The Politics of Eloquence: David Hume's Polite Rhetoric 9781442696945

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T H E PO L I TICS O F E L O Q UE NCE: D AV I D HUME ’S P O L IT E R HE TORI C

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MARC HANVELT

The Politics of Eloquence David Hume’s Polite Rhetoric

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press 2012 Toronto Buffalo London www.utppublishing.com Printed in Canada ISBN 978-1-4426-4379-6   Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Hanvelt, Marc, 1974– The politics of eloquence : David Hume’s polite rhetoric / Marc Hanvelt. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4426-4379-6 1. Hume, David, 1711–1776. 2. Rhetoric – Political aspects. 3. Political oratory. 4. Persuasion (Rhetoric) – Political aspects. 5. Eloquence. 6. Courtesy. I. Title. JA85.H35 2012  320.01'4  C2011-907701-9

This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for its publishing activities.

Contents

Acknowledgments vii Introduction 3 1 Hume’s Political Project 13 2 Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 32 3 Hume’s Conception of Politeness 56 4 Polite in His Own Way (Hume and the Scots) 80 5 Resuscitating the Passionate Eloquence of the Ancients 108 6 Rhetoric and the Public Sphere 124 7 Toward a Politics of Eloquence 145

Notes 167 Bibliography 199 Index 211

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Acknowledgments

During the first two years of my doctoral studies at the University of Toronto, I became interested in questions about how people come to hold moral and political beliefs and about how political and moral arguments are generated, defended, and debated. It was in pursuit of these interests that I came to the work of David Hume. As I read Hume’s writings, a set of questions about rhetoric and persuasion, about the relationship between reason and the passions, and about the intersections among moral and political arguments crystallized for me. These questions laid the foundations for the work that became the doctoral dissertation in political theory that I defended in June of 2007, and ultimately, this book. There are several people whom I would like to acknowledge for their contributions to this project. First, I would like to offer my deep gratitude to my doctoral dissertation supervisor Simone Chambers for her guidance, her friendship, and her encouragement, and for the critical perspective she has always brought to bear upon my work. I am truly privileged to have worked with so gifted an academic and so thoughtful a supervisor. I can only aspire to provide the same quality of mentorship to my own students that Simone has always provided to me. To the other members of my dissertation committee, Donald Ainslie, Edward Andrew, Ronald Beiner, and Sharon Krause, I extend my warmest thanks. My knowledge of Hume, of his work, and of the Scottish Enlightenment is so much richer for the many hours I have spent in conversation with each of these individuals and for the careful attention each has devoted to reading and commenting on

viii Acknowledgments

my work. Of course, any errors or omissions in the book are entirely my own. Andrew Sabl and Jacob T. Levy read and commented on two full drafts of the book manuscript. Their responses, critiques, and suggestions were invaluable to me in preparing it for publication. Wade L. Robison, J.A.W. Gunn, and Ryan Balot each read and commented on a full chapter of the manuscript. I am grateful to each of them for their input and for their insights. I am also grateful to the many people with whom I have, over the years, had engaging and challenging conversations about this work. Stephen Emery, Jani Hakkarainen, Nazeer Patel, David Raynor, and Mikko Tolonen deserve to be singled out in this regard. In addition, I would like to thank my colleagues and professors at the University of Toronto, as well as my colleagues and students at Carleton University, for fostering the rich intellectual environments that I have been so privileged to be part of. To Daniel Quinlan and all of the other individuals at University of Toronto Press who were involved with this project, I am very grateful for all of the work and dedication that was required to see the book through to print. I am also very grateful to David Prout for his careful attention to indexing the manuscript. I was very fortunate to receive financial support while writing this manuscript. My doctoral work was supported by a four-year doctoral fellowship from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada as well as by University of Toronto Graduate Fellowships. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. Finally, I would like to thank my family. To my parents, Robin and Vera, my grandparents, Mimi and Gideon, my great-aunt Raja, and my brother Jonathan, I wish to express my heartfelt gratitude for their endless love and support, and for a family environment in which political argument and polite conversation have always been valued highly. I dearly wish that my grandparents, who both took a great interest in this book as I was writing it, had lived to see it in print. To my in-laws, Peter and Maria Victor, I offer my sincere thanks for welcoming me so warmly into their family and for supporting and encouraging me as a son.

Acknowledgments ix

To my wife Marisa, I can only begin to express my love and my gratitude for the life we share. I would not be where I am today, nor the person I am today, without her. Her love for me is the strongest evidence I know of to indicate that Hume may have been wrong on the question of miracles. I dedicate this book to our children, Gryffin and Acacia. Reflecting upon their futures and upon the world they will inherit inspires me to pursue the questions that I do in my writing. Ottawa, Canada August 2011

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T H E PO L I TICS O F E L O Q UE NCE: D AV I D HU ME ’S P O L IT E R HE TORI C

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Introduction

Perhaps it may be acknowledged, that our modern customs, or our superior good sense, if you will, should make our orators more cautious and reserved than the ancient, in attempting to inflame the passions, or elevate the imagination of their audience: But, I see no reason, why it should make them despair absolutely of succeeding in that attempt. It should make them redouble their art, not abandon it entirely.1

Persuasion is an inescapable feature of democratic politics. As individual citizens, we are confronted on a daily basis with a wide array of political questions, ranging from the deeply moral to the purely practical. And, by definition, these questions do not admit of answers that can be demonstratively proven true. If they did admit of such answers, there would be no need for politics. We could simply ask for the correct answer from expert managers or from philosophers. But democratic politics requires us to decide for ourselves what to do on the basis of the beliefs we hold. These beliefs, as well as the political judgments we make on their basis, are affected in various ways by what other people have to say. Sometimes we ask others for their opinions. Other times, they volunteer their thoughts, or worse, harangue us with their views. But regardless, we rarely, if ever, make political judgments that are completely unaffected by what others have to say. A fundamental principle of democracy requires that political power be legitimated through some expression of popular sovereignty. Although often perverted by electoral systems, voting procedures, and levels of political participation, these expressions of popular sovereignty are usually determined through some form of majority rule.

