to pass, and the only way for him to get a passing grade is by cheating, it is still accurate to say that he does not desire to pass by cheating. Thus, under a fuller (“inclusive”) description of outcomes, this end (getting a passing grade by cheating) is not a desirable one for the agent. (To explain counterexamples to “pure instrumentalism” in terms of the desirability, rather than in terms of the rationality, of ends not transferring to the means assumes a Humean conjunction of pure instrumentalism with the thesis of desire-based reasons. But Hubin maintains that pure instrumentalism holds for non-Humeans as well.) Hubin also notes that this latter thesis says nothing about the ultimate grounding of moral, political, prudential reasons, and so on; these reasons are considerations that favor certain actions from the specific point of view in question. They become relevant to the rationality of action, I take it, when the agent adopts them as her point of view. Hubin himself never notes this, but it is clearly an implication of this view, and the relevance of the transference of reasons thesis to Humeanism depends on it. Smith (1994) is one who leaves it behind when he offers his theory of justification in terms of ideal desiring. As he admits, he is a Humean about motivation, but not about practical reasons. In saying this, I am not contradicting Shelley Kagan’s argument (1998: 285– 9) that some objects of intrinsic value derive that value from instrumental value. It may be the case that an artifact is valued for itself because of the use to which it was put (the pen used to sign the U.S. Constitution), but my point is that for an end to be instrumentally valuable, it must ultimately serve an end of intrinsic value. The pen is an object that once had instrumental value (and only instrumental value) because it could be used to sign the Constitution, which itself had instrumental value as a means to establishing a government. One explanation why the principle of pure instrumentalism may appear obviously true when it is not is due to the fact that an object with intrinsic value may bestow value on the means of its existence. But the case of an object’s having intrinsic value and the means to it having instrumental value is different from the case of an agent having reasons to make that valuable thing an end. Having reason for ends is not necessarily having them as ends, and one cannot have reason to fulfill goals one does not possess. Instead, the agent has reason to adopt the rational goals he does not possess. And yet another explanation why the principle seems correct is that we might at first think that if I have reason to cultivate a desire, it must be that I have the desire’s end in view in some sense, that is, its end is an end of mine in a certain respect. And if I possess that end, then I have reason to take the means to it. But it is easy to see on reflection that if every time I have reason to cultivate a desire, I already possess the end of that desire, then the principle loses its normativity; it supposes I will necessarily have as an end anything I have reason to have as an end. I express gratitude to Philip Reed and Rico Vitz for very insightful comments that transformed this paper into a piece worthy of this volume.

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References Aldao, Amelia, and Blair E. Wisco. 2015. “Motivational Conflict Influences the Timing of Emotions and Their Regulation.” Motivation and Emotion 39: 943–52. Audi, Robert. 1989. Practical Reasoning. London: Routledge. Ayduk, Ö., and E. Kross. 2009. “Asking ‘Why’ From a Distance Facilitates Emotional Processing: A Reanalysis of Wimalaweera and Moulds (2008).” Behaviour Research and Therapy 47: 88–92. Ayduk, Ö., and E. Kross. 2010. “From a Distance: Implications of Spontaneous Self-Distancing for Adaptive Self-Reflection.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 98: 809–29. Baier, Annette. 1991. A Progress of Sentiments. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. Barlow, D. H. 2002. Anxiety and Its Disorders: The Nature and Treatment of Anxiety and Panic, 2nd edition. New York: Guilford Press. Berking, Matthias, and Brian Whitley. 2014. Affect Regulation Training: A Practitioner’s Manual. New York: Springer Science & Business Media. Bigman, Yochanan E., Iris B. Mauss, James J. Gross, and Maya Tamir. 2016. “Yes I Can: Expected Success Promotes Actual Success in Emotion Regulation.” Cognition and Emotion 30: 1380–7. Bragge, Francis. 1708. A Practical Treatise of the Regulation of the Passions. London: Printed by J.M. for John Wyatt. Bratman, Michael. 1987. Intention, Plans, and Practical Reason. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Christou-Champi, Spyros, Tom F. D. Farrow, and Thomas L. Webb. 2015. “Automatic Control of Negative Emotions: Evidence that Structured Practice Increases the Efficiency of Emotion Regulation.” Cognition and Emotion 29: 319–31. Clarke, Samuel. 1724. “The Government of Passion, A Sermon Preach’d before the Queen, at St. James Chapel, on Sunday the 7th of January, 1710–11.” In XVII Sermons on Several Occasions [Eleven of Which Never Before Printed]. London: Printed by William Botham, for James Knapton. Cohon, Rachel. 2008. Hume’s Morality: Feeling and Fabrication. New York: Oxford University Press. Goldman, Alan. 2006. “Desire Based Reasons and Reasons for Desire.” Southern Journal of Philosophy XLIV: 469–88. Gutentag, Tony, Eran Halperin, Roni Porat, Yochanan Bigman, and Maya Tamir. 2017. “Successful Emotion Regulation Requires Both Conviction and Skill: Beliefs About the Controllability of Emotions, Reappraisal, and Regulation Success.” Cognition and Emotion 31: 1225–33. Hampton, Jean. 1995. “Does Hume Have an Instrumentalist Conception of Practical Reason?” Hume Studies 21: 57–74. Hanley, Adam W., Eric L. Garland, and Richard G. Tedeschi. 2017. “Relating Dispositional Mindfulness, Contemplative Practice, and Positive Reappraisal With Posttraumatic Cognitive Coping, Stress, and Growth.” Psychological Trauma: Theory, Research, Practice, and Policy 9: 526–36. Heathwood, Chris. 2011. “Desire-Based Theories of Reasons, Pleasure, and Welfare.” Oxford Studies in Metaethics 6: 79–106. Hubin, Donald. 1999. “What’s Special About Humeanism?” Noûs 33: 30–45.

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Prakash, Ruchika Shaurya, Patrick Whitmoyer, Amelia Aldao, and Brittney Schirda. 2017. “Mindfulness and Emotion Regulation in Older and Young Adults.” Aging & Mental Health 21: 77–87. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 2012. “The Inertness of Reason and Hume’s Legacy.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 42 (Supplement 1): 117–33. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 2015. “Strength of Mind and the Calm and Violent Passions.” Res Philosophica 92: 1–21. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 2017. “Alcali and Acid, Oil and Vinegar: Hume on Contrary Passions.” In Thinking About the Emotions: A Philosophical History, edited by Alix Cohen and Robert Stern, 150–71. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 2018. Hume, Passion, and Action. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reed, Philip. 2017. “Hume on the Cultivation of Moral Character.” Philosophia 45: 299–315. Scanlon, T. M. 1998. What We Owe to Each Other. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Senault, Jean-François. 1641. The Use of the Passions, translated by Henry, Earl of Monmouth. London: Printed for J. L. and Humphrey Moseley. Setiya, Kieran. 2008. “Practical Knowledge.” Ethics 118: 388–409. Sinhababu, Neil. 2009. “The Humean Theory of Motivation Reformulated and Defended.” The Philosophical Review 118: 465–500. Sinhababu, Neil. 2013. “The Belief-Desire Account of Intention Explains Everything.” Nous 47: 680–96. Sinhababu, Neil. 2016. “Virtue, Desire, and Silencing Reasons.” In Perspectives on Character, edited by Iskra Fileva, 158–68. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, Michael. 1987. “The Humean Theory of Motivation.” Mind 96: 36–61. Smith, Michael. 1994. The Moral Problem. Oxford: Blackwell.

14 Hume on Affective Leadership Eric Schliesser

In this chapter I introduce David Hume’s views on what I call, ‘affective leadership.’ By this I mean the political management of dispositions and emotions conducive to minimal union in the social-political sense. I present Hume’s ideas on this by way of close scrutiny of his (and Spinoza’s) extended treatment of the fall of the Dutch statesman, Johan de Witt. I do so in order to begin to articulate some distinctive features of a ‘Humean’ political theory in which the management of dispositions and emotions of a “spirit of union” play a central role. The strain of Humean political theory that I propose to develop is an addition to and is distinct from the more familiar Humean focus on institutional design (be it in a rational choice (Pettit 1996: 54–89) or public choice (Levy 2002: 131–42)) register, the solution of coordination problems (Sabl 2012), the promotion of market society (Brewer 1998: 78–98), and the virtues and practices associated with it (Berry 2013). I focus on Hume’s views on the proper aims and some of the methods of political leadership of great states.1 In particular, I’ll assume without argument that for Hume political rule involves acting under conditions of uncertainty. I do so not because on my reading according to Hume the Hobbesian state of nature exists in international affairs, but because in addition to being a balance of power theorist (see Hume 1987a), Hume is committed to the idea that the rules of the international political order will and may be suspended at will: All politicians will allow and most philosophers, that reasons of state may in particular emergencies dispense with the rules of justice, and invalidate any treaty or alliance, where the strict observance of it would be prejudicial, in a considerable degree, to either of the contracted parties. (EPM 4.3)2 I explore the significance of affective leadership by focusing on a hitherto unstudied exemplar in Hume’s oeuvre: the rise and fall of Johan de Witt. For De Witt is both praised for getting something truly right about the art of ruling, that is, to maintain the dispositions conducive to unity,

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and also for getting something disastrously wrong, mistakenly assuming a species of rational behavior in others and thereby misunderstanding international politics, which is (also) governed by emotions. I show that social-political unity is possible for Hume as a consequence of the workings of Humean imitative sympathy. While the emphasis in this chapter is on the management of dispositions, affective leadership, the final section shows there is also an important role to play by a distinctive form of philosophical theorizing. Along the way I argue briefly that Hume’s account can be understood as extending Spinoza’s treatment of De Witt’s fall. I hope this inspires further research into Spinoza’s influence on Hume’s political philosophy. Before I turn to Hume’s (and Spinoza’s) texts, I introduce some biographical details about Johan de Witt (1625–1672), who is not a familiar name now. De Witt was one of the leading mathematicians of his age; he was part of a talented generation of students of the Cartesian (Leiden) mathematician Van Schooten. Frans Van Schooten had translated Descartes’s La Géometrié into Latin (1649), and wrote an important commentary on it (1661). Through the latter, Cartesian mathematics influenced many, including Newton’s development (Guicciardini 2009: 5). This commentary included an appendix by Johan de Witt (Elements of Linear Curves) (Easton 1963: 632–5). Van Schooten also published a translation of Christiaan Huygens’s work on probability as an appendix to one of his textbooks in 1657 (Hald 2003: 68). Building on Huygens’s treatise, Huygens, De Witt, and, yet another student first published by Van Schooten, Johannes Hudde,3 explored foundations of probability4 and life insurance in subsequent decades (Ciecka 2008: 59; Hald 2003: 122–42). All three (Huygens, Hudde, and De Witt) were independentminded Cartesians. In addition, Hudde and De Witt went on to have formidable political careers: De Witt ruled Holland as Raadpensionaris until he was massacred, together with his brother, by a mob in 1672—the year Dutch forces were overrun by a French army and facing English attack at sea.5

1. Magnanimous De Witt In his History, Hume introduces Johan de Witt when he gets to the preparations of the (second) Anglo-Dutch war of 1665: The Dutch saw, with the utmost regret, a war approaching, whence they might dread the most fatal consequences, but which afforded no prospect of advantage. They tried every art of negotiation, before they would come to extremities. Their measures were at that time directed by John de Wit, a minister equally eminent for greatness of mind, for capacity, and for integrity. Though moderate in his private deportment, he knew how to adopt in his public counsels that

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magnanimity, which suits the minister of a great state. It was ever his maxim, that no independent government should yield to another any evident point of reason or equity; and that all such concessions, so far from preventing war, served to no other purpose than to provoke fresh claims and insults. By his management a spirit of union was preserved in all the provinces; great sums were levied; and a navy was equipped, composed of larger ships than the Dutch had ever built before, and able to cope with the fleet of England. (Hume 1983: Vol. 6, 195–6) I leave aside the veracity of Hume’s account;6 I focus on his interpretation of De Witt. In the quoted passage—describing the year 1665 in the History of England—David Hume introduces Johan de Witt with superlative qualifications (“equally eminent for greatness of mind, for capacity, and for integrity”) as a magnanimous leader.7 When Hume describes William Temple’s meeting with De Witt, he again evokes De Witt’s magnanimity (“same generous and enlarged sentiments”).8 De Witt’s generosity consists in sacrificing “all private considerations to the public service.” Arguably, of all the exemplary political leaders treated by Hume only Alfred the Great and perhaps, Edward I, receive a more generous evaluation from Hume.9 I have been unable to locate another analysis of Hume’s treatment of De Witt. Hume emphasizes that De Witt is willing to negotiate to prevent war; De Witt’s greatness is not of the conquering, martial kind (e.g., Alexander the Great (T 3.3.2.12)). But while De Witt prefers to avoid war, he will not yield on matters of principle (“reason”) or justice (“equity”)—I return to this later on. The reasoning seems to be that concessions will not prevent war, but only lead to new demands that will eventually lead to war (or full surrender). De Witt’s maxim is not a universal one; it is not appropriate to weak powers or protectorates. Hume intimates that to stand on principle or justice when one is not capable of or unwilling to sacrifice for independence is, while noble, an act of foolishness. Only a great state can enforce equity. To avoid confusion, such justice is also a matter of self-interest because by Hume’s lights there is little difference between justice/equity and property (Pack and Schliesser 2006). 1.1 Spirit of Union Among other qualities praised by Hume is De Witt’s ability to preserve, even promote, a ‘spirit of union’ in a confederation (the Dutch Republic) that was notoriously incapable of such unity. In context, Hume does not explain what he means, but even so I treat this as a significant remark. Hume’s use of ‘spirit’ clearly echoes Montesquieu.10 Here I am not interested in Hume’s use of ‘spirit’ or ‘spirited’ to discuss certain character traits of individuals (e.g., the “audacious spirit of Cromwel” [sic])