4 The Politics of Eloquence

Therefore, a central aspect of democratic politics involves marshalling support from a requisite portion of the citizenry for one’s own principles or one’s favoured policies. There really are only three possible avenues for marshalling this support: coercion, deception, or persuasion. The first two of these are anathema to the foundational spirit of a democracy. As democratic citizens, we are left only with the third. There are several means through which we can seek to persuade – for example, advertising campaigns or editorial commentaries. However, these avenues are available only to a select few. In a democratic state, the primary means through which citizens and politicians attempt to persuade one another is political speech. Despite its centrality to democratic politics, however, the normative place of rhetoric, both in democratic practice and in theory, is contested. In the lead-up to and in the immediate aftermath of his election as president of the United States, Barack Obama was widely lauded for his rhetorical prowess. He was even named the Rhetorical President. Other leaders, such as Martin Luther King Jr, hold esteemed places in the democratic pantheon on account of their oratorical skills. Democratic citizens love and crave leaders whose words have the power to propel their audiences to great deeds or to inspire them to virtue. On the other hand, democratic citizens and democratic theorists are also often suspicious of rhetorical prowess. History offers many examples of orators who employed the power of rhetoric toward manipulative ends, including the promotion of intolerance and gross acts of violence. Though most of us intuitively believe there is a difference between this manipulative form of political speech and the nonmanipulative political oratory that is so widely lauded, the challenge of defining criteria for establishing that distinction has proven particularly formidable. Fears about the manipulative power of rhetoric often arise from a brief survey of average democratic citizens. By their judgments and behaviour, individuals often show themselves to be far from perfectly rational beings. Individuals are partial to their own interests and to those of their friends and family. They hold prejudices of one kind or another. And many have a limited knowledge of history such that they often lack a developed understanding of the historical context for contemporary politics or of historical precedents that could provide useful guidance for current decision makers. When citizens are considered in this light, it is no wonder that they appear to be prime targets for

Introduction 5

manipulative orators. The concern is all the greater when the questions at stake are considered to be of great importance. The result of this concern has been a sustained interest in distinguishing manipulative from non-manipulative political speech. Thinkers ranging from Plato to many contemporary democratic theorists have defended conceptions of this distinction that, although they vary in some regards, are all based on a clear opposition between rhetoric and reasoned discourse. Plato distinguished rhetoric, as mere flattery and pandering, from the reasoned dialectic of philosophy. Many contemporary theorists, particularly those who have been influenced by Kant, emphasize a clear separation between reason and the passions and distinguish the two forms of political speech by negatively associating rhetoric with appeals to the passions. On this scheme, reasonable persuasion is considered legitimate and good while rhetorical appeals to the emotions are rejected for being manipulative. This book offers a different approach to thinking about political rhetoric. I start from the belief that rhetoric which appeals to the passions is an essential element of democratic politics. It is a powerful tool for those who seek to persuade others to adopt their own views or to change the minds of those who disagree with them. The centrality of rhetoric to democratic politics does not, however, diminish the dangers that attend it. Rhetoric can be manipulative. It can even be employed to foment factionalism that can tear at the very fabric of a democratic society. Defending the place of rhetoric in democratic politics must, therefore, involve articulating a conception of the type of rhetoric that should be admitted – indeed, embraced – by both democratic citizens and democratic theorists. Contemporary liberal and democratic theory is overwhelmingly influenced by the philosophy of Immanuel Kant. In this book, I propose that we rediscover a road not taken in the development of liberal theory. Although Kant’s influence today is enormous, contemporary liberal and democratic theorists have access to a very different set of theoretical resources in the sentiment-based philosophy of David Hume. Hume confronted questions about the negative moral and political effects of fanatical rhetoric in eighteenth-century Britain. His work provides a means of differentiating manipulative from non-manipulative political speech that does not require a trade-off between passionate and reasoned appeals. His central insight was that the power of rhetoric – both its capacity to manipulate and its positive potential – lies in its

6 The Politics of Eloquence

special ability to produce lively ideas that mimic the empirical evidence of sense impressions. Hume’s conception of rhetoric, therefore, offers a powerful analytical tool for considering the positive role that rhetoric has to play in democratic politics. Hume’s treatment of rhetoric has been largely overlooked in the scholarly literature. Understanding how his conception of rhetoric is rooted in his philosophical, historical, and political writings is, however, important for understanding the full scope of his political philosophy. Hume’s work was motivated by his interest in defeating the forces of faction and fanaticism. His philosophy of mind exposes the porous foundations of superstitious beliefs. It also reveals the power of rhetoric to elicit passions and to disseminate beliefs, both sound and superstitious. Hume was acutely aware of the dangers posed by rhetorically gifted fanatics. However, unlike many of his contemporaries, he saw these as dangers of fanaticism, not of rhetoric. For the most part, Hume thought the politicians of his day to be poor orators and ‘altogether incapable of politeness in any form.’2 However, he held out hope for a politics in which the power of oratory could be turned toward the promotion of common goods and a general improvement of morals.3 Hume was greatly concerned with balancing the need to maintain an open public sphere in which interests could be opposed to one another with an awareness of the danger that the opposition of interests could lead to the development of violent factions. He distinguished between the low cant of the fanatics and a higher form of rhetoric, one that was rooted in his philosophy of mind and that reconciled rhetoric with the values of politeness. This reconciliation of rhetoric and politeness was the means through which Hume resuscitated and modernized the ancient eloquence that he so admired. It was one of the most distinguishing features of his conception of a high form of rhetoric, a form that I term accurate, just, and polite. In the end, Hume offers us reason to believe that, the credulity of the public notwithstanding, fanatical orators who employ rhetoric toward immoral and anti-social ends can be countered effectively. Hume thought that the great danger of such orators lay in their ability to distort the moral perceptions of their audience members. By defining actions in defence of their particular party as selfless and principled, these orators licensed their audience ‘to do greater harm with a clear conscience.’4 The fanaticism of Hume’s day has its parallels in our contemporary world. Heated moral and political debates are an everpresent feature of democratic politics in many countries. And there