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(HE 6); when he does so, he is clearly echoing the Greek thymos/θυμός. But rather I am focusing on his application of ‘spirit’ to a whole society (or a significant subsection), that is, what I’ll call, ‘social spirit’; Hume deploys social spirit both as a cause as well as an effect repeatedly in the History. For example, he speaks of “true spirit of liberty” (HE 6.44); “the spirit of dutiful obedience and of steddy enterprize” (i.e., the French under “Cardinal Mazarine”) (HE 6.76); the English “spirit of democratical equality” (HE  6.168); and, most importantly for present purposes, the “spirit of opposition,” which is a cause of dangerous “zeal,” even “violence”(HE 6.185). In all these cases the ‘spirit’ captures a shared disposition at a time and of a (part of) society. Hume had explained the mechanism—relying on sympathy—of acquiring a shared (national) disposition in his essay, “Of National Characters”: Where a number of men are united into one political body, the occasions of their intercourse must be so frequent, for defence, commerce, and government, that, together with the same speech or language, they must acquire a resemblance in their manners, and have a common or national character. (EMPL 202–3) In the very same paragraph Hume goes on to characterize this in terms of shared dispositions. In fact, in the second Enquiry, Hume had called attention to the particular political significance of union, in a confederated commonwealth, such as the Achaean republic of old, or the Swiss Cantons and United Provinces in modern times; as the league has here a peculiar utility, the conditions of union have a peculiar sacredness and authority, and a violation of them would be regarded as no less, or even as more criminal, than any private injury or injustice. (EPM 4.4; see also EPM 9.22. Note the reference to the Dutch United Provinces.) So, I take it that for Hume, ‘social spirit’ is a kind of glue, or cement, rooted in shared dispositions due to a shared history of political union or institutional arrangements, even where other sources of union—religion, nation, even language (see the Swiss)—may be absent. In the History, Hume does not use the phrase, ‘spirit of union’ again, but in context it has a twofold significance. First, it prevents the internal dissolution of a state (which at its extreme leads to civil war [never far from Hume’s intentions in the Stuart volumes of the History]);11 in the Dutch context, it means maintaining a shared purpose among the (federated or united) ‘provinces.’ And, second, it is, as revealed by the passage

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about De Witt, a precondition to the successful preparedness against foreign enemies. Crucially, Hume sees a role for political leadership—“his management”—to maintain this spirit of union which manifests itself (among other things) in state capacity to raise taxes and war preparation. Let me reinforce a point I have already made perhaps too tersely. By using the language of ‘spirit,’ and without tying it to particular beliefs and ontologies, Hume is signaling that he has something dispositional in mind. After all, according to Hume, what the “peculiar set of manners habitual to” any nation are can vary by location (EMPL 197).12 That is, for Hume, political management means that a politician must be able to generate, or facilitate, opinions and habits of thought that allow individual citizens or constitutive orders of a polity to maintain a commitment to some national unity (of the sort that prevents civil war and makes it capable of maintaining sufficient national defense). A nice feature of this approach is that it does not require policing of beliefs; for a variety of dispositions are compatible with the same spirit. Hume’s position is, thus, a non-trivial improvement over Hobbes’s approach in which such political, albeit restrictive, unity is a natural by-product of the coming into being of the Leviathan. 1.2 The Modern Philosopher-King and the State of Emergency Now, De Witt is as close to a philosopher-king as we have seen in the modern age (comparable to Marcus Aurelius in the Ancient world). Hume makes the point explicitly (with an allusion to Plato (1997: Republic 488e–489d)) a few lines below: The genius of this man was of the most extensive nature. He quickly became as much master of naval affairs, as if he had from his infancy been educated in them; and he even made improvements in some parts of pilotage and sailing, beyond what men expert in those arts had ever been able to attain. (HE 6.197)13 Not only is De Witt very smart (extensive genius), but pilotage is an exemplary mathematical (applied) practice. It is chart/map-based navigation based on calculating distances to fixed points using a compass, quadrant, and (eventually) clocks.14 Throughout his treatment of De Witt, Hume reminds the reader of his strength of mind under duress.15 There are two points buried in Hume’s account of De Witt, the first one of which is rather surprising. To see why the first one is surprising, we need to remind ourselves that Hume is known to be a defender of the impartial even stable rule of law.16 Undoubtedly, in peace-time this is Hume’s position. But sometimes he is willing to allow exceptions. (Recall also “that reasons of state may in

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particular emergencies dispense with the rules of justice, and invalidate any treaty or alliance” (EPM 4.3).) For, when there is a threat to the security or survival of the state, Hume’s position is more flexible. For, he explicitly approves of De Witt’s willingness to break Dutch law in order to pass rapidly a treaty (The Triple League) deemed necessary for the public interests: de Wit [sic] had the courage, for the public good, to break through the laws in so fundamental an article; and by his authority, he prevailed with the States General at once to sign and ratify the league: though they acknowledged, that, if that measure should displease their constituents, they risqued their heads by this irregularity. (HE 6.321) Unfortunately, Hume’s lack of further explicit reflection on the nature of such “reasons of state” and—one might call with a nod to Benjamin and Schmitt—state of emergency suggests that he considers its presence ordinarily entirely up to the judgment of the ‘courageous’ political ruler. (I qualify this point a bit later when I remark on Hume’s own preferred constitutional arrangement.) By ‘state of emergency,’ I mean to refer to conditions where the rule of law is suspended, in principle, merely temporally. As we will see, Hume recognizes that this suspension can be both (i)  in accord with the law itself, that is, there may be procedures that govern the manner and time frame for the suspension, as well as (ii) a clear violation of the law. That is, second, while law is rule-bound, a politician’s craft is not. A politician has to act under conditions of genuine uncertainty and while there are maxims that can be followed,17 there are circumstances when she is in uncharted waters. For the ‘public good’ one may even break the law. One may think, then, that political, practical wisdom consists in a kind of un-theoretical know-how that is primarily constituted by a willingness, or courage, to make decisions that will determine one’s fate. This view is now often associated with Nietzsche and Carl Schmitt, and there are certainly important strains of Machiavelli in Hume’s claim that “fortune commonly favours the bold and enterprizing” (T 3.3.2.8).18 But Hume helps us think an alternative thought. To get at this alternative, I grant that one may well think that the previous paragraphs are based on rather slender evidence. But Hume emphasizes the significance of a state of emergency, in a more theoretical context in his ideal, constitutional structure, “Of a Perfect Commonwealth:” “The protector, the two secretaries, the council of state, with any five or more that the senate appoints, are possessed, on extraordinary emergencies, of dictatorial power for six months” (EMPL 521). In Hume’s plan for a perfect commonwealth, foreign policy is insulated from democratic control. He lodges it in the “council of state” which

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includes only three members: “The protector and two secretaries.” These three members are chosen by the senate, which has some kind of function in deliberating about foreign policy. (Hume is not entirely clear on this point.) It turns out that the three members of the council of state are the core membership (of eight) of a dictatorial junta appointed in “extraordinary emergencies.”19 That the council of state is always part of the dictatorial junta suggests that for Hume the emergencies arise, if they do, only in foreign affairs, especially in the context of war and conquest. In one sense, Hume’s proposal is a nod to Livy’s famous account of the dictatorship of Cincinnatus in Republican Rome (Livy 1857).20 But Hume is explicit that his commonwealth is an improvement of ancient republics because he thinks these as “oppressive” (EMPL 528; see also EMPL 18). Moreover, he has little fondness for Ancient Republicanism (which requires slavery, see EMPL 383). So, it would be a bit odd if he is really trying to make space for a modern Cincinnatus. A better sense to understand Hume’s treatment is to take him at his word, and note, first the “resemblance that [the blueprint of a perfect commonwealth] bears to the commonwealth of the United Provinces, a wise and renowned government” (EMPL 526). One of his improvements over the constitution of the Dutch Republic is the removal of the veto power “which every province and town has upon the whole body of the DUTCH republic, with regard to alliances, peace and war, and the imposition of taxes, is here removed.” So, Hume’s perfect commonwealth is not a mere confederation but a state that can act as a true unity in foreign affairs and even in an emergency. In fact, it is pretty clear that Hume modeled the dictatorial power on the particular episode that we have just discussed in the history of the Dutch Republic that he recounts in the History. For the passage in which Hume praises De Witt for his “courage” in breaking the law contains clear echoes of the material under discussion in ‘Of a Perfect Commonwealth’: But the greatest difficulty still remained. By the constitution of the [Dutch] republic, all the towns in all the provinces must give their consent to every alliance; and besides that this formality could not be dispatched in less than two months, it was justly to be dreaded, that the influence of France would obstruct the passing of the treaty in some of the smaller cities. . . . To obviate this difficulty, de Wit had the courage. (HE 6.221) De Witt knowingly suspended the law. So, Hume designs the blueprint for his own ideal state to make space for future leaders that can make public spirited decisions without too much constraint. But rather than trusting a single person [De Witt] with emergency powers, he assigns such authority to a small group; in

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addition, he develops a procedure which requires the senate’s judgment that there is, indeed, a state of emergency. It is an open question if Hume’s approach does not lead to the “oppression” he dreads. Be that as it may, states of emergency within a liberal framework are not a mere historical curiosity. France operated under emergency powers for nearly two years recently. In my judgment this was a mistake because France’s survival was not at stake and the seeds for future division and hatred were sown on a daily basis.21 1.3 The Fall of a Refined Politician Here I return to the passage, when Hume describes the meeting of Temple and De Witt: he writes about Temple that “This man, whom philosophy had taught to despise the world, without rendering him unfit for it, was frank, open, sincere, superior to the little tricks of vulgar politicians” (HE 6.221). Temple has contempt for the ‘vulgar politician.’ And the implied contrast here is with his attitude toward the refined politician. Hume agrees with Temple’s criticism of the ‘vulgar politician.’ For according to Hume, the vulgar politicians “are apt . . . to have recourse to more hasty and more dangerous remedies” (HE 6.322). So, Hume warns that courageous decision-ism can be taken too far. In particular, in context Hume is saying that while one always must act under conditions of uncertainty, it does not follow that no (fallible) knowledge of the regular, albeit not exception-less, pattern of consequences that follow from a particular institutional design is possible. After all, Hume reports Temple as claiming “to remove things from their center, or proper element, required force and labour; but that of themselves they easily returned to it” (HE 6.223). But this presupposes knowledge of social causes—that is, Hume’s ‘science of man.’ The refined politician, who may know something about great tricks, can delay action, promote institutional reform, or muddle through depending on the ends she aims at. That is, a refined politician, who deserves our respect on the Humean view, legislates ends, constrained by principle and justice, and she acts cautiously, but decisively, on fallible causal social knowledge that she learns (with skeptical scrutiny) from (to speack anachronistically) the social scientist. Hume is not uncritical of De Witt. And it is worth reflecting on this criticism because it shows that according to Hume one can be exemplary along one dimension (e.g., as affective leader), while being imperfect along another dimension (i.e., overconfident). We know that De Witt’s rule (and life) will end badly. Hume introduces the fall as follows: Though de Wit’s intelligence in foreign courts was not equal to the vigilance of his domestic administration, he had, long before, received many surmises of this fatal confederacy; but he prepared not

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for defence, so early or with such industry, as the danger required. A union of England with France was evidently, he saw, destructive to the interests of the former kingdom; and therefore, overlooking or ignorant of the humours and secret views of Charles, he concluded it impossible, that such pernicious projects could ever really be carried into execution. Secure in this fallacious reasoning, he allowed the republic to remain too long in that defenceless situation, into which many concurring accidents had conspired to throw her. (HE 6.257–8; emphasis added) De Witt’s response to the threat posed by England and France is treated as an instance of expertise-induced overconfidence.22 De Witt treats his country’s potential enemies as rational, calculating agents—ones that understand their national self-interests properly and that will act accordingly (in the context of a balance of power).23 In the grip of a model of reality, De Witt treats something as impossible that he ought to prepare for.24 De Witt is, thus, also an exemplar of an intellectual that mistakes his own view of the world for reality, or a species of expert overconfidence. I use the phrase ‘expertise-induced overconfidence’ in order to signal not just that De Witt was a very smart mathematician, but that he has genuine expertise in political statesmanship in at least two senses: first, he is capable of generating the ‘spirit of union.’ Second, he knows how to reason skillfully about the objective interests of other countries. It’s just that he fails to recognize that his favored model of reality need not apply in every instance.25 We can interpret De Witt’s failure in light of recent cognitive science of expertise. Hugo Mercier and Dan Sperber have developed an account of inference as a modular mechanism that is in certain respects in the spirit of Hume (which is why I appeal to it here).26 A key feature of their approach is that knowing or anticipating that others will check our reasoning increases our skill at reasoning.27 That is, the expression of one’s expertise may well be context sensitive. Here the fact that De Witt was an oligarch reasoning in relative isolation may well have made his reasoning more fragile (Mercier and Sperber 2017: 317–27). I use the language of ‘model’ here for two reasons: first, because Hume attributes De Witt’s mistake in his evaluation of Charles not to a lack of access to relevant data (he “received many surmises”), but to a systematic way of misperceiving the world based on treating agents’ objective interests from which actions can be inferred (“reasoning”). In fact, De Witt’s political theory, centered on national interest and balance of power politics, was often associated with Pieter de la Court’s The True Interest and Political Maxims of the Republic of Holland.28 Second, the model governs what is taken to be possible or not.29 Of course, as noted, De Witt’s reasoning is not fallacious within the model-universe, but it is objectively fallacious. In particular, De Witt

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failed to understand the character or physico-psychological make up the British king; Hume is explicit that De Witt lacks knowledge of human nature—he understands the true interest of King Charles II; but for all his skill in mathematics, De Witt is unprepared for the true political art,30 which requires in addition to his exceptional skills, good judgment and knowledge of human nature in which the passions are properly managed.31 For, it is a core tenet of Hume’s theory of political science, as explained in “That Politics May be Reduced to a Science,” that in domestic affairs, in the aggregate, people become predictable (in the manner of, say, public choice theory) due to the (primarily) institutional incentives and constraints they face: so great is the force of laws, and of particular forms of government, and so little dependence have they on the humours and tempers of men, that consequences almost as general and certain may sometimes be deduced from them as any which the mathematical sciences afford. (EMPL 16; note the significance of access to otherwise hidden humours which is echoed in the passage on De Witt’s fall that I quoted) By contrast, international relations are less predictable because they are influenced by the individual whims and characters of rulers.32 Before I conclude my analysis of the significance of Hume’s treatment of De Witt’s fall, I briefly digress and treat Spinoza’s interpretation of the same events. I do so, in part, because to the best of my knowledge, the fact that they treat of the same event seems to have gone unnoticed, and, in part, because the idea that in political science one can deduce consequences with the same certainty as mathematics from the hidden properties of human nature, has a powerful precedent in Spinoza’s writings. For the (posthumous and incomplete) Political Treatise starts with the following passage: 3. And, certainly, I am fully persuaded that experience has revealed all conceivable sorts of commonwealth, which are consistent with men’s living in unity, and likewise the means by which the multitude may be guided or kept within fixed bounds.  .  . . But general laws and public affairs are ordained and managed by men of the utmost acuteness, or, if you like, of great cunning or craft. And so it is hardly credible, that we should be able to conceive of anything serviceable to a general society, that occasion or chance has not offered, or that men, intent upon their common affairs, and seeking their own safety, have not seen for themselves. 4. Therefore, on applying my mind to politics, I have resolved to demonstrate by a certain and undoubted course of argument, or to deduce from the very condition of human nature, not what is new

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and unheard of but only such things as agree best with practice. And that I might investigate the subject-matter of this science with the same freedom of spirit as we generally use in mathematics, I have laboured carefully, to understand human actions; and to this end I have looked upon passions, such as love, hatred, anger, envy, ambition, pity, and the other perturbations of the mind, not in the light of vices of human nature, but as properties, just as pertinent to it, as are heat, cold, storm, thunder, and the like to the nature of the atmosphere, which phenomena, though inconvenient, are yet necessary, and have fixed causes, by means of which we endeavour to understand their nature. (Spinoza 1883: 1.3–4; emphases added) We see here that Spinoza emphasizes three key features as central to his approach that we have encountered in Hume: the significance of unity, the management by the crafty political statesman,33 and the deduction of robust social consequences from human nature. Admittedly, there is no firm evidence that Hume read Spinoza’s Political Treatise. But there is very good evidence that Hume would have been familiar with the discussions generated by the Ethics (1996), which was published jointly with the Political Treatise.34 It’s perfectly possible that any general commonalities are due to shared sources; Hume and Spinoza both owe a lot to Roman historians, Machiavelli, Bacon, and Hobbes.