Introduction 7

are always those who will go to any lengths in their rhetoric – such as artificially reducing complex questions to dichotomous choices, resorting to outright lies or gratuitous personal attacks, or inaccurately associating their opponents or their opponents’ positions with such emotionally charged examples as Soviet Communism or Hitler and the Holocaust – in order to persuade others of their views. Hume’s conception of high rhetoric paints a very different picture of political oratory and suggests a positive role for it in democratic politics. Hume offers an understanding of why individuals need not resort to manipulative speech in order to persuade others of their views on difficult moral and political questions. In his conception of high rhetoric, accurate reasoning counters the hypocrisy of the zealots. Powerful figurative language imbues this reasoning with the liveliness and vivacity required for an audience to believe it and elicits passions that can lead the audience members to act in the furtherance of common goods. The politeness of the orator ensures that the audience’s judgment is respected and that the orator’s ideas are presented in a way that facilitates and encourages the types of societal conversations that will challenge and could ultimately undermine the forces of fanaticism. Approach to Reading the Texts Apart from the short essay ‘Of Eloquence,’ Hume never wrote a treatise on rhetoric. My project in this book is, therefore, threefold. First, I seek to demonstrate that Hume’s conception of the mind commits him to assign an important role to rhetoric in political life. Second, I seek to draw together Hume’s various discussions of eloquence in order to sketch the conception of rhetoric that emerges from his writings. And third, I argue for the contemporary relevance of Hume’s conception of rhetoric. The phrase ‘accurate, just, and polite rhetoric’ is my own. It brings the three components of Hume’s high rhetoric – accurate and just reasoning, politeness, and the ancient style of rhetoric that Hume associates with his idealized Demosthenes – together into a single analytical tool that helps us make sense of Hume’s various discussions of rhetoric. My decision to focus exclusively on oratory and to exclude the written word from my discussion of Hume’s conception of rhetoric is deliberate. It is plain that in ‘Of Eloquence,’ Hume’s most developed discussion of rhetoric, he writes exclusively about oratory. For example, he argues that ‘in ancient times, no work of genius was thought to require

8 The Politics of Eloquence

so great parts and capacity, as the speaking in public.’5 A primary focus of my project is to make sense of the encouragement that Hume gives modern orators to ‘redouble their art, not abandon it entirely.’6 Given that he is writing exclusively about political oratory in this passage, I have seen fit to limit my discussion of his conception of rhetoric in the same manner. Making sense of Hume’s discussions of rhetoric requires that we solve a real puzzle. Five pages after arguing that modern orators ought to redouble their efforts at improving their rhetoric, Hume writes that ‘modern orators should not elevate their stile or aspire to a rivalship with the ancients.’7 It is simply inconceivable to me that Hume would have been unaware of this apparently complete contradiction in his essay. My approach to reading Hume’s texts has, therefore, been to start from the assumption that he intended to be consistent. There are, nevertheless, apparent inconsistencies throughout Hume’s various discussions of rhetoric. And explaining or understanding these requires that I pose two questions: What sorts of assumptions could Hume reasonably have been expected to have? And how do his texts read in light of these assumptions? To answer these questions, I draw on a wide range of Hume’s works. My approach has been to read his entire corpus as a single body of work. Therefore, in developing my account of Hume’s conception of rhetoric, I draw on the Treatise of Human Nature, the two Enquiries, and many of Hume’s popular essays. I also engage in detailed discussion of some of the scenes of political oratory that Hume describes in his History of England as these are important resources for making sense of his conception of rhetoric. I refer to these scenes as illustrations of various aspects of Hume’s understanding of persuasion as well as to help relate his conception of rhetoric to his account of the public sphere. It is not within my power to discover the intentions that lie behind Hume’s discussions of rhetoric. However, the analysis in this book will demonstrate that a principal outcome of those discussions is the positing of a distinction between effective and good oratory. Though he was sharply critical of the orators of his day, Hume would certainly have conceded that many seventeenth- and eighteenth-century orators were very effective. But high rhetoric, for Hume, is not simply effective oratory. The problem with fanatical oratory, on Hume’s account, is precisely that it is too effective. To take a modern example, Hitler was quite possibly the most effective orator of the twentieth century. But he certainly was not employing rhetoric in a way that Hume would

Introduction 9

have described as good. In order to distinguish high from low rhetoric, Hume had to differentiate effective oratory from good oratory. The dangers posed by low rhetoric, as Hume understood them, were apparent in the English Civil War and in other effects of faction and fanaticism. Given that these dangers were of primary concern to Hume, the question might again arise as to why I limit Hume’s conception of rhetoric to political oratory. After all, there can be no doubting that the pamphleteers did a great deal to stir up the controversies that led to the Civil War. Again, my analytical choice here is directed by Hume’s own words. Though he certainly acknowledges the role of the pamphleteers, Hume makes quite explicit his belief that oratory played the most significant role in fomenting the animosities and divisions that led to the Civil War.8 My project in this book is not strictly historical. For example, I do not set out to assess Hume’s diagnoses of the causes of the Civil War or of faction in England. Rather, my discussions of British history – particularly of the effects of faction and fanaticism – are intended to define Hume’s outlook on politics. My objective here is to show how Hume’s discussions of eloquence are consistent within the limits of his vision. Assessing the accuracy or even the defensibility of Hume’s vision is, I believe, a matter for a different study. Layout of the Book In chapter 1, I examine the nature of Hume’s political project. Although he wrote in many genres and on many subjects, a thread that runs throughout his literary career is his concern with the real moral and political effects of faction and fanaticism. We can, in fact, read much of Hume’s corpus as responses to these questions. This concern with faction and fanaticism is important because it casts Hume’s discussions of rhetoric and eloquence in an undeniably political light. What might have seemed to some as mere musings on style become far more politically significant when they are understood in relation to parliamentary and pulpit oratory and to the forces of faction and fanaticism. In chapter 2, I look at Hume’s discussions of persuasion. According to him, the power of rhetoric lies in its capacity to produce lively ideas that mimic the sense impressions of experience. This insight arises from Hume’s understanding of judgment, according to which the same processes of mind that lead us to form sound judgments are also those that often lead us into error. If people formed reasonable beliefs differently