2. Spinoza on the Fall of De Witt One of the most famous anecdotes about Spinoza is that after the (1672) massacre of the De Witt brothers, he was inclined to place a sheet of chapter at the murder site with, “Ultimi barbarorum” (ultimate barbarian) (Della Rocca 2008: 27).35 Leaving aside the veracity of the story and what it purports the reveal (Deleuze 1988: 13), it frames how many readers interpret Spinoza’s earlier (1670) Theological Political Treatise (1862). This is, in addition to its other agendas, commonly taken to be a kind pro-De Witt (and anti-clerical and anti-Orangist) Republican intervention. Regardless of Spinoza’s feelings about the murder of the De Witt brothers, I’ll show he thought an oligarchy inherently unstable. His reasons for thinking so help us understand something about the nature of ‘affective leadership’ that informs Hume’s political theory. Consider this passage from the Political Treatise: In every council the secretaries and other officials of this kind, as they have not the right of voting, should be chosen from the commons. But as these, by their long practice of business, are the most conversant with the affairs to be transacted, it often arises that more

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Spinoza was unduly pessimistic about the fortunes of the Dutch. More important the quoted passage is a pretty clear analysis of De Witt’s trajectory and downfall.37 Spinoza here resists the urge of turning De Witt into some magnanimous soul; for Spinoza De Witt is no martyr nor the occasion for warning about the dangers of the mob. Rather, Spinoza explicitly treats De Witt’s power, and subsequent fall, as evidence for the bad institutional design of the Dutch (oligarchic) aristocracy of his age. De Witt was indeed the most capable of leading the Dutch state. This is the meritocratic element of an aristocracy. But by becoming dependent on the judgment of one, political decision making also becomes more fragile.38 In fact, De Witt’s fall is an instance of a more general claim by Spinoza. Throughout the Political Treatise, Spinoza treats war or internal strife (and lawlessness, criminality, etc.) as de facto evidence of bad institutional design/functioning.39 That is, to put the point in terms of Hume’s subsequent treatment, De Witt’s fall reveals that the appearance of unity hid a more fundamental, structural lack of unity, including a lack a ‘spirit of union.’

3. Hume’s Analysis of the Failure of De Witt Here I conclude my analysis of Hume’s treatment of De Witt’s fall. According to Hume, De Witt’s failure of scientific imagination is exacerbated by the fact that “by a continued and successful application to commerce, the [Dutch] were become unwarlike, and confided entirely for their defence in that mercenary army, which they maintained” (HE 6.258). Here Hume echoes Machiavelli’s injunction against reliance on mercenaries.40 And taken out of context, one might also assume that Hume agrees with those republican authors of his day that declaimed against the vices of luxury and commerce.41 But the more fundamental problem that Hume diagnoses, and this brings him unexpectedly close to, and deepens, Spinoza’s analysis, is that the Dutch were not a true unity and so, because of lack of mutual trust had fired the experienced officer corps of the Dutch army thought to be too loyal to the Orangist faction (and so were unprepared to do real battle). In addition, while De Witt had been careful to prevent corruption in naval manners, he had allowed a form of oligarchic crony-ism seep into the military affairs: “these new officers, relying on the credit of their friends and family, neglected their military duty; and some of them, it is said, were even allowed to serve by deputies, to whom they assigned a

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small part of their pay” (Hume 1983: 258). While it is unclear if De Witt should have allowed an Orangist-friendly army to remain a mortal threat to his regime, it is pretty clear that Hume thinks that military affairs should be closely guarded against corruption. Hume here deviates from Spinoza’s (briefer) analysis which explicitly treats De Witt’s power, and subsequent fall, as evidence for the bad institutional design of the Dutch (oligarchic) aristocracy of his age. (Hume is not against such explanations, as his treatment of the natural experiment involving Genoa very nicely exhibits in his essay, “That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science.”) Hume, by contrast, implies that better political leadership by De Witt could have saved the Dutch. So, while Hume recognizes the limits of a political science that treats the world as populated with rational agents acting in their own best interests, he thinks there is a true art of ruling. I have already noted that according to Hume, this true art has to be informed by the Humean science of man. This art must aim to promote the spirit of union, constrained by justice and principle. But the art must also be informed by a systematic vision of society. For, when Hume reflects on the very idea of a perfect commonwealth, he insists not just that “[t]he subject is surely the most worthy curiosity of any the wit of man can possibly devise” (EMPL 513). But he explicitly rejects the thought it is merely a theoretical subject: In all cases, it must be advantageous to know what is most perfect in the kind, that we may be able to bring any real constitution or form of government as near it as possible, by such gentle alterations and innovations as may not give too great disturbance to society. (EMPL 513–14) While some may criticize Hume’s gradualism,42 it is not unprincipled. It ought, in fact, to be informed by a systematic, comparative institutional vision of politics which, itself, helps animate social spirit.43

4. Affective Leadership In conclusion, inspired by Hume, we ought to treat the political as the task, when possible guided by the sciences and justice (Hume’s ‘reason and equity’), of generating or facilitating opinions and habits of thought that allow citizens to maintain commitment to sufficient unity despite the existence of competing values and interests.44 I use ‘sufficient’ in recognition of two facts: first, that all true politics occurs in conditions of fundamental uncertainty;45 second, that there may be other fundamental ends that need to be promoted (or at least not hindered). In practice, this entails, at least in part, the management of political emotions.

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For the systematic management of political emotions to be possible requires a prior extensive, empirical study of the conditions, and institutional contexts, of which emotions are—inter alia—conducive to political union.46 Such union need not involve agreement; all it requires is a set of dispositions that promote a willingness to set these aside in periods of genuine crisis and to serve a common interest. For Hume this study of the ‘art of politics’ was an essentially historical enterprise. But we need not be so constrained and can draw on a wider range of social and life sciences. In addition, it requires a willingness to engage with the study of leadership.47 Because ‘leadership’ tends to be treated like a dirty word (often associated with fascist thought),48 and because of an understandable fondness for and focus on procedures, liberal thinkers have been disinclined to engage with the voluminous literature on leadership thrown up by business scholars, organizational psychologists, and political sociologists.49 It follows, too, from the treatment of the political given here, that in societies like ours with advanced intellectual and commercial division of labor, it’s not just particular politicians that engage in politically significant behavior, but that paradigmatic activities associated with the media, educators, clergy, civic religion, bureaucracy, and parenting also intersect with the political. It can be asked of all of these offices (in the Ciceronian sense) if they facilitate a spirit of union.50 So, as Sabl has argued, all such offices require dispositions that are apt to each individually.51 Each such office has, of course, a primary aim (of being treasurer, or being secretary, or pastoral care, etc.) or range of primary aims. But, in addition, on my interpretation of Hume, each office is also political in the sense that its occupant must also contribute to the maintenance of the ‘spirit of union,’ that is, help to facilitate the cultivation of dispositions that allow for minimal conditions of unity. This is not the place to offer a theory which dispositions are required in order to maintain such unity. But it stands to reason these involve a willingness to tolerate disagreements, a willingness to offer some mutual aid (or solidarity), a sense of equity, mutual trust (etc.). To the best of my knowledge there has been very little study of what I have been calling ‘affective leadership,’ that is, how leaders can promote and shape these dispositions.52 Interesting enough, when social psychologists do explore issues in the vicinity of this topic, they tend to focus on more demanding conditions of social cohesion (Galanter 1981: 413–27; Bruhn 2009; Stanley 2003: 5–17).53 A second problem is, as Sabl has noted, that until recently, psychologists in leadership studies have approached the study of leadership based on “rigid humanitarianism or civic democratic ideologies” (Sabl 2009: 119). What makes for effective affective leadership will have to be informed by empirical research and is likely to be context dependent; in addition, one’s answer will depend on one’s judgments about the nature

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of the union being promoted. Nobody said Humean political theory would be easy.54

Notes 1. My study is greatly indebted to Whelan (1985), and I do not aim to distinguish my views from his. In addition, I must mention Bell (2008) which alerted me to themes discussed in this chapter. 2. In fact, Hume goes on to suggest that states could exist in conditions that come close to international state of nature: “they may even subsist, in some degree, under a general war” (see also van de Haar 2008: 231). 3. For an account of Hudde’s contribution, see Pedersen (1980). 4. See the classic study by Ian Hacking (2006). 5. On De Witt’s life, including his own political philosophy, see the biography by Rowen (2015). 6. We’ll see evidence that Hume is aware that despite De Witt’s integrity, De Witt’s reign was not corruption-free. 7. There is, by now, a significant literature on Hume’s account of magnanimity. See, for example, Solomon (2000), Hanley (2002), Schliesser (2003), Benardete (2013), and Corsa (2015). 8. “Sir William Temple . . . This man whom philosophy had taught to despise the world, without rendering him unfit for it, was frank, open, sincere, superior to the little tricks of vulgar politicians: And meeting in de Wit with a man of the same generous and enlarged sentiments, he immediately opened his master’s intentions, and pressed a speedy conclusion” (HE 6.220–1). De Witt’s magnanimity (and modesty) is stressed in a brief English biography, “But amongst all the great and truly amiable qualities with which the mind of this extraordinary person was adorned, his modesty and his magnanimity deserve particular notice. . . . As to his greatness of mind, I will not pretend to give any single instance of it, since every fact that will be taken notice of in these memoirs may be consider’d as a proof of it” (de la Court 1746). 9. See Whelan (2004: 139); Sabl (2012: 80). Alfred the Great and Edward I are both founders of constitutional orders. Sabl (2012: 164) correctly calls attention to the significance of Hume’s treatment of General Monk who “ended England’s civil war and restored the constitutional monarchy.” For more on this issue, see Digressions&Impressions (2017a). 10. For discussion of the significance of Montesquieu to Hume, see Wootton (1993: 293ff.). 11. One of the De Witt’s predecessors, the pensionary of the State of Holland Van Oldebarneveldt, had been executed in 1619 and, a generation later, the Dutch had narrowly averted civil war due to the sudden death of William II. 12. In fact, a spirit of union can be thinner than a national character. For the latter involves similar even identical dispositions and practices whereas a spirit of union may be grounded in differing beliefs and commitments. 13. In context it is unclear what Hume has in mind. But we can find a description in the “MEMOIRS OF Cornelius de Witt and John de Witt”: It was the received doctrine of the seamen, that there were but ten points of the compass from which, if the wind blew, ships could go out, and that twenty-two were against them; but the pensionary de Witt, as he was a great mathematician, soon discovered the falsity of this notion, and that there were in reality no less than twenty eight points in their favour, and but four that could hinder them from going out, viz. W. NW.

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Eric Schliesser by W. NW. NW. by N. The pilots however perceiving that he reckoned upon all the passages, declared positively that in the Spaniards-gat there was not above ten or twelve feet water, and that therefore it was . . . impossible to carry out large ships by that passage. Their assertion did not satisfy the pensionary, he went through it in a long-boat in person at low water, and without trusting the lead out of his hand, found it at least twenty foot deep every where, and free from those incumbrances which the pilots had hitherto talked of. The pensionary therefore engaged that himself and M. van Haaren would carry out the two greatest ships in the fleet through the Spaniards-gat with the wind at SSW, which he performed on the 16th of August 1665, and the greatest part of the fleet followed him without the least accident, since which that passage has been called, and very deservedly, Witts-diepc. (de la Court 1746: l-li)

14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

The anecdote is taken from (probably a French translation of) van der Hoeven (1705), which, in turn, cites De la Neuville’s History of Holland. The author of the “MEMOIRS OF Cornelius de Witt and John de Witt,” is probably John Campbell for reasons I have explained elsewhere (Digressions&Impressions 2017b). I have consulted Chambers (1728: 814). For an excellent treatment of Humean strength of mind, see Mcintyre (2006). See especially 398, where strength of mind and the artifice of government have in common in being a “counter-force to our notorious preference for the near over the remote.” For a very careful analysis, see McArthur (2007). See T 1.4.7.10; 2.1.6.9; 2.3.1.12. See Whelan (2004: 133). For a good treatment of their shared interest in ‘reason of state’ reasoning, see, especially, pages 205–7. Whelan treats ‘reason of state’ reasoning primarily as a tool in foreign policy. They seem to be appointed by the Senate, which entails—by Carl Schmitt’s definition of sovereignty—that it is sovereign. See Schmitt (2006). See III, §26. President Macron claims he will have left the state of emergency by the end of this year. See Hartmann (2017). Another example of emergency power is the European Central Bank, which has been operating very close to the edge of its legal mandate for over half a decade now. For an excellent introduction of expert overconfidence in practice that has influenced my present discussion, see Angner (2006: 1–24). For a full treatment of political expertise, Tetlock (2009). It is possible, of course, that Charles II behavior was rational (as both Liam Kofi Bright and Gijs Schumacher pointed out to me). For Hume seems to think that Charles ought to have balanced power with the Dutch against the French. But, perhaps, Charles had perfectly sensible domestic reasons for allying with the French. For theoretical reflection, see Bueno De Mesquita (2005) (which draws generously from Hume). I thank Gijs Schumacher for the reference. Hume is aware that De Witt had political reasons for allowing the army to be weakened (see more on this later in the chapter). One may be inclined to treat this as a lack of particular kind expertise. See Mercier and Sperber (2017: 53–4, 68). I like Mercier and Sperber’s approach which points to the significance of social context. It is not very common to treat Hume as a social epistemologist, but see Traiger (1994); Taylor (2015: ch. 2). See also Demeter (2017). For a neoHumean social epistemology, see my Schliesser (2005).

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28. This was translated by John Campbell in 1746 (London), which included the hagiographic biography of De Witt discussed earlier. For good introduction to De la Court’s The Interest, see Weststeijn (2011). 29. One may well think that Hume is treating De Witt as a kind of reduction of the Hobbesian rational choice theorist (RCT) of the sort Hume is often taken to be (see, for example, Hardin (2007: 175ff.)). But as Liam Kofi Bright pointed out to me that kind of RCT could just claim that De Witt was mistaken about his enemies’ preferences. 30. There is an important criticism of Cartesian science lurking here: it does not provide guidance for applying one’s knowledge of the passions in political life. For Descartes takes political power as given; the first maxim of Descartes’s Discourse on Method is “to obey the laws and customs of my country” (AT VI 22/CSM I 122). 31. Here’s a nice example of Hume’s criticism of British foreign policy: “In the first place, we seem to have been more possessed with the ancient GREEK spirit of jealous emulation, than actuated by the prudent views of modern politics. . . . Here then we see, that above half of our wars with FRANCE, and all our public debts, are owing more to our own imprudent vehemence, than to the ambition of our neighbours” (EMPL 339). Rotwein is still an indispensable guide to the role of passions in Hume’s account of social life. See his lengthy introduction to Hume (1955). 32. Hume’s analysis is distinctive. (Later I compare it to Spinoza’s.) For example, the English biography does not treat De Witt as in the grip of a model of reality. Rather according to the English biography, De Witt was simply mistaken about (because misled by) his enemies: “though he was not entirely blinded by the delusive representations of France and England, yet it is certain that it was a long time before he perceived in how great danger the republic stood” (de la Court 1746: lxiii). The source of De Witt’s delusion is his mistaken reliance on his friendship with Temple: “The regard he had for Sir William Temple; and his confidence in the declarations made by him, kept this statesman long in suspence, and the great consideration he had for the French embassador contributed not a little to the keeping him fixed in these sentiments, notwithstanding the strong appearance there was of foul dealing” (de la Court 1746: lxiii). 33. This idea Hume would have also encountered not just in Machiavelli but also in Mandeville. See Smith (2009: 9–28). 34. It used to be thought that Hume was only familiar with Spinoza through Bayle’s famous entry on Spinoza in Bayle (1991). But Spinoza’s metaphysics and epistemology are also widely discussed in work by Clarke, Toland, Maclaurin all familiar to Hume. (See, for example, Schliesser (2012).) For the wide circulation of Spinoza’s and Spinozist political views, see the work inspired by Israel (2002). 35. Rowen, who is quite skeptical of most tales surrounding Spinoza’s and De Witt’s relationship, allows that this story “has the stamp of truth” (because young Leibniz is the ultimate source). For a searching exploration of the episode, see Verdult. 36. In context Spinoza is describing the malfunctioning of an aristocracy (a version of olicharchy). 37. See Klever (1993: 370–88). 38. The quoted passage of Political Treatise 8.44 is, thus, an auxiliary to Spinoza’s argument for the epistemic advantages of democracy. (He explicitly notes the lack of a right to vote for the commons.) (Steinberg 2010). 39. Spinoza did not invent the idea, which goes back to the Hebrew Bible: “The work of righteousness [‫ ] ַה ְצ ּדָ ָ֔קה‬shall be peace and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance for ever. And my people shall dwell in

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40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46.

47. 48. 49.

50.

51. 52.

53. 54.

Eric Schliesser a peaceable habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting places” (Isaiah 17–18 [King James version]). Where justice rules, there is social peace and order. Conversely, the lack of quiet/peace is evidence for the defectiveness in ‫ ַה ְצּדָ ָ֔קה‬. Generating true harms is by definition then evidence of a lack of righteousness. See Machiavelli (2003: ch. 12). For excellent discussion, see Hont (2005). See Israel (2002). For a nice expression of this view, see Smith (1984), 6.2.1.18, p. 234. This has some resonance with the Platonic (Islamic) political tradition, where truth-apt dispositions are treated as imaginative imitations of (truth-apt) philosophy. For excellent treatment, see Fraenkel (2012: 159ff.). It also has some resonance with Jason Stanley’s ideas that good propaganda amplifies the right sort of ideals by nonrational means and that such propaganda is also possible, even endemic, in liberal democracies (Stanley 2015: 49ff.). I am presupposing here a distinction between engineering problems and political problems. For nice treatment, inspired by Latour, see Harman (2014). These thoughts resonate with different intellectual approaches (although often Spinoza is lurking in the background), including Read (2014), Clough (2008), Wolfe (2014), as well as Nussbaum (2013) (but for a critical response to Nussbaum’s program, see also Srinivasan (2017)). There is an increasingly sophisticated literature on how voters identify with particular leaders. See, for example, Caprara and Zimbardo (2004). And, admittedly, the danger is real; even Hume’s analysis of De Witt ends up glorifying his embrace of the state of emergency. As Chris Brooke reminded me, Max Weber’s lecture, “Politics as a Vocation,” does not fit my generalization, but the generally skeptical attitude toward Weber’s fondness for charismatic leadership also proves my point. For treatments of Hume’s account of leadership see Sabl (2012) and Whelan (2004: ch. 3). For a broadly Humean account of leadership, see Sabl (2009). Sabl is especially important for present purposes because he offers an important critique of the way social psychologists in leadership studies have approached the study of leadership; he shows convincingly that these tend to be based on “rigid humanitarianism or civic democratic ideologies” (2009: 119). The issue gets discussed, obliquely, in the context of debates over (media felicitated) polarization. See, e.g., Fiorina and Abrams (2008) and Delia and Gelman (2008). See also, the role of campaigns in promoting ‘affective polarization,’ in Iyengar et al. (2012). If ‘affective polarization’ exists, then ‘affective leadership’ toward union should also be possible. See Sabl (2009: 138, 299). There is, of course, work on how effective leaders can manage other people’s emotions. See, for example, the influential work by George (2000). But in this field, the management of other people’s emotions is something thinner than the cultivations of dispositions; it has more to do with managing moods and generating excitement or caution (etc.). There seems to be quite a bit more research on the effects of emotional expression by leaders on the (workplace) team. See, for example, Gooty et al. (2010); Rajah et al. (2011); van Knippenberg et al. (2016). I thank Annebel H.B. De Hoogh for helping me navigate this literature. I have benefitted from reading Visser (2017). The very Humean Sabl (2009) is an existence proof that it can be done. I thank the editors of this volume, Gijs Schumacher, Tamas Demeter, Liam Kofi Bright, and a rightly annoyed referee on an earlier version of this chapter for their generous and helpful feedback. The usual caveats apply.

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Visser, Emi. 2017. The General Will as Social Cohesion: Repackaging Rousseau’s ‘Social Tie’ and Improving Mill’s ‘Representative Government.’ Master’s thesis, University of Amsterdam. Weber, Max. 1946. “Politics as a Vocation.” In From Max Weber, edited and translated by H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills. New York: Free Press. Weststeijn, Arthur. 2011. Commercial Republicanism in the Dutch Golden Age: The Political Thought of Johan & Pieter de la Court. Leiden, Netherlands: Brill Publishers. Whelan, Frederick J. 1985. Order and Artifice in Hume’s Political Philosophy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Whelan, Fredrick G. 2004. Hume and Machiavelli: Political Realism and Liberal Thought. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Wolfe, Charles T. 2014. “Cultured Brains and the Production of Subjectivity: The Politics of Affect(s) as an Unfinished Project.” In The Psychopathologies of Cognitive Capitalism II, edited by Warren Neidich. Berlin: ArchiveBooks. Wootton, David. 1993. “David Hume: The Historian.” In The Cambridge Companion to Hume, edited by David Fate Norton. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Conclusion Hume’s Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Psychology: Future Directions Rico Vitz A central aim of this volume is to elucidate the relationship between Hume’s moral philosophy and recent empirical studies of the human mind, principally psychology but also cognitive science and related fields. To excel in attaining that end, however, it is crucial that these chapters are “conversation starters” or “conversation facilitators” that help to inspire future research on the topics they address. With this purpose in mind, let me close by highlighting productive research that might be developed from the issues discussed in the foregoing chapters. I will do so by identifying and briefly discussing a series of questions that seem particularly suggestive for promising avenues of future research. For the sake of clarity, I have grouped the questions under six topic headings: (1) virtue, (2) the nature and role of sympathy, (3) moral development and moral education, (4) the nature and role of various passions, (5) moral motivation, and (6) the relationship between Hume’s ‘science of man’ and contemporary cognitive science.

1. Virtue Let me begin with a few questions regarding the nature of virtue. Question 1: In What Sense, If Any, Is Humean Virtue a Threshold Concept? Question 2: To What Extent Are Humean Virtues Cross-Situationally Consistent? Regarding the nature of Humean virtue, Phil Reed and I have two disagreements. Each stems from our attempts to understand Hume’s view in light of the situationist challenge. The first concerns the sense in which virtue is a threshold concept. Reed interprets Hume as claiming that virtue is a threshold concept such that “a given character trait must meet some minimal standards before it qualifies as a specific virtue,” in a genuine and proper sense (Chapter 2). I interpret Hume as claiming that virtue is not a threshold concept in this sense and that there are genuine and proper ways of attributing virtues

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to people even if they are not virtues in a stricter, more Aristotelian, sense (Chapter 4). The second concerns the extent to which Humean virtues are crosssituationally consistent. I interpret Hume as holding a view that differs both from the kind of Aristotelian conception of a global trait that is the target of Doris’s critique, and from the kind of local-traits that he advocates. On my interpretation, Hume offers an account according to which virtues are neither (1) the traits of something approaching an idealized human agent whose excellence would extend to any social role he or she occupies, nor (2) traits narrowly situation specific, like Doris’s “battlefield physical courage,” but rather (3) the traits of agents who are excellent relative to their own social roles in “common life.” Thus, on my account, Humean virtues are thinner than traditional Aristotelian global traits and thicker than the latter situationist local traits, as Doris describes each. Reed interprets Hume, strictly speaking, as holding something more akin to an Aristotelian conception of virtues, in the sense that Aristotle possesses something close to what contemporary psychologists and philosophers call global traits. Consequently, we differ about how to interpret Hume’s claims regarding barbarians being courageous on the battlefield but not in the face of illness, and Greeks being courageous in the face of illness but not on the battlefield (EMP Dialogue.39), as well as his claim that King James I of England being courageous for the way that he prepared for and faced death (HE 5.46.122) but not for the way he conducted himself as a politician (HE 5.46.123). I am inclined to read these as passages in which people are manifesting role-specific virtues of courage but not manifesting a global trait consistently but in different manners. Reed is inclined to read these as cases of people manifesting virtue, strictly speaking, in different ways. With respect to each of these two issues, I am inclined to think that the difference in our interpretations is less stark than it may appear at first glance. (In all honesty, it’s not clear to me whether our differences proceed “more from the manner than the matter” of our discussion, to borrow a familiar phrase.) Nonetheless, there is obviously more one could say on these topics to clarify both Hume’s view and how that view comports with contemporary work among philosophers working to explain the nature of virtue in light of more recent evidence from social psychology. Question 3: Are Humean Virtues Rare, or at Least Peculiar to Their Possessor? There is one other question concerning the nature of virtue that seems salient in light of the chapters in this volume. The question stems from a disagreement between Lorraine Besser, Alison McIntyre, and Annette Baier, on the one hand, and Donald Ainslie and Phil Reed, on the other, concerning the rarity of virtue. Hume claims that possessing virtues is a

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source of pride. The point of disagreement focuses on whether he is committed to claiming that people can only take pride in qualities that are rare or peculiar to themselves and, therefore, whether virtues are qualities that are rare or peculiar to their possessors. Besser, McIntyre, and Baier have offered arguments that Hume dispenses with this rarity or peculiarity “requirement.” Reed argues that he does not (Chapter 2). As Reed’s analysis suggests, this interpretive puzzle has two aspects. The first concerns what Hume’s considered view is in light of the textual evidence. The second concerns what a plausible Humean view ought to be. As Reed notes, if Hume endorses the rarity of the virtues thesis, this seems to entail that whether one possesses certain virtues ultimately depends on factors outside of the person’s control. As with the questions concerning the extent to which virtue is a threshold concept and the extent to which it is cross-situationally consistent, this question of whether Humean virtues are rare, or peculiar, strikes me as one about which scholars working on Hume’s moral philosophy can and should say more. In fact, so doing would seem to be particularly important for a more robust evaluation of Humean conceptions of virtue ethics.