10 The Politics of Eloquence

from how they form unreasonable or superstitious beliefs, the problem of differentiating high from low rhetoric would be easily resolved. Hume’s discussions of persuasion demonstrate why the problem is so much more difficult. These discussions also demonstrate why reason must play a role, but cannot play the only role, in Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. In chapter 3, I turn to the notion of politeness that pervaded eighteenth-century British life. Politeness appears as a double-edged sword in Hume’s thinking on rhetoric. On the one hand, it offers an important means of differentiating high from low rhetoric and contributes in very significant ways to the political project that Hume had in mind for his conception of high rhetoric. On the other hand, the culture of politeness that pervaded eighteenth-century British society was oriented toward a promotion of moderation that seemed to many to preclude the passionate appeals of rhetoric. In this chapter, I argue that Hume’s conception of politeness – as the arts of conversation – provided a means to modernize the ancient eloquence that he admired and render it appropriate and agreeable to an eighteenth-century sentimentality. In chapter 4, I argue that Hume’s conception of the relationship between politeness and rhetoric set his conception of rhetoric apart from those of his contemporaries in the Scottish Enlightenment. The comparisons with Adam Smith and John Trenchard illustrate the ways in which Hume’s conception of the relationship between politeness and rhetoric rests on his understanding of the relationship between reason and the passions. The comparison with George Campbell illustrates how rhetoric and politeness can only be reconciled within a sceptical epistemology. Because politeness is based in discursivity, polite rhetoric requires a sceptical outlook that does not allow for absolute knowledge of the causal relations that determine our world. Having established accounts of Hume’s conception of persuasion, of his notion of politeness, and of the relationship between reason and the passions in his philosophy of mind, we are able to look back to the Ancients in order to discover the strain of eloquence that Hume sought to resuscitate and modernize. This is my project in chapter 5. From Aristotle, Hume draws a conception of the political nature of rhetoric and of the importance of judgment. However, Aristotle’s discussion of judgment rests on a conception of demonstrative truth that Hume cannot accept. And Aristotle’s Rhetoric relies on a view of the persuasiveness of rational argument that Hume explicitly denies. From Cicero, Hume draws an understanding of the mutual relationship between

Introduction 11

philosophy and rhetoric that will provide an important theoretical basis for his conception of rhetoric. However, from Hume’s perspective, the reasoning in Cicero’s own orations often fell short of the promise extended by his theoretical writings. Hume, therefore, invokes an idealized vision of Demosthenes as his model orator, his practitioner of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric. In chapter 6, I draw the discussions from the first five chapters together to paint a complete picture of Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. I then show how reading the accounts of political oratory in the History of England through the lens of his conception of rhetoric aids us in understanding his views on political discourse and the public sphere. I show how Hume’s discussions of factional rhetoric can be understood in terms of his theory of persuasion. I then point to Hume’s account of the 1st Earl of Strafford’s speech at his impeachment trial as the model that Hume presents in the History of an orator whose rhetoric approximates his conception of high rhetoric. The account of Strafford’s speech gives us insight into Hume’s understanding of the role of political rhetoric in the public sphere. His conception of high rhetoric serves as a mechanism through which interests can be openly opposed while simultaneously diminishing the risk that the opposition of interests will lead to the development of violent factions. In chapter 7, I argue that Hume’s views on the role of rhetoric in the public sphere and his related concerns about faction and fanaticism remain relevant to contemporary democratic theory and politics. His theories of judgment and rhetoric offer valuable resources for contemporary liberal and democratic theorists seeking to improve the quality of democratic practices. Hume’s account of judgment – in which reason and the passions mutually assist one another – offers a much sounder basis from which to develop normative accounts of deliberation than do the neo-Kantian theories of judgment and deliberation that dominate contemporary liberal and democratic theory. In particular, Hume’s account of judgment offers resources for addressing the challenges of value pluralism that are absent from theories of judgment that posit a clean separation between reason and the passions. I conclude the book by arguing for a politics of eloquence based on Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. Democratic politics are often messy. Citizens and politicians, partial and prejudiced, often deaf to reason, and prone to being manipulated, debate questions that do not admit of demonstrative answers. Hume’s conception of high rhetoric takes people as they actually are. It does not demand a level of rationality

12 The Politics of Eloquence

that is out of step with the operations of the mind. Rather, it provides an account of persuasion, based on a respect for individual judgment, that holds the promise of a politics in which individuals will participate in societal conversations that afford them the opportunity to forcefully and passionately defend their beliefs and opinions in order to influence political and moral decision making in their pluralist democratic societies.

1 Hume’s Political Project

No character in human society is more dangerous than that of the fanatic; because, if attended with weak judgment, he is exposed to the suggestions of others; if supported by more discernment, he is entirely governed by his own illusions, which sanctify his most selfish views and passions.1 As much as legislators and founders of states ought to be honoured and respected among men, as much ought the founders of sects and factions to be detested and hated; because the influence of faction is entirely contrary to that of laws.2 I wantonly exposed myself to the rage of both civil and religious factions.3

David Hume wrote in many genres: history, philosophy, popular essays, even autobiography. And his writings cover vast expanses of intellectual terrain: from the history of England4 to the delicacy of taste and passion;5 from taxes6 and public credit7 to national characters;8 from love and marriage9 to the populousness of ancient nations10 to human nature itself.11 Hume truly was a man of letters. In fact, he famously claimed that the ‘love of literary fame’ was the ‘ruling passion’ of his life.12 However, despite the wide scope of his interests, Hume’s writings demonstrate his lifelong preoccupation with a select set of questions. Among the most prominent of these are questions that address the real political and moral effects of faction and fanaticism.13 Politics is, therefore, an important thread that runs throughout Hume’s literary career. The philosophical, historical, and popular works of his corpus respond to very political questions about the impacts of faction

14 The Politics of Eloquence

and fanaticism on societal peace and on morality. In addition, Hume’s publication of his corpus was itself a political act. He sought not only to locate the bases of fanaticism and faction in human nature, but also to counter their nefarious effects on eighteenth-century British society. His engagement in this battle against faction and fanaticism was animated by two related questions: First, what should be done about the fact that most people in the public sphere are, if not deaf to reason, at least easily distracted from it? And second, how should societies counter those who would take advantage of this fact of human nature? Through his pursuit of these questions, Hume discovered the limits of reason as well as the limited utility of philosophy in confronting faction and fanaticism. He also developed the distinction – which is the subject of this book – between the manipulative rhetoric of the fanatics and the factional leaders and a good form of rhetoric that I am terming accurate, just, and polite. The Battle against Faction and Fanaticism Given the wide scope of his writings, it comes as little surprise that Hume’s various interpreters have propounded and defended many different interpretations of his philosophical and political projects. The standard story for many years has been that Hume’s initial interest in philosophy waned after the financial failure of the Treatise and that he abandoned philosophy for the study of politics, economics, and the like, ultimately finding satisfaction and financial success in writing his History of England and in his other literary pursuits. Whether they accept this standard narrative or propose some minor variations to it, most commentators have accepted the thesis that Hume wrote the Treatise principally to address a set of questions in philosophy. David Miller, for example, writes that ‘the main target of his theory of judgment is philosophical rationalism.’ 14 This assertion, or ones similar, have led many, such as Frederick Whelan, to connect Hume’s philosophical and political writings by arguing that his ‘political philosophy follows from and is firmly grounded in his general conception of the mind.’15 Hume’s interest in philosophy, particularly in questions pertaining to rationalism, is beyond doubt. However, it is not inconsistent to claim as well that Hume’s interest in challenging philosophical rationalism was motivated by questions that were much more directly related to politics and morality. As Ernest Campbell Mossner writes, ‘Hume’s deep and abiding interests were always in philosophy and its practical

Hume’s Political Project 15

applications.’16 In concurrence with Jennifer Herdt, therefore, my starting point for reading Hume turns Whelan’s assertion on its head. As Herdt argues, ‘Hume’s epistemological concerns are not just secondary to practical and moral affairs . . . but they are actually driven by his concerns about the threat posed by religious belief and practice to the peace and prosperity of society.’17 Seen from this perspective, Hume’s project appears as twofold: ‘to understand the source and nature of religious disagreement and conflict, and to find a solution to religious conflict thereby helping to secure the conditions for social peace and prosperity.’18 My interpretation of Hume clearly puts me at odds with commentators such as Miller who argue that Hume ‘takes occasional sideswipes at superstition, prejudice, and the like – i.e., at beliefs that are held to have less justification than the rest of our everyday convictions.’19 If we look at Hume’s corpus as a whole, it becomes clear that his attacks against superstition, prejudice, and enthusiasm were anything but ‘occasional sideswipes.’20 Of the Treatise, Hume wrote that ‘it fell deadborn from the press, without reaching such distinction, as even to excite a murmur among the zealots.’21 The second half of this famous phrase is very often left out when the phrase is quoted. Yet it is that half of the phrase that tells us the most about the reason for Hume’s dismal view of his work. He is not here lamenting that even the zealots took no notice of his Treatise. He is lamenting that his work had not excited the uproar among the zealots that he had expected it to. Hume saw his age as a battleground on which the forces of philosophy faced off against the forces of unreflective superstitious and enthusiastic belief.22 In that battle, Hume planted himself squarely on the side of philosophy and set out to undermine the forces of faction and fanaticism.23 This project is in evidence throughout Hume’s corpus. In his essay ‘Of Superstition and Enthusiasm,’ he writes that ‘these two species of false religion might afford occasion to many speculations; but I shall confine myself, at present, to a few reflections concerning their different influence on government and society.’24 Hume’s philosophical works were also directed toward combating fanaticism. Don Garrett argues that ‘Hume’s An Enquiry concerning Human Understanding, written as a recasting of Book I of the Treatise . . . [contains] only as much of his theory of mind and his arguments concerning causality and causal reasoning as are necessary to draw conclusions bearing on the practical struggle against superstition – that is, the doctrines and practices of unphilosophical and unreflective organized religion.’25 And John