2. The Nature and Role of Sympathy Next, let’s focus on two questions regarding the nature and role of sympathy that arise, in varying ways, from the chapters by Lorenzo Greco, Lorraine Besser, Annette Pierdziwol, Anne Jacobson, Christine Swanton, and Katharina Paxman. Question 4: What Is Humean Sympathy? There are two aspects to this question. The first is how to interpret Hume’s conception of sympathy. On this point there remain important disagreements. The second and, by my lights, even more intriguing aspect is how to understand Hume’s conception of sympathy as it relates to contemporary psychological conceptions of empathy. Three chapters in particular highlight the need to address this question. Anne Jacobson, following Bloom, characterizes Hume’s core conception of sympathy as a kind of emotional contagion and suggests that this is the central feature for assessments of Hume’s moral philosophy (Chapter 8). Katharina Paxman focuses principally on contemporary psychological literature related to what Jacobson calls Hume’s core conception of sympathy—especially, e.g., that of Uta Frith—in her analysis of Hume’s moral philosophy in light of contemporary research concerning individuals on the autism spectrum (Chapter 5). Annette Pierdziwol, following Batson et al., characterizes Humean sympathy not only as a kind of emotional contagion but also a potential source of prosocial motivation involving

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care for others.1 In this way, she characterizes Hume’s conception of pity (a feeling of sympathetically induced grief at the perceived grief of another) as akin to what Batson calls ‘empathic concern’ (Chapter 6). Lorraine Besser characterizes Hume’s conception of sympathy similarly, as akin to the conception of empathy not only in the work of Batson but also in that of Martin Hoffman (Chapter 9). Pierdziwol and Besser each emphasize the significance of understanding Humean sympathy as a source of moral motivation for understanding his conception of virtue ethics.2 These chapters strike me as very suggestive of ways that those of us who do research on Hume’s conception of sympathy can work to explain more clearly both the nature of Humean sympathy and how it relates to contemporary psychological conceptions of empathy. Given the centrality of sympathy to Hume’s moral theory, such work would be extremely valuable. Question 5: Can Humean Sympathy Serve as the Foundation of Morals? Jesse Prinz and Paul Bloom have each challenged the thesis that empathy is an adequate foundation of ethics. In this volume, Lorenzo Greco and Lorraine Besser offer rebuttals to this challenge (Chapters 7 and 9, respectively), elucidating the nature of Humean sympathy and the way that this differs from the kind of more narrow conceptions of empathy on which the challenge relies. Anne Jacobson, however, presents evidence that renews Bloom’s challenge, in important ways (Chapter 8). Drawing on recent work in cognitive science, she argues that Hume’s conception of sympathy is insufficient to deal with problems of moral inclusion. In particular, she highlights how the inherently partial nature of sympathy increases the likelihood of “failures to extend moral concern to ‘outsiders’” with respect to race, gender, nationality, and disability. Such failures, she notes, occur not only at the level of individual virtue but also at the level societal systems and structures. Christine Swanton’s chapter on the Humean conception of love (Chapter 10) presents interesting resources for the potential of developing a Humean response to aspects of the problem that Jacobson highlights. Swanton argues that love, in a Humean sense, can be a virtuous passion that helps to correct some of the natural shortcomings of sympathy. The specific types of correctives that Swanton discusses are not ones that directly target the issues that Jacobson raises, so I am not suggesting that Swanton’s chapter is a rebuttal to Jacobson’s. Rather, I simply mean to highlight three points. First, Hume’s conception of the sympathy mechanism presents problems for conceiving of it as the foundation of morals. Second, one way of responding to Hume’s proposal is by positing reason as an alternative foundation of morals, as Bloom does. Third, another way of responding to Hume’s proposal is by positing a

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more robust role for a virtuous passion, like love, as a corrective like sympathy, as Swanton suggests.3 Even if there are resources within the chapters by Besser, Greco, and Swanton to respond adequately to the challenges raised by Prinz, Bloom, and Jacobson, there remains another particularly compelling issue concerning the adequacy of sympathy as a foundation of morals. Drawing from different pools of evidence in cognitive science and in psychology, Katharina Paxman (Chapter 5) addresses the question of whether Hume’s moral philosophy can adequately account for the moral judgments of certain people with empathic-impairments—specifically, “highfunctioning people with autism spectrum disorder” (HF-ASD). She concludes that although people with HF-ASD “may be impaired in their ability to easily acquire the information about mental states necessary to bring about affective empathic responses,” they are capable “of the kind of emotional contagion that Hume requires for moral judgment.” Thus, her argument suggests that cases of people with HF-ASD do not, in and of themselves, provide compelling evidence against the role of sympathy in Hume’s moral philosophy. Three things strike me as particularly interesting about Paxman’s argument. The first is whether it is successful in showing that Hume’s conception of sympathy can adequately account for cases of people with HF-ASD. The second is whether it might provide resources for evaluating Hume’s moral philosophy in light of other types of empathic impairments. The third is whether there are resources in it that might complement the research by Greco, Besser, Jacobson, and Swanton. At the very least, these five chapters, considered collectively, add important nuances to the debate concerning the foundational significance of sympathy in Humean virtue ethics. In so doing, they also highlight the importance of further research on the question.

3. Moral Development and Moral Education Moving from theory to practice, let’s consider a question concerning moral development and moral education that arises from the chapters by Annette Pierdziwol and Erin Frykholm as well as from my own. The opportunities for future research related to this question are especially noteworthy given that (1) there has recently been a significant increase in research concerning moral education, especially among philosophers and psychologists, but (2) little of this research has been robustly developed along distinctively Humean lines. Question 6: How Should People Cultivate Character Traits on a Humean Account? As Aristotle rightly suggests, the purpose of studying ethics is not merely to become better at articulating theories concerning the virtues but to

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become virtuous. To develop virtue, or at least character traits approximating virtues, requires a conception of moral development and, if possible, a conception of moral education. Pierdziwol, Frykholm, and I each address this issue, in related but subtly different ways. Given the aim of her chapter, Pierdziwol focuses principally on strategies for cultivating the kind of Humean sympathy that can lead to the care of others (Chapter 6). Drawing both on a Humean conception of association and on work by Batson et al., she highlights the potential power of cultivating ‘extensive sympathy’ by using techniques like “‘imagine other’ perspective taking,” whereby one depicts others more vividly and in so doing cultivates a more lively sense of their value, such that sympathy can be enlivened and extended. Drawing on work by Railton, Frykholm highlights similar, individually oriented strategies, including “modeling .  .  . mastering coping techniques,” and “internalizing situation-specific patterns of thought and action” (Chapter 3). She also highlights the extent to which the development of character traits seems to require, essentially, a greater and more intentional social contribution. I elaborate on this latter issue in my analysis of character and culture in light of situationism and Confucianism (Chapter 4). I elucidate the role of ritual (li) in Confucian virtue ethics, including both how ritual shapes culture and how such a culture is designed to cultivate virtues like benevolence (ren). I then suggest that there are similar but underdeveloped conceptual resources in Hume’s moral philosophy that could serve a similar function: namely, his conception of the nature and significance of “customs and manners.” Taken together, these chapters highlight the need for and suggest the possibility of developing more robust Humean accounts of moral development and of moral education. If the arguments in these chapters are correct, such accounts would require future research both on individual techniques for cultivating virtue, as Pierdziwol and Frykholm suggest, and on sustained, systemic social practices, as Frykholm and I suggest.

4. The Nature and Role of Various Passions Next, let’s consider four interesting questions about the nature and role of various passions that arise from the chapters by Margaret Watkins, Christine Swanton, and Eric Schliesser. Question 7: With Respect to the Passions, What Is Health, and What Are Diseases and Disorders? The first, which comes up in Watkins’s analysis of Hume’s “disease of the learned” (Chapter 1), is about the nature of health and co-relative concepts like disease and disorder. One interesting aspect of this issue concerns the 18th-century conceptions of medical terms, the 20thcentury conceptions of such terms, and the relation between the two. Another concerns Hume’s own conception of such terms. Of particular

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interest (by my lights, at least) is whether we should read Hume as offering a naturalistic account or a constructivist account of such concepts. At first glance, the former would seem to be a good fit—perhaps a better fit—for Hume’s “science of man,” but it might require a kind of teleology that would be incompatible with a distinctively Humean conception of naturalism. Watkins’s chapter provides an excellent discussion of these issues. But further research would be helpful in two ways: (1) to offer further evidence that would either confirm or disconfirm Watkins’s analysis, and (2)  to elucidate Hume’s conceptions of health and co-relative concepts like disease and disorder, especially as they play a role in his important use of concepts like ‘madness’ or the ‘soundness’ of one’s cognitive and affective faculties. Question 8: To What Extent Do the Passions Play a Regulative Role in Cultivating a Life of Virtue? The second, which arises from the chapters by Watkins (Chapter 1) and by Radcliffe (Chapter 13), concerns the regulative role of the passions in a virtuous life. With respect to passionate regulation, the chapters differ in scope. Watkins’s analysis is narrower, focusing on the therapeutic benefits of distinctively aesthetic passions that Hume experienced in dealing with the “disease of the learned.” Radcliffe’s analysis is broader, focusing on the role of a variety of passions, especially as they relate to what Hume calls ‘strength of mind.’ Considered together, however, they suggest interesting and potentially profitable lines of research concerning not only the interpretation of Hume’s texts but also the interdisciplinary evaluation and application of insights from Humean virtue ethics, more generally. Such research could provide greater insight to the role the passions play in a life of virtue. This might be particularly helpful given the rather systematic and increasing inattention (at least in the United States) to the value of many passions, including (most notably perhaps) the aesthetic passions. Question 9: Does Hume’s Conception of Love Present an Adequate Response to a Contemporary Paradox? The third comes from Swanton’s analysis of Hume’s conception of love (Chapter 10). Contemporary philosophical analyses of love by Frankfurt, Kolodny, Chappell, and others have yielded the following paradox: One person either loves another either for a reason or for no reason. If one loves another for a reason, then one loves not the other but some of his or her qualities. If one loves another for no reason, then one’s love is unreasonable. Therefore, it is not possible to love another for himself or herself.

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Swanton argues that Hume resolves this paradox by presenting a conception of love according to which one loves another for no reason, but one’s love is nevertheless reasonable. The argument is an intriguing application of Hume’s analysis of the passions to contemporary philosophical and psychological work on the nature of love. It will be interesting to see how well it is received in future research on the topic. Question 10: To What Extent Is ‘Affective Leadership’ Realizable? The fourth question concerning Hume’s conception of the passions comes from Eric Schliesser’s conception of ‘affective leadership’ (Chapter  14). On Schliesser’s account, “inspired by Hume, we ought to treat the political as the task .  .  . of generating or facilitating opinions and habits of thought that allow citizens to maintain commitment to sufficient unity despite the existence of competing values and interests.” Such a task would include the systematic social management of affective-motivational dispositions that are “conducive to political union.” Hence, the end goal is to cultivate mutual trust, the “spirit of union,” and so forth. To attain these ends, however, would seem to require both the cultivation of more fundamental pro-social passions, like love, benevolence, compassion, and pity, as well as the regulation of more fundamental anti-social passions, like hatred and contempt. Thus, attaining these ends would also require the cultivation of an extensive and inclusive function of the sympathy mechanism. Schliesser’s conception of ‘affective leadership’ strikes me as both intriguingly suggestive and, to the extent that such leadership is possible, critically important given current political climates, both nationally and internationally. There are a variety of ways that I can imagine future research engaging this topic, but two seem particularly salient in the short term, each of which would elucidate the extent to which ‘affective leadership’ is realizable. The first is an analysis of Schliesser’s proposal in light of related themes in Hume scholarship. To note just a few examples from this volume alone, consider how Jacobson’s challenge regarding moral inclusion, Watkins’s and Radcliffe’s suggestions concerning passionate regulation, Swanton’s analysis of Humean love, and my analysis of the relationship between character and culture might provide mutually complementary ways of developing a Humean conception of ‘affective leadership’ that might be realizable in common life. The second is an analysis Schliesser’s proposal in light of contemporary empirical research in sociology, social psychology, political science, and related disciplines, which might also provide mutually complementary ways of developing a pragmatically realizable, though not necessarily thoroughly Humean, conception of ‘affective leadership.’ In short, there seem to be ample opportunities for further research on the critically important “management of our political emotions.”

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5. Moral Motivation Next, let’s consider two questions concerning the nature of moral motivation, which arise from the chapters by Elizabeth Radcliffe and Michael Gill. Question 11: What Are the Motivational Roles of the Passions? On Gill’s account, Hume’s conception of moral motivation is not one that is reductionist in such a way that it attempts to bring every type of moral motive “together under a single organizing master idea.” Rather, it is one that attempts to explain “a wide array of different phenomena” in a variety of ways. Gill recognizes at least three types of moral motivation and, thus, three different types of roles for the passions. He uses this analysis of different types of motives to explain Hume’s anti-rationalist argument at T 3.1.1. His reading of Hume’s positive account of moral motivation is interesting both as an interpretation of Hume’s work and as a framework for evaluating the Humean account of moral motivation that it suggests. This latter point is particularly interesting since, as Gill suggests, there appears to be compelling evidence in the psychological literature for supporting Hume’s understanding of different types of motives, what Gill refers to as ‘virtuous trait motivation,’ ‘approval-of-another motivation,’ and ‘approval-of-self motivation.’ For the sake of clarity, it is important to note that Gill’s argument is nuanced and modest in two ways. One is that the argument is compatible with the possibility that Hume recognizes more than three types of moral motivation. The other is that, strictly speaking, it is an argument that “Hume thought he had a strong argument against the rationalists at T 3.1.1.5–6” (emphasis mine). Gill himself admits to being “far from confident that the motivational aspect of morality is incompatible with a rationalist view of morality.” The nuanced and modest nature of Gill’s argument invites collaborative responses regarding whether there are other types of moral motivation and regarding the nature and success of Hume’s anti-rationalist argument. The latter issue is particularly interesting in light of Radcliffe’s interpretation of Hume’s account of moral motivation, as I will explain presently. Question 12: To What Extent Does Reason Play a Role in Moral Motivation? According to Radcliffe, Hume posits a role for practical reasoning in moral motivation (Chapter 13). She argues not that “Hume’s theory countenances practical reasons in the sense that contemporary philosophers write about them: as commands hailing from reason that tell us which ends we ought to pursue” but that “Hume’s theory recognizes inferences with ‘ought’ conclusions that contain a combination of premises based

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on passion and on reason.” In this way, she contends, Hume conceives of reason as having a practical application in moral motivation, especially as it relates to the regulation of the passions, as noted earlier. She then shows how this reading of Hume’s view compares with recent work in philosophy of action among contemporary Humeans, like Neil Sinhababu. Radcliffe’s reading seems particularly intriguing insofar as it invites further consideration both about how to interpret Hume and about what place the Humean view she describes has in contemporary interdisciplinary debates about human agency.4

6. Hume’s ‘Science of Man’ and Contemporary Cognitive Science Finally, let’s consider a question regarding Humean philosophy and cognitive science. Question 13: What Is the Relationship of Hume’s ‘Science of Man’ to Contemporary Cognitive Science? There are two interesting aspects to this question. The first, which Traiger addresses in his chapter, concerns the compatibility between Hume’s scientific method and the methods of contemporary cognitive science. Traiger argues that there is a methodological shift from Book 1 to Book  2 of the Treatise that reveals how Hume’s moral philosophy “anticipates trends in cognitive and brain sciences.” Thus, Traiger’s argument complements recent work which suggests, e.g., that Hume’s moral philosophy was a precursor to contemporary cognitive science (Prinz 2016) and that Hume himself “was a cognitive scientist of religion avant la letter” (De Cruz 2015). The second concerns the history and philosophy of science. Hume’s philosophical project is certainly one that has the human mind as a principal focal point of examination, but the conceptual and causal links between his ‘science of man’ and contemporary cognitive science are unclear. At the very least, they seem much less clear than, for example, the relationship between Aristotelian virtue ethics and contemporary virtue ethics. In any event, each of these issues calls for further research regarding the extent to which and the ways in which Hume’s ‘science of man’ is, in fact, a precursor to contemporary cognitive science.