16 The Politics of Eloquence

Passmore argues that while the Treatise itself ‘does not explicitly criticise religious enthusiasm under that name . . . it is throughout directed against the leading assumptions on which religious enthusiasm rests; it could carry the sub-title An Antidote against Enthusiasm.’26 When explaining his decision to write his History of England in reverse chronological order,27 Hume writes that he ‘commenced with the accession of the House of Stuart, an epoch when . . . the misrepresentations of faction began chiefly to take place.’28 As Herdt argues, this work represents a concerted attempt on Hume’s part to ‘increase awareness of the hypocrisy and self-deception of religious belief, thereby deflating factional bigotry, encouraging mutual sympathetic understanding, and enhancing concern for public welfare at the expense of factional interests.’29 Taken as a whole, Hume’s philosophical, historical, and popular works present a clear understanding of the root causes of faction and fanaticism as well as clear warnings against the dangers these pose to societal peace and to morality. It is no wonder then that Hume claimed to have wantonly exposed himself to ‘the rage of both civil and religious factions.’30 Challenging the foundations of religious belief was central to Hume’s attempts at undermining the forces of faction and fanaticism. As Anthony Flew writes, Hume developed a ‘comprehensive and lifelong’ ‘interest both in the phenomena of religion (its phenomenology) and in the evidencing reasons offered for religious doctrines (their epistemology).’31 The challenges Hume raised against the doctrines of Christianity were so significant that in 1761 his entire corpus was placed on the index of prohibited works of the Roman Catholic Church.32 However, Hume’s challenges to the foundations of religious doctrine do not represent the full extent of his attempts at undermining the forces of faction and fanaticism. He was equally critical of political factions that were based in and that promoted political enthusiasm. Given the extremely close ties that existed between religion and politics in Hume’s day, and in the previous centuries of British and European history,33 it is often difficult to separate the two. Politics was often used in the service of religion, and vice versa. As Hume writes in his Natural History of Religion, ‘the practice of warping the tenets of religion, in order to serve temporal interests, is not, by any means, to be regarded as an invention of these later ages.’34 Hume’s major concern was, therefore, to understand the source and nature of all factional conflict that was based in conflicting fanatical beliefs, be those beliefs of a religious or other nature.

Hume’s Political Project 17

Hume divided factions into three types: those from interest, those from affection, and those from principle.35 The last of these he considered to be by far the worst. Hume writes that parties from principle, especially abstract speculative principle, are known only to modern times, and are, perhaps, the most extraordinary and unaccountable phoenomenon, that has yet appeared in human affairs. Where different principles beget a contrariety of conduct, which is the case with all different political principles, the matter may be more easily explained. A man, who esteems the true right of government to lie in one man, or one family, cannot easily agree with his fellow-citizen, who thinks that another man or family is possessed of this right. Each naturally wishes that right may take place, according to his own notions of it. But where the difference of principle is attended with no contrariety of action, but every one may follow his own way, without interfering with his neighbour, as happens in all religious controversies; what madness, what fury can beget such unhappy and such fatal divisions?36

Though more easily explained than religious parties from principle, political parties from principle pose many of the same dangers. The effects of both types of faction demonstrate Hume’s central concerns about people’s overreliance on ‘what is vulgarly call’d’ reason37 and about the imposition of principles derived from a ‘false reason’38 onto the real world. Hume’s Politics Hume’s concerns about the influence of ‘false reason’ are reflected in his own politics, an understanding of which is essential if we are to understand his concerns about faction and fanaticism. Much ink has been devoted to describing Hume’s politics without any clear consensus among scholars having been produced. Political theorists who have written on Hume’s politics have often tended to inquire after the possibility of reconciling the radical Hume of the Treatise with the apparently more conservative Hume of the Essays. These discussions have usually focused on defining Hume as either a liberal or a conservative thinker.39 However, as Donald Livingston argues, ‘liberalism and conservatism were not and could not have been a part of Hume’s own self-understanding’ because both terms emerged in the early nineteenth century.40 Therefore, in order to get an accurate sense of Hume’s own

18 The Politics of Eloquence

politics, we must locate him in relation to the Whig and Tory, and Court and Country distinctions that defined the politics of his own day.41 In making his famous distinction between political and religious Whigs, Hume defined himself as the former: ‘a Man of Sense and Moderation, a Lover of Laws and Liberty, whose chief Regard to particular Princes and Families, is founded on a Regard to the publick Good.’42 However, Hume’s politics were not purely Whiggish. As Livingston notes, Hume ‘admired the moral character of Charles I and leading royalists more than the characters of Cromwell and the Puritan fanatics. But he was happy about unintended consequences of the Puritan rebellion which led to the constitution of liberty of 1689 (the whig order of “things,” namely liberty and the rule of law).’43 In short, Hume disapproved of the Civil War but strongly approved of the Glorious Revolution of 1688. He supported both the Union of 1707 and the accession of the House of Hanover in 1714.44 However, he counted Tories, most notably the 1st Earl of Strafford, among those of his political heroes. Hume understood politics to be a constant struggle between the principles of liberty and those of authority. Good politics, according to Hume, requires a balance between the two. Maintaining that balance under Britain’s mixed constitution required that the king have an alternative source of power to a standing army or an extensive prerogative. According to Hume, that alternative source of power was patronage.45 Hume’s support for patronage accorded closely with the Court ideology of his day. However, his preference for a militia over a standing army46 and his concerns about the national debt47 accorded much more closely with the Country ideology. Therefore, just as Hume does not fit easily into either the Whig or Tory camp, he cannot be unproblematically associated with either the Court or the Country ideology. Hume’s politics were not, therefore, directly connected to any of the parties of his day. They were more general in their scope. And this more general outlook was reflected in his political philosophy. Frederick Whelan argues that a central feature of Hume’s political project was his defence and justification of the values that are essential to artificial virtue. According to Whelan, ‘a defense of justice and government – beyond a formal analysis and historical treatment of them – in the context of a defense of a public realm of rules generally is thus the principal theme of Hume’s political philosophy.’48 In practice, Hume thought that the balance between liberty and authority had best been achieved through Britain’s mixed constitution. He, therefore, was greatly concerned with preserving the constitution.

Hume’s Political Project 19

Hume’s defence of the British constitution is central to explaining his concerns with faction and fanaticism. He thought that the opposition of interests was one of the primary supports for Britain’s mixed constitution. However, he was aware that the opposition of interests had often led to the rise of combative sects that had threatened the delicate balance on which the constitution rested. Hume saw the Puritan factions as extreme or religious Whigs who promoted an excess of liberty that could ultimately unbalance the constitution. Conversely, he saw the Jacobites as an extreme faction of the Tories whose support for monarchy and whose partisanship of the House of Stuart risked tipping the balance toward an excess of authority. Hume referred to Jacobitism as ‘the most terrible ism of them all.’49 Yet he also wrote that ‘the religious Whigs are a very different Set of Mortals, and in my Opinion, are much worse than the religious Tories.’50 Hume’s opposition to faction and fanaticism rested, therefore, on his concerns about these forces understood generally as opposed to concerns that he had about particular factions. As Pocock writes, Hume’s writings reflect his concern that ‘the undisciplined sociability of mankind led to the rise of combative sects, in taste and philosophy (“Of the Dignity or Meanness of Human Nature”) as well as in religion and politics (“Of Parties in General”) that pitted one irrationally retained habit of mind against another.’51 Initially, Hume’s primary concerns were religious factions. However, in the Wilkes and Liberty movement of the 1760s and early 1770s,52 ‘Hume could see, for the first time, mass passions informed, not by religious enthusiasm, but by philosophical enthusiasm.’53 So, as Stephen Miller writes, ‘in the last decade of his life, [Hume] was less concerned about the immoderate religious factions than about immoderate patriots.’54 His concerns about faction and fanaticism, however, remained consistent. And ‘by the 1760s, when the History of England was complete, he was still convinced that the problem of preserving civilization in England lay in protecting the constitution from the ignorance and folly of a factious people who were only able to rise above their tribal party loyalties when aroused by xenophobia and religion,’ each of which, in turn, created new tribes and parties.55 The delicacy of the British constitution was central to Hume’s political outlook. The major lesson of his History of England was that the mixed constitution had arisen largely from historical accident. Hume thought it impossible that the actions of the parliament leading up to the Civil War could have been reasonably calculated to bring about a mixed system of government. What is more, as David Miller argues,

20 The Politics of Eloquence

Hume thought that ‘the dispute between king and parliament could have been resolved had it been conducted in purely secular terms; but once religious enthusiasm was yoked to the cause of political liberty, civil war became unavoidable.’56 Therefore, he ‘saw faction as the principal danger’ to British society.57 And the basis of faction, he believed, was fanaticism. The Natural Human Tendency toward Fanaticism One of Hume’s great contributions to the study of human nature is his diagnosis of an innate human tendency toward fanaticism. In his essay ‘Of Parties in General,’ Hume points us toward an interesting, and disturbing, fact of human nature: Two men travelling on the highway, the one east, the other west, can easily pass each other, if the way be broad enough: But two men, reasoning upon opposite principles of religion, cannot so easily pass, without shocking; though one should think, that the way were also, in that case, sufficiently broad, and that each might proceed, without interruption, in his own course. But such is the nature of the human mind, that it always lays hold on every mind that approaches it; and as it is wonderfully fortified by an unanimity of sentiment, so is it shocked and disturbed by any contrariety. Hence the eagerness, which most people discover in a dispute; and hence their impatience of opposition, even in the most speculative and indifferent opinions. This principle, however frivolous it may appear, seems to have been the origin of all religious wars and divisions.58

Hume gives his most complete explanation of this feature of human nature in his Natural History of Religion. On its surface, the Natural History is Hume’s attempt to show that polytheism, or idolatry, predates theism and to describe the process through which the latter type of religious belief developed out of the former.59 Hume argues that people could have been led to contemplate the existence of divinity by seeking explanations for either the interconnectedness of nature or the variability of human existence. Those who began by contemplating the appearance of a grand plan in the harmony of nature will have gravitated toward theism.60 On the other hand, those who sought explanations for the variances and the inconsistencies that define human life will necessarily have been led to polytheism.61 Hume writes that ‘the conduct of events, or what we call the plan

Hume’s Political Project 21

of a particular providence, is so full of variety and uncertainty, that, if we suppose it immediately ordered by any intelligent beings, we must acknowledge a contrariety in their designs and intentions, a constant combat of opposite powers, and a repentance or change of intention in the same power, from impotence or levity.’62 The question then is what initially led people to contemplate the existence of divinity: the harmony of nature or the variability of human life. Hume suggests that the answer to this question is obvious. Given his contention that people are moved to action by their passions as opposed to their reason, he writes that they must have been motivated by some passion that would have carried their attention beyond their immediate circumstances. Hume concludes that people must have initially been motivated to contemplate the existence of divinity by ‘the ordinary affections of human life, the anxious concern for happiness, the dread of future misery, the terror of death, the thirst of revenge, the appetite for food and other necessities.’63 When people begin to seek explanations for misery, happiness, death, and the other variables in human life, Hume writes, ‘unknown causes . . . become the constant object of [their] hope and fear; and while the passions are kept in perpetual alarm by an anxious expectation of the events, the imagination is equally employed in forming ideas of those powers, on which [they] have so entire a dependence.’64 Because people have a natural tendency to transpose human qualities and emotions onto all beings, Hume argues, it is ‘no wonder, then, that mankind, being placed in such an absolute ignorance of causes, and being at the same time so anxious concerning their future fortune, should immediately acknowledge a dependence on invisible powers, possessed of sentiment and intelligence.’65 According to Hume, the causes of the variables in human life are essentially unknowable in the technical sense of being demonstrative.66 He writes, ‘we are placed in this world, as in a great theatre, where the true springs and causes of every event are entirely concealed from us.’67 Yet people are extremely anxious to form determinate ideas of these causes. The inevitable result, he contends, is that people find ‘no better expedient than to represent them as intelligent voluntary agents, like ourselves; only somewhat superior in power and wisdom.’68 Here, then, are the roots of polytheism. As time went by, however, and variability remained ever a predominant feature of human life, people sought to influence their own chances for happiness by choosing a particular god as their patron, or as the general sovereign of heaven. And it is at this point that fanaticism