7. Summary In summary, the chapters in this volume raise a number of important and intriguing questions about key aspects of Hume’s moral philosophy. These questions suggest interesting possibilities for future research not only on how to interpret various aspects of Hume’s corpus but also, and by my

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lights more importantly, on how to evaluate and to apply the insights of Humean virtue ethics. The latter kinds of questions, in particular, invite valuable interdisciplinary work among Hume scholars and a vast array of psychologists—e.g., those working in social psychology, developmental psychology, cognitive behavioral therapy, and positive psychology—as well as scholars working in cognitive science and neuroscience. In short, the chapters in this volume are designed to motivate exactly the kind of research that Hume both did and hoped to inspire: namely, a pragmatically minded, interdisciplinary ‘moral philosophy’ designed to better our common life as reasonable and active beings.

Notes 1. See also Vitz (Ch. 4). 2. See also Greco (Ch. 7). 3. Eric Schliesser’s analysis of affective leadership (Ch. 14) suggests yet another, complementary possibility, which I will discuss later in the chapter. 4. One that, I take it, Gill might support given his openness to the possibility that “the motivational aspect of morality” is compatible with a rationalist view of moral motivation.

Contributors’ Information

Lorraine L. Besser is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Middlebury College. Her works explores both contemporary and historical moral psychology. She is the author of Eudaimonic Ethics: The Philosophy and Psychology of Living Well (Routledge). Erin Frykholm is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of Kansas. She works primarily on the British Moralists, with secondary interest in contemporary moral psychology and virtue ethics. Much of her research focuses on investigating Hume’s theories of character and virtue, with particular attention to the ontological, epistemological, and normative features of his account. She has published a number of articles on Hume’s accounts of character and virtue, and their significance for contemporary virtue ethics, in journals, including Philosophical Studies, Pacific Philosophical Quarterly, and The Canadian Journal of Philosophy. Michael B. Gill is Professor and Head of the Department of Philosophy at the University of Arizona. He is the author of Humean Moral Pluralism (Oxford) and The British Moralists on Human Nature and the Birth of Secular Ethics (Cambridge), as well as dozens of articles on medical ethics and the history of moral thought. Lorenzo Greco is Tutor in Philosophy and Associate Member of the Philosophy Faculty of the University of Oxford. He was awarded his Ph.D. from the University of Pisa. He was Marie Curie Fellow at the University of Oxford, and Junior Research Fellow at Mansfield College, Oxford. His areas of interest include ethics, moral psychology, political philosophy, and the philosophy of Hume. He is the author of L’io morale: David Hume e l’etica contemporanea (Liguori). His work has appeared in such places as Journal of the History of Philosophy, British Journal for the History of Philosophy, Utilitas, Iride, Ragion Pratica, Rivista di filosofia, and in various collections. He serves on the Executive Committee of the Hume Society.

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Anne Jaap Jacobson is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy and of Electrical and Computer Engineering at the University of Houston. She is the author of Keeping the World in Mind: Mental Representations and the Sciences of the Mind (Palgrave Macmillan), the editor of Feminist Interpretations of Hume (Penn State), the co-editor of Neurofeminism (Palgrave Macmillan), and the author of numerous articles on issues in philosophy of mind, neurophilosophy, feminist philosophy, and the philosophy of David Hume. Katharina Paxman is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Brigham Young University. She received a Ph.D. jointly awarded by the University of Western Ontario and the University of Antwerp in Belgium. She completed a postdoc with the University of Antwerp’s Centre for Ethics. Her work focuses on David Hume’s theory of the passions and his moral psychology. Her work on Hume has been published in Hume Studies, the Journal of Scottish Philosophy, and Res Philosophica. Annette Pierdziwol is a Research Associate at the Institute for Ethics and Society (IES) at the University of Notre Dame Australia and coconvener of the IES’s Moral Philosophy and Ethics Education program. She was awarded her Ph.D. in Philosophy from the University of Sydney and held a Postdoctoral Research Fellowship at the Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities at the University of Edinburgh. Her research focuses on approaches to moral cultivation in the history of philosophy, with a particular interest in emotion, motivation, character and habit. Elizabeth S. Radcliffe is Professor of Philosophy at the College of William and Mary. She works largely on Hume’s theory of the passions, his motivational and moral psychology, and the implications of Hume’s action theory for contemporary philosophy. She is author of Hume, Passion, and Action (Oxford) and editor of A Companion to Hume (Blackwell). Radcliffe has published in many journals and collections, most recently Thinking About the Emotions: A Philosophical History (Oxford). She has articles forthcoming in Hume on Morals, Politics and Society (Yale), Philosophy of Action from Suarez to Davidson (Routledge), and Hume’s Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals: A Critical Guide (Cambridge). She is past co-editor of the journal Hume Studies and past President of the Hume Society. Philip A. Reed is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Canisius College, where he also co-directs the Ethics and Justice Programs. His main areas of interest are in ethics, political philosophy, and moral psychology. His articles on Hume’s moral psychology appear in such places as The British Journal of the History of Philosophy, History of Philosophy Quarterly, Pacific Philosophical Quarterly, and Canadian Journal of Philosophy. He has also published articles in Ethical Theory and

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Moral Practice, Journal of Medicine and Philosophy, and Christian Bioethics. Eric Schliesser is Professor of Political Science at the University of Amsterdam. He has published prolifically on Newton, Huygens, Spinoza, Berkeley, Hume, Adam Smith, and Sophie De Grouchy, and has published Adam Smith: Systematic Philosopher and Public Thinker as well as Sympathy, a History of a Concept (both Oxford University Press). Christine Swanton is Honorary Research Fellow in the Department of Philosophy at the University of Auckland. She is the author of The Virtue Ethics of Hume and Nietzsche (Wiley), Virtue Ethics: A Pluralistic View (Oxford), and Freedom: A Coherence Theory (Hackett). Her work has appeared in numerous journals and reference works. Saul Traiger is Professor of Philosophy at Occidental College in Los Angeles, California. He received his Ph.D. from the University of Pittsburgh, where he completed his dissertation on Hume’s theory of the self under Annette C. Baier. At Occidental College in Los Angeles, he co-founded the Cognitive Science Program, which is now the Department of Cognitive Science. He has written extensively on Hume’s theory of the self, on testimony, the foundations of cognitive science, and on Hume’s account of the fictions of the imagination. He is the editor of The Blackwell Guide to Hume’s Treatise. He has served as the Executive Secretary-Treasurer of The Hume Society, and as its President. Most recently, he was the co-editor (with Corliss Swain) of Hume Studies. Rico Vitz is Professor and Chair of the Department of Philosophy at Azusa Pacific University. He serves as the Executive Vice PresidentTreasurer of the Hume Society and on the Executive Committee of the Society of Christian Philosophers. He is the author of Reforming the Art of Living: Nature, Virtue, and Religion in Descartes’s Epistemology (Springer), co-editor of The Ethics of Belief: Individual and Social (Oxford), and the editor of Turning East: Contemporary Philosophers and the Ancient Christian Faith (St. Vladimir’s). He also served as the guest editor of a special edition of Res Philosophica on ethical and religious themes in Humean philosophy. His work has appeared in The Oxford Handbook of David Hume, Journal of the History of Philosophy, The Modern Schoolman, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly, Faith and Philosophy, Journal of Philosophical Research, Hume Studies, and Christian Bioethics. Margaret Watkins is Associate Professor of Philosophy and Director of the Honors Program at Saint Vincent College in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. She earned her B.A. from the College of William and Mary in Virginia and her M.A. and Ph.D. in philosophy from the University of Notre Dame. She has published several articles on Hume’s ethics and

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aesthetics, including pieces in Hume Studies, Inquiry, and the History of Philosophy Quarterly. She has also written on the resources of Jane Austen’s novels for ethical theory and the concept of habit in Montaigne’s essays. She serves on the Executive Committee of the Hume Society and edits the Hume: Value Theory category on PhilPapers.org. Her current projects include a book on Hume’s Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary and an essay on eighteenth-century philosophical views of slavery.

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Index

Aaltola, Elisa 140 Abramson, Kate 49, 137, 184–6 Adams, Robert Merrihew 87 addiction 1 admiration 171, 212, 216, 220, 223, 228, 266, 300 Adshead, Gwen 36 aesthetics ii, 347 affect: in contrast to cognition, reason, or reasoning 244–5, 251, 256; flattening of 29; related to situations 63; role of in moral psychology 74–7, 86 affection 156–9, 193, 295–7; effect of social intercourse on 96; manipulating 94; parental 51–2, 278; self-interested 49–50; virtuous 281 affective: approval 71; communication 117, 128, 133; component of morality 193; in contrast to cognitive 102, 120–2, 340; dispositions or faculties 94, 101–3, 107, 110, 341; polarization 328; related to valuing 156–9; response(s) 65–7, 74–7, 121–2, 130, 338; shared valence 149, 217; states 69, 81, 117, 135, 208, 276–7; sympathy 127; see also empathy, affective; leadership, affective affordances 196, 206, 368 agency 5, 178–9, 209, 221–2, 343; moral 116, 134, 136, 221–2 Agosta, Lou 139 agreeableness: in conjunction with useful 19, 57, 70–3, 78–81, 85–7, 136, 197; feelings 298; of love 228–9, 231; of virtue 54, 171, 280; see also disagreeableness

Ahmed, Sara 192, 204 Ainslie, Donald 52, 54, 59–60, 86, 140, 165, 335 Aldao, Amelia 294–5 Alfano, Mark. 40 Algoe, Sarah B. 266 altruism/altruistic 5, 142–67, 208, 221 American Psychiatric Association 34–5 anger 48, 53, 83, 149, 163, 171, 194, 237–40 Angner, Erik 326 anxiety 10, 17, 85, 294, 296 Apfelbaum, Erika 203 approbation/disapprobation 27, 173–4, 211, 213–16, 264, 281 Árdal, Páll 36 Aristotle i, 4, 36, 40–1, 52, 58–9, 106, 110, 194, 335, 338 artificial virtue see virtue, artificial Asch, Solomon 108–9 Audi, Robert 306 autism 4, 15, 336, 338; autistic empathy 128–32; as an empathy disorder 116–17; psychopathy and 134 Ayduk, O. 298, 306 Bagley, Benjamin 241 Baier, Annette C. 55, 59, 164–5, 179, 184–5, 195, 260, 293, 335–6, 347 Baldassarri, Delia 328 Bargh, John A. 76, 85 Barlow, D. H. 294 Barnes, A. 138 Baron, Marcia W. 186, 284 Baron, Robert A. 58, 108–9 Baron-Cohen, Simon 183

378

Index

Batson, Daniel 5, 58, 85–6, 107–9, 142–67, 183–4, 208–10, 336–7, 339; cultivation and 143–7; Hume and 147–52, 159–62 Baumann, D. J. 283 Baumeister, Roy 267–8, 270, 283 Bayle, Pierre 327 Bayley, John 234 beauty 28–9, 36, 58, 219, 227–32, 295; moral 21, 266, 278 Bell, Jeffrey 325 Benardete, José A. 325 benevolence: connection to ren 103–7, 110, 339; as desire of happiness 148–50, 153, 160, 164–5, 263–5; in human nature 45, 163, 295; love and 163, 228; pity and 143, 147, 153, 160, 163–5; sympathy and 105, 107, 148–56, 226–7, 235–6, 240 Bennett, Jonathan 260 Berking, Matthias 306 Berry, Christopher J. 311 Besser, L. 54–7, 60, 123, 137, 162, 224 Besser-Jones, L. see Besser, L. bias 204; of imagination 233; implicit 64, 75, 77, 87, 203, 239; sympathy and 144, 171, 184, 208, 237–8 Bigman, Yochanan E. 306 Birn, R. M. 261 Biro, John 260 Blair, Irene V. 88 Blair, R. J. R. 140 blame: blameworthiness 56, 142; object of 27, 48; praise/approbation or 19, 49, 96, 175–6, 185, 196; voluntariness and 36 Blanken, Irene 58 Blasi, Augusto 231 Bloom, Paul 5, 162, 171, 183, 208, 226, 336–8; empathy and 197–8; inclusiveness and 202–4; reason and 198–202 Bluhm, R. 202 Boorse, Christopher 34 Boswell, James 15 Box, M. A. 199 Bragge, Francis 306 Bratman, Michael 305 Brewer, Anthony 311 Bricke, John i, 185–6 Bronfen, Marna 109 Broughton, Janet 163, 244

Brown, Charlotte R. 59, 186, 283–4 Brown, Phil 34 Brownstein, M. 202 Bruhn, John G. 324 Buckner, Randy L. 210 Bueno De Mesquita, Bruce 326 Canli, T. 256 Cann, Arnie 58 Capaldi, Nicholas 184 Caprara, G. V. 328 care 110, 201, 232, 336–7; caring behavior 129; ethics of 107, 183; love and 156–7; motivation and 303; parental affection and 52, 158, 263, 280; sympathy and 128, 172, 339 Carlo, Gustavo 226 Carlson, M. 58 Chambers, Ephraim 326 Chappell, Timothy 227, 235, 340 character: development 24–5, 31–2, 87, 101–3, 288, 301, 306, 338–9 (see also cultivation; education); Humean 92–9, 106–7; mixed 51; moral 40, 42, 53–4, 60; object of approbation 214–17, 291; perfect 181; person or self and 19–23, 45, 68; with regard to others 56, 173–7, 182, 221; of rulers 320; shared perspective on 293, 300; traits 44, 47, 52, 69–74, 77–81, 265, 293, 313, 334, 338–9 Charity 24, 43, 86, 237 Chartrand, Tanya L. 76, 85 Cheyne, George 10, 17 Christou-Champi, Spyros 295, 299–300 Churchland, Patricia S. 183 Cicero 12, 94, 98, 324 Ciecka, J. E. 312, 329, 354 Clark, Russell D. 58 Clarke, Samuel 306, 327 Clough, Patricia T. 328 cognitive: ethology 258–9; metacognition 179; opposed to affective 4, 101–2, 121, 243–5, 251 (see also empathy, cognitive); reappraisal 295–6, 298, 301; science 92, 137, 196, 243–8, 258, 260–1, 319, 334, 337–8, 343–4 Cohon, Rachel 184, 235, 274, 277, 283–4, 306 Coleman, Dorothy 186, 284

Index common point of view see general point of view community 5, 16–17, 34, 192, 201 compassion: benevolence and 222, 236, 341; Bloom and 192, 197–8; pity and 128, 148–9, 152, 172, 237, 239, 341; sympathy and 123, 130, 204, 210; virtue of 42–3, 234, 270 confucian 4, 92, 100–3, 105–7, 339 confucianism 91, 100–1, 339 Confucius 92, 101, 109–10 consequentialism 233 constitution thesis 211–17, 223 contagion: emotional 102–3, 120, 130–3, 172, 178, 336–8; prereflective 121; sympathy and 96, 123, 129, 209–10 contempt 26, 59, 149, 152, 163–4, 175, 236–40, 318, 341; selfcontempt 236–40 Coplan, A. 223 Corsa, Andrew J. 325 courage 20, 47–8, 56–7, 85, 93–5, 98, 105, 108, 252, 265, 316–18, 335 Crisp, Roger 60 Cromwell, Oliver 94, 97–8 cultivation 107, 294, 324, 328, 341, 346; aesthetic cultivation 28–9, 31, 33; virtue cultivation 4, 66, 105, 143–7, 153, 160–2, 288, 306; see also education, moral culture 4, 58, 92, 110, 203, 339, 341; Confucian 100–7 Cunningham, Michael 58 custom 250, 252, 258, 298; education and 156, 396; see also habit customs 4, 103–7, 110, 327, 339 Damasio, Antonio 122 Damm, Lisa 136 Darley, John 58, 85, 108–9 Darwall, Stephen 179, 186, 222, 284 Debes, Remy 137, 163, 184 Decety, Jean 119, 122, 223 De Cruz, Helen 343 defect 10, 20, 125, 233, 235, 238, 265, 328 degree concept (virtue as a) 48, 53–4, 58–9, 79, 94–6; see also threshold concept de la Court, Pieter 319, 325–7 Deleuze, Gilles 321 delicacy 46, 233, 252; of passion 26–32, 232; of taste 28–31, 34, 36, 232

379

Della Rocca, Michael 321 Demeter, Tamas 326 Demoulin, S. 203 De Pierris, Graciela 260 depression 14–18, 21–2, 34, 84–5, 117 Descartes, René 194, 259, 312, 327 desire 102, 177, 298, 300; for happiness 147–50, 163, 165, 228, 236, 265 (see also benevolence); motivation and 66, 69, 245, 269, 273–4, 276–7, 281, 283, 289–92, 301–7; partial 174; volition and 53 De Vignemont, Frederique 136, 140 de Waal, Frans 183 de Witt, Johan 7, 311–28 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 15, 18, 25, 34, 35, 36, 117 Dickert, Stephan 162 Dijksterhuis, Ap 81 disagreeableness: as common 53; connection to delicacy of passion 27; of feelings 298; see also agreeableness disapprobation see approbation disease 3, 9–26, 33–4, 48, 94, 117–19, 137, 139, 234, 339–40 disgust 28, 74, 170–1, 239, 294–5, 298 disorder 3, 9–36, 116–17, 294, 338–40 Dixon, J. 202 Dixon, Thomas 162 Doris, John x, 1, 3–4, 40, 91, 93–4, 99, 108–9, 335 double relation of impressions and ideas 6, 46, 55, 149, 228 Doutre-Roussel, Chloé 30 Dovidio, J. F. 202–4 Drevets, W. C. 256 Driver, Julia 60, 86, 179, 184 duty 266, 271, 273; military 322; sense of 49, 53, 57, 265, 279–80, 283; virtue and 52–3 Easton, J. B. 312 Eddo-Lodge, R. 192 education 70, 75–6, 81, 107, 119, 156, 179, 203, 237, 239; moral 24, 33, 53–4, 102, 306, 334, 339; see also cultivation, aesthetic cultivation egoism 144–7, 161, 221

380

Index

Eisenberg, Nancy 226 Emde, Robert N. 239–40 emotion 65, 79, 102, 210–12, 240; instinct and 201; motivation and 142–5, 147, 162, 268–70; otherpraising 266–7; of others 115, 117, 119, 121, 136; politics and 311–12, 323–3, 328, 341; priming 65; prosocial 144–5, 147, 239; pure 163; regulation 7, 288, 294–300, 306; reponse 83, 85, 122, 151–3; state 17, 116, 294; sympathy and 126, 129–34, 138–9, 191, 194, 216–19; violence of 252; wound 23; see also contagion, emotional empathy 4–6, 171–2, 208–9, 221–2, 336–7; affective 4, 117, 120–3, 127, 130–40, 172, 338; altruism and 142–3, 145–8, 150, 161, 162, 208; autistic 128–32; classifications 119–23, 184, 209–11; cognitive 120–1, 131–2, 135, 139; development 159; empathic concern 107, 142–8, 151–60, 162, 166–7, 184, 337; impairment 116–19, 132–6; instinctive 137; intentional 120–1, 126, 129–31, 210; limitations on 196–204; morality and 208–9, 211–17; sympathy and 123–8, 203 Eno, Robert 110 envy 172, 237–9, 300, 321 Espinoza, Marissa 110 Estany, A 196 esteem: love and 59; from others 46, 265, 267, 291; from self 76; virtue and 56–8, 138, 174, 218 ethics of care see care, ethics of expert overconfidence 319, 326 externalism 180, 186, 284 Faber, Nancy 108 Fan, Ruiping 110 Fausto-Sterling, A. 202 Fehr, Ernst 267 Felletti, Flavia 136, 139–40 feminism 107, 110 Fessler, Daniel 267 Fine, C. 202 Finlay, Stephen 186 Fiorina, Morris P. 328 Flanagan, Owen 1 Flew, Antony 260 Forscher, Patrick S. 87, 88 Fox, A. S. 261

Fraenkel, Carlos 328 Frankfurt, Harry 229, 340 Frankish, Keith 64 Frazer, Michael L. 179, 184 free will 1, 254–5; see also liberty friendship 80, 109, 157, 231–6, 239, 263–4 Frith, Uta 117, 120, 129–30, 135, 137, 138, 139 Frykholm, Erin xi, 3, 40, 58, 59, 86, 87, 108, 109, 338–9 Gaertner, S. L. 204 Galanter, M. 324 Gallagher, S. 196 Garrett, Don 199, 260 Geller, Jeffrey L. 36 general point of view 71, 170, 175–83, 184, 192, 197, 221, 223, 293, 298, 301–2, 304 generosity 21, 43, 48–51, 70, 78, 80–2, 95, 214; De Witt’s 313; virtue of 73–4, 85 gentleness 49, 53, 97, 181, 193 George, Jennifer M. 328 Gibson, E. J. 196 Giles, David C. 34 Gill, Michael 6–7, 60, 283, 342, 344 Gillberg, Christopher L. 120, 130 Gleichgerrcht, E. 140 globalism 91–2, 96–9, 107 Goldie, Peter 162, 209, 223 Goldman, Alan 223 Gollwitzer, Peter 82 good-will 232–4, 264–5, 281 Gooty, Janaki 328 Gordon, Robert M. 138 gratitude 52, 57, 102, 212, 216–17, 223, 232, 264, 266–7, 278, 280 Gray, Peter 88 greatness of mind 312–13, 325 Greco, Lorenzo 5, 40, 123, 137, 184–6, 336–8, 344 grief 149–54, 160, 163 group effect 96 guarantee 5, 51, 180, 182 Guicciardini, Niccolò 312 guilt 10, 12–13, 18, 48; feeling of 22, 43, 48, 66, 72–4, 83, 268–70; motivation and 268–70 Gutentag, Tony 306 habit 103, 156, 159, 248, 299; behavioral 76; cultural 75; custom

Index and 248, 298; as disposition 28, 65, 236; mental 76–9, 315, 323; performance of 53; as tendency 27; virtue and 78–84, 87; see also custom; habituation habituation 75, 78–80, 143, 162, 299, 306; see also habit Hacking, Ian 16, 34, 36, 325 Hadjikhani, Nouchine 139 Haidt, Jonathan 226, 266 Hald, A. 312 Hampton, Jean 306 Haney, Craig 42, 108, 109 Hanley, Adam W. 306 Hanley, Ryan Patrick 325 happiness 49, 116, 136, 236, 256, 292–3; benevolence and 147–50, 163–5, 264, 267, 269, 271; virtue and 232–3 Hardin, Russell 327 Harman, Gilbert 40, 85, 91, 108, 186 Harman, Graham 328 Harris, James A. 34, 137 Harrison, Jonathan 274, 277 Hartmann, Christian 326 Hartshorne, Hugh 42 Haslanger, S. A. 202 Hatfield, Gary 260 hatred: anger and 149, 163; compassion and 236; contempt 149, 341; indirect passion 47, 55, 57, 176, 182, 295; love and 163, 264, 267, 269; prejudice and 235, 239–40; of self 33, 278, 280 Heathwood, Chris 306 Hehman, E. 203 Herdt, Jennifer A. 164, 165 Hergenhahn, R. B. 260 Heubner, Bryce 64 Hirvela, Shari 136 Hoffman, Martin L. 120, 138, 183, 208, 210, 222, 223, 337 honesty 40, 43, 51–2, 66, 69, 78–81, 84–7, 304, 307 honor 19, 26, 47, 67, 84, 105 Hont, I. 328 Hubin, Donald 302–3, 306–7 humanity 107, 179, 234, 239; principle of 103, 110, 163, 184 human nature: empirical account of 91, 95, 294; goodness of 45, 50, 101; Hume’s science of 2, 115, 160, 172, 243–9, 257–60; morality and 51, 278; patterns in 83, 320; reason

381

and passion in 250–3; sympathy and 48, 115, 124, 135 Humeanism 302–7 humility 24–5, 46–8, 55, 102, 163, 174, 186, 237, 283 Hursthouse, Rosalind 60 Hutcheson, Francis 260, 262 Hutton, Eric 100, 103, 110 illness, mental xi, 3, 9, 15–18, 21–6, 32–3, 117 impartial spectator (observer) see judicious spectator implicit bias see bias, implicit inclusiveness 5, 191–2, 197–8, 201–4, 337, 341 injustice 52, 202, 213, 271–2, 279, 314 innate 11, 22–4, 223 intention: conscious vs. unconscious 67, 75–6; development and 65, 77, 110, 147, 152–6, 159–60; moral motive and 70; virtue and 212, 214; see also empathy, intentional intentionality 304–5 internalism 53, 59, 170, 180–3, 186, 284 intersubjectivity 5, 180, 217–23 introspection 6, 204, 243–6, 250, 257, 260, 301 intuition 74–7 Isen, Alice 68, 85, 109, 117 Israel, Jonathan I. 327, 328 Jaarsma, Pier 135, 140 Jacobson, Anne Jaap 5–6, 193–4, 199, 204, 336–8, 341, 346 James, King of Scotland/England 94, 97–8, 328, 335 Jensen, K. B. 306 Johnson, Oliver A. 260 Jones, A. P. 139, 140 joy: grief and 149, 177; happiness and 164; passions and 95; pride and 46; sorrow and 29, 296 judicious spectator 174, 177–83, 186 justice 78, 80, 293, 313, 318, 323; motivation and 279; racial 202, 204; virtue of 52–3, 213–14; see also injustice Kagan, Shelly 307 Kahana, Michael 261 Kamtekar, Rachana 86, 87

382

Index

Kant, Immanuel 116, 132, 134–6, 226, 231, 266, 282 Karlsson, Mikael 163, 274, 277, 283 Kauppinen, Antti 223 Kemp Smith, Norman 260 Kendra, Matthew S. 34 Kennett, Jeanette 116, 131, 132, 134–5, 136 Kim, Richard 101, 110 kindness 102, 109, 156, 217, 265, 278, 280–1, 295 Klever, W. 327 Kohlberg, Lawrence 226, 231 Kolodny, Niko 240, 340 Korsgaard, Christine M. 186, 224, 284, 290, 306 Krahn, Timothy 140 Kross, E. 298, 306 Langston, Douglas 109 Lapsley, Daniel K. 231 La Rochefoucauld, François 31 leadership, affective 7, 311–12, 321, 323–5, 328, 341, 344 LeBlanc, Sara 306 Lecaldano, Eugenio 179, 186 Levi, Primo 32, 37, 72, 364 Levin, Janet 108, 109, 261, 364 Levy, David M. 311 li see ritual liberty 19, 254–5, 314 Libet, Benjamin 254–5, 260, 261 Lieburg, M. J. van 34 Livy, L. 317 Loeb, Louis E. 179 love: affection and 156–9; benevolence and 148, 150, 163, 165; of fame 183; hatred and 137, 163, 181, 264, 267; indirect passion 47, 55, 57, 228–9, 237, 283; motivation and 269; paradox of 227–9, 235, 240, 340–1; parental 51–2, 76, 156, 158, 193, 232, 239, 263–4, 278; reasons for 229–31, 240; self- 175, 201, 236–8, 241; universal 234, 239; virtuous 227, 231–5, 235–40, 241, 337–8 Machiavelli, Niccolò 316, 321, 322, 327, 328 Mackie, John L. 186 madness 15, 118–19, 137, 340 magnanimity 313, 325 Magri, Tito 185

Maibom, Heidi 134, 140 malice 42, 163, 172, 204, 237, 238–40 Mandeville, Bernard 11, 327 manners 315; customs and 4, 103–7, 110, 339; naval 322 Marušić, Jennifer Smalligan 86 May, Joshua 42, 219, 221 Mazar, Nina 43 McArthur, Neil 326 McGeer, Victoria 140 McIntyre, Alison 60, 335–6 McIntyre, Jane 86, 260, 306 Mead, George Herbert 299 Mencius 92, 101, 109–10 Mennin, D. S. 294 mental illness see illness, mental Merritt, Anna C. 58 Merritt, Maria xi, 99–100, 106, 108, 109 Milgram, Stanley 42, 108 Miller, Christian B. 1, 58, 60, 63–9, 72–4, 81–3, 85, 88, 109 Millgram, Elijah 306 Mischel, Walter 102, 110 moderation xi, 287–8, 294, 299–301, 306 Montague, P. 196 Montaigne, Michel de 22, 35 mood effect 95–6 moral beauty see beauty, moral moral development 208, 226, 231, 334, 338–9; see also education, moral moral education see education, moral moral judgment: empathy and 116, 123–4, 128, 131–3, 135, 211–17; motivation and 176–9; nature of 115, 170–1, 173–4, 176; relation to character 20, 67, 291 moral psychology: Batson’s 161; Hume’s 105–6, 116–17, 132–5; intuition and affect in 74–7; motivation and 263, 282; of virtue ethics 63–7, 95–6, 103–6 moral rationalism: Hume’s arguments against 263, 271, 274, 277, 282, 283–4, 342–4; in moral agency 134; opposed to sentinementalism 140, 287, 304 moral sense 51, 118, 137, 226–7, 232, 235, 240 More, Sir Thomas 97–8 Mossner, Ernest Campbell 14, 15

Index motivation: action and 253–5, 259; affective dispositional 94, 103, 107, 110, 341; affordances and 196; altrusitic 142–3, 148, 152–60, 163, 167, 208, 336; approval-of-another 263, 265–6, 267, 270–2, 278, 281, 342; approval-of-self 263, 264–7, 271, 283, 342; automotic processes of 64, 81–2; benevolent 147–52, 164; emotions and 244–7, 252; mental illness and 23–8, 31; moral judgment and 170, 180–3, 210–17; moral sentiments and 49–50; passions and 70, 77, 287–8, 294–9, 301–5; reason and 251, 289, 300; self-interested 21; self-sufficiency of character 99, 109; sympathy and 123, 133–5, 171, 210–12, 215–17; virtue and 53, 73, 87, 284; virtuous trait 263–4, 265, 269, 271, 281, 342 Mower, Deborah 101–2, 110 narrow circle 71–2, 174, 179, 182–3 natural: abilities 50, 265; motive 214; phenomena 253; philosophy 245, 248; relations 246; religion 244; science 244; sympathy 306; virtue (see virtue, natural); world 253 necessity 19, 44, 116, 135, 247, 253, 255 Nelissen, R. M. A. 283 neuroscience 119, 200, 255–6, 259, 344 Nichols, Shaun 1 Nietzsche, Friedrich 22, 237, 239, 316 noble 28, 105, 107, 182, 232, 234, 313 Nussbaum, Martha C. 328 Oakley, Barbara 237 obligation 204, 265–6, 271–2, 278–80, 282 Oddie, Graham 282 Olberding, Amy 101–2, 110 Orr, James 260 Owen, David W. D. 273, 277, 283, 284, 306 Pack, S. J. 313 Pang-White, Ann A. 110 paradox of love see love, paradox of partiality 144, 174, 177–8, 180, 185–6, 235, 297, 337

383

passion(s) 160, 178–9, 245–8, 294–9, 320, 339–41; calm 28, 95, 239, 250–2, 287, 294–301, 306; cultivating 143; delicacy of passion 26–32, 232; direct 147–8, 267; disagreeable 48, 53; disorder of 9–11, 23, 32–3; ideas and 69, 154; indirect 6, 25, 46–7, 59, 236–7, 267, 283; interconnectedness of 95; motivation and 70, 268–70, 342–3; normative 292–3, 300; prosocial 239; reason and 250–3, 256, 259–60, 287–92, 306; regulation of 49, 287–8, 294–5, 297–301, 304–6, 340–1, 343; self-interested 49; sympathy and 96, 117, 125–9, 133–5, 149–53, 180, 217–19, 235–6; therapy for 23–33; violence of 28, 95, 163, 228, 250–2, 287, 294–301, 306 patience 20, 24 Paxman, Katharina 4–5, 36, 59, 86, 88, 306, 336, 338 peace 281, 315, 317 peace of mind 292–3, 300 peculiarity limitation (of pride) 47, 54–7, 60, 336 Pedersen, K. M. 325 Pessoa, Luiz 256 Pettigrew, T. F. 116 Pettigrove, Glen 108, 109 Pettit, Philip 311 Piaget, Jean 226 Pierdziwol, Annette 4–5, 123, 137, 336–9 Pigden, Charles 273, 277, 282, 284 Pitson, A. E. (Tony) 184, 260 pity: benevolence and 5, 143, 147–53, 160, 164–5; compassion and 128, 172, 237, 239; grief and 163 Plato 138, 205, 330 political theory 311, 319, 321, 325 politics 94–5, 104, 244, 295, 311–16, 318–24; Confucian 107 Postema, Gerald J. 223 praise: character and 19, 44, 214; love and 233; pride and 268; sentiments of 175–6;-worthiness 53, 57, 70, 79–80, 86 Prakash, Ruchika Shaurya 306 Price, H. H. 260 pride: indirect passion of 25, 45–7, 163, 174, 236, 257; moralized 186; motivation and 268, 283; sympathy

384

Index

and 218–20, 223; virtue and 45–8, 50, 54–7, 236–7, 240 Prinz, Jesse 170, 171–3, 176, 178, 183, 184, 208–17, 220, 222, 223, 337–8, 343 prosocial: affections 144–5, 147, 239; behaviors 226, 240; motivation 144–5, 147, 336 prudence 214, 265, 270 psychology: cognitive 243; developmental 119, 344; social 3–4, 40–1, 43, 50, 91–2, 99, 102–3, 107, 335, 341, 344; see also moral psychology psychopathy 119, 134–5 Purviance, Susan M. 86 Qu, Hsueh 111 race 45, 75, 77, 85, 104, 191–2, 204, 337 racism 192, 202 Radcliffe, Elizabeth S. 7, 36, 163, 185, 186, 274, 277, 283, 306, 340–3 Radden, Jennifer 15–16, 18, 34 Railton, Peter 75–6, 78–80, 82, 83, 85, 339 Rajah, Rashimah 328 rarity requirement (of pride) see peculiarity limitation rationalism see moral rationalism Rawls, John 186, 202 Read, Jason 328 Reed, Philip A. 58–60, 108–9, 278, 283, 284, 306, 334–6 regulation 7, 219, 287–8, 295, 299–301, 306, 340–1, 343 ren see benevolence resentment 26–7, 237, 295 Rickless, Samuel C. 163, 165 ritual 4, 100–3, 339 Rizzolatti, Giacomo 210 Rohr, C. S. 261 Rosati, Connie S. 186 Rothfeld, B. 192, 204 Rowen, H. H. 325, 327 Russell, Daniel 59, 100 Russell, Paul 59, 185 Sabl, Andrew 185, 324, 325, 328 Sachdeva, Sonya 43, 58 Sadler, John Z. 35 sadness 120–1, 126, 295–6

Sandis, Constantine 186, 282 Sarkissian, Hagop 102, 109, 110 Saul, Jennifer 64, 75, 84, 88, 202 Sayre-McCord, Geoffrey 184, 185, 186, 224, 274, 277 Scanlon, T. M. 304–5 Schliesser, Eric 7, 313, 325, 326, 327, 339, 341, 344 Schmitt, Carl 316, 326 Schmitt, Frederick F. 260 Schumann, Karina 162 Schwartz, Benjamin 100 science of man 245, 260, 318, 323, 334, 340, 343 self-contempt 236–40 self-deception 1 self-love 175, 201, 235–8 Senault, Jean-François 306 sentiment(s) 170–7, 180–4, 291–3, 302; moral 49–53, 58–9, 70–1, 87, 215–17, 232, 295–7; natural 21; progress of 259–60; shared 116–18, 124–5, 136–7; sympathy and 212–13, 218–20; of sympathy 184, 195, 222, 240 sentimentalism 1–2, 48, 56, 140, 179, 208, 226–7, 287 Setiya, Kieran 305 sexism 25, 192 Shackman, A. J. 261 Shaver, Robert 60 Shaw, Daniel 186 Shaw, Laura L. 142 Siebert, Donald T. 185 Singer, Peter 136, 234 Sinhababu, Neil 304–5, 306 Sinnott-Armstrong, Walter 1 situationism 3–4, 78, 91–9, 103, 334–5, 339; evidence for 41–3, 58, 63, 66, 74, 87; responses to 43, 100–7 Slingerland, Edward 101, 103, 108, 109, 110 Slote, Michael 183, 208, 227 Slovic, Paul 142 Smith, Adam 166, 180, 186, 201, 205, 208, 210, 327, 328 Smith, Craig 327 Smith, Michael 282, 306, 307 Snow, Nancy E. 86, 87, 241 Sober, Elliott 267 Solomon, Graham 325 spectator 27, 48–9, 72, 133, 149–52, 174, 177–83, 254

Index Spencer, S. J. 76 Spinoza, Benedict 7, 311–12, 320–3, 327, 347 spontaneity 77–82 Sreenivasan, Gopal 86 Srinivasan, Amia 328 Stanley, D. 324 Stanley, Jason 328 Steinberg, J. 327 Stewart, M. A. 34 Stich, Steven 108 strength of mind 31, 95, 292–5, 299–301, 315, 340 Stroud, Barry 260, 274, 277 Stueber, Karsten 184 Sutton, John 11 Swanton, Christine 6, 40, 87, 109, 232–5, 237, 241, 336–41 sympathy: basis of ethics 171–83, 194–7, 199, 337–8; benevolence and 105, 107, 148–56, 226–7, 235–6, 240; as communication of passions 96, 191, 210; extensive 110, 134, 150–3, 160, 164–7, 172, 178, 180, 185, 233, 339; intersubjectivity and 209, 217–22; mechanism of 115–19, 122–8, 131–6, 137–9, 226, 314, 336–7, 341; moral sentiments/judgments and 49–50, 211–17; virtuous love and 227, 229, 233–40 Szasz, Thomas S. 34 talent(s) 11, 13, 20, 25, 50, 95 Tangney, J. P. 283 taste 8, 10, 34, 49, 53, 232–3, 270, 273; delicacy of 28–31, 232 Taylor, Jacqueline 25, 36, 137, 184, 185, 186, 203, 220, 222, 224, 237–8, 326 temper 10–12, 17–23, 44, 54, 95–7, 107, 118, 214, 320 tenderness 158, 232, 280 Tetlock, Philip E. 326 Thomley, Jill 108, 109 Thompson, Ross A. 227 threshold concept (virtue as a) 52–4, 57, 59, 94, 108, 334; see also degree concept Tiberius, Valerie 1, 282 Traiger, Saul 6, 163, 261, 326, 343 trait(s): of character or personality; development of 24, 64–5, 82–5,

385

101, 338–9; disorder and 21, 32; global 42, 44–5, 60, 85, 91–2, 95–9, 107–8, 335; local 108–9, 335; mixed 66, 68, 72–3; ontology of 69; situationism and 91–9; virtuous 47–9, 51–7, 63, 70–3, 77–81, 197, 233, 263–5, 278, 292–3, 334; voluntariness and 18, 20 tranquility 31, 292, 296 trust 322, 324, 341 Twenge, Jean 85 unity: conditions of 314, 324; political 7, 312, 314, 324, 341; spirit of 311, 313–15, 319, 322–4, 341 unity of the virtues 97–8 usefulness see utility utility 70–2, 81, 314 Valian, V. 202 van de Haar, Edwin 325 van der Hoeven, Emanuel 326 van Knippenberg, Daan 328 Verdult, Stan 327 vice: cultivation of 105; delicacy of passion and 27; diffusion of 44; humility and 47–8, 57; love and 232, 234–5; mental illness and 9–13, 17–24, 32–4, 36; mixed with virtues 51, 59; motivation and 264–6, 271, 275, 277; nature of 53–4, 59; sympathy and 137, 173, 175–6, 211–17, 235 virtue: artificial 49, 52, 133, 138, 214–15, 284; Confucian 100–3; development of 24, 74, 82–5, 338–9, 340; diffusion 40–58, 335–6; Humean 67–74, 92–9, 106–7; internalism and 180–2; love and 227, 231–5, 235–40, 241, 337–8; moral psychology and 63–7; motivation and 67, 70–3, 79–82, 263–7, 270–3, 278–84, 342; natural 49, 50–2, 133, 214, 284; nature of 18–19, 42, 44, 52–4, 70–1, 86, 108–9, 334–5; as normative passions 292–3; practical reason and 300–2; pride and 45–8, 50, 54–7; situationism and 91–2; spontaneity and 77–82; sympathy and 173–6, 211–19, 235–40; talents and 20 virtue cultivation see education

386

Index

virtue ethics 77–8; Aristotelian xi, 4, 40, 43, 56, 58, 92, 99, 106, 343; Confucian 100–3, 106, 110, 339; Humean 40, 58, 92–9, 106–7, 110, 336–40, 344; moral psychology of 63–7; situationism and 3–4, 40–3, 91–2, 99 Visser, Emi 328 Vitz, Rico 3–4, 58 , 86 , 109 – 10, 137, 139, 163, 184 , 195 , 222 , 240, 344 volition 53, 177 Wakefield, Jerome C. 34 Waldow, Anik 184 Wang, Jing 40 Watkins, Margaret 3, 36, 339–41, 347 Weber, Max 328 well-being 71, 73, 122–3, 128, 130, 148, 151, 264, 287, 298; see also happiness

West, R. F. 204 Weststeijn, Arthur 327 Whelan, Frederick J. 325, 326, 328 will 19, 24, 49, 147, 253–6, 268, 272; see also good-will Williams, Bernard 182, 266, 282 Williams, W. M. 202 Wilson, David Sloan 267 Wisco, Blair 294–5 wisdom 47, 78–9, 200, 316; practical 78–80, 87, 316 Wolfe, Charles T. 328 Wootton, David 325 Wright, John P. 14, 34 Xunzi 92, 101, 109, 110 Yancy, G. 202 Yolton, John 195 Zimbardo, Philip 108, 109, 112, 328