22 The Politics of Eloquence

emerged. Hume writes that the chosen god’s ‘votaries will endeavour, by every art, to insinuate themselves into his favour . . . In proportion as men’s fears or distresses become more urgent, they still invent new strains of adulation; and even he who outdoes his predecessor in swelling up the titles of his divinity, is sure to be outdone by his successor in newer and more pompous epithets of praise.’69 Once people come to acknowledge a sole object of devotion, they come to see the worship of other deities as impious. Hume argues that the acknowledgment of a single god ‘seems naturally to require the unity of faith and ceremonies, and furnishes designing men with a pretence for representing their adversaries as profane, and the objects of divine as well as human vengence.’70 Human beings, then, have a natural tendency toward fanatical belief. If merely held at a personal level, this type of belief stunts the development of the sciences: logic, morals, criticism, and politics. But, Hume believed, fanatics will seek to persuade others to adopt their beliefs. Fanaticism begets faction. The connection between the two demonstrates the important political and moral relevance of Hume’s philosophical interests in the nature of belief and reason. Fanaticism Begets Faction Hume thought it was inevitable that zealots, inflamed with fanatical beliefs, would unite into factions. As J.G.A. Pocock writes, Hume believed that once absurd ideas had been generated in the undisciplined imagination, ‘the personality then folded itself around them; and the undisciplined sociability of mankind led to the rise of combative sects.’71 In his essay ‘Of the Independency of Parliament,’ Hume writes that men are generally more honest in their private than in their public capacity, and will go greater lengths to serve a party, than when their own private interest is alone concerned. Honour is a great check upon mankind: But where a considerable body of men act together, this check is, in a great measure, removed; since a man is sure to be approved of by his own party, for what promotes the common interest; and he soon learns to despise the clamours of adversaries.72

With the check that honour had previously placed on their actions circumvented, zealots are freed from the constraints of laws and morality.

Hume’s Political Project 23

They can now perpetrate immoral and grossly antisocial acts in the service of their factions. Hume writes that ‘factions subvert government, render laws impotent, and beget the fiercest animosities among men of the same nation, who ought to give mutual assistance and protection to each other.’73 Hume’s account of the emergence of faction is undeniably powerful. According to Herdt, it teaches us ‘to expect zeal where belief is tottering or under fire, to expect factions to emerge to supply reinforcement, to anticipate that insignificant details will be magnified and made the heart of violent and irreconcilable disputes, and that zealous belief will be deaf to reason.’74 Hume was not opposed to political deliberation or debate. As I have already discussed, he saw the opposition of interests as a primary support of the British constitution and he was fully conscious that people will disagree – sometimes very profoundly – on political and moral questions. The danger of faction and fanaticism is not, therefore, that they produce heated moral and political debates. On the contrary, one of their principal dangers is that they make meaningful debate and deliberation impossible. Factions impede meaningful debate in two ways. In the first place, they often dissuade their members from engaging in meaningful debate by casting opposing positions as fundamentally dangerous to their own. Some debates, however, are not based around meaningful or significant disagreements. So in the second place, factions impede meaningful debate by magnifying insignificant differences and thereby fomenting discord where none existed before. Hume argues that factional leaders, particularly priests, often intentionally exacerbate the divisions between parties to further their own interests: At the time when Christianity arose, the teachers of the new sect were obliged to form a system of speculative opinions; to divide with some accuracy, their articles of faith; and to explain, comment, confute, and defend with all the subtility of argument and science. Hence naturally arose keenness in dispute, when the Christian religion came to be split into new divisions and heresies: And this keenness assisted the priests in their policy, of begetting a mutual hatred and antipathy among their deluded followers.75

Hume believed that the ideas and opinions that divide factions such as Christian sects are insignificant. They are purely speculative and cannot withstand the scrutiny of his scientific method.

24 The Politics of Eloquence

Hume believed that of all the different types of fanaticism, religious fanaticism was most likely to lead to faction. ‘The controversy about an article of faith,’ he writes, ‘which is utterly absurd and unintelligible, is not a difference in sentiment, but in a few phrases and expressions, which one party accepts of, without understanding them; and the other refuses in the same manner.’76 But despite the speculative nature of the principles at the centre of the disagreement, Hume writes, ‘each sect is positive that its own faith and worship are entirely acceptable to the deity, and as no one can conceive, that the same being should be pleased with different and opposite rites and principles; the several sects fall naturally into animosity, and mutually discharge on each other that sacred zeal and rancour, the most furious and implacable of all human passions.’77 Hume writes that ‘in all former ages, not wholly excepting those of even Greece and Rome, religious sects and heresies and schisms, had been esteemed dangerous, if not pernicious to civil government, and were regarded as the source of faction, and private combination, and opposition to the laws.’78 This problem was particularly pertinent to the British, whom Hume believed, of all the nations of Europe, to be ‘the most under the influence of that religious spirit, which tends rather to inflame bigotry than encrease peace and mutual charity.’79 In a letter to his friend Adam Smith, Hume writes that ‘faction, next to Fanaticism, is, of all the passions, the most destructive of Morality.’80 At the most obvious level, faction undermines morality because ‘members of religious factions perceive actions in defense of their party as selfless and principled, but this simply licenses them to do greater harm with a clear conscience.’81 As Herdt argues, members of religious factions ‘do not simply possess a false theoretical understanding of the relationship between morals and religion; more dangerously, religious zeal (which spreads by “contagion” or passive sympathy) warps their substantive moral judgments and beliefs, their capacity to apprehend moral distinctions.’82 Of the Irish insurrection of 1641, Hume writes, ‘amidst all these enormities, the sacred name of Religion resounded on every side; not to stop the hands of these murderers, but to enforce their blows, and to steel their hearts against every movement of human or social sympathy.’83 While the power of faction, particularly religious faction, to warp peoples’ moral sentiments by imposing upon them a set of religiously derived moral obligations certainly appeared dangerous to Hume, faction actually threatens the very capacity of individuals to make moral

Hume’s Political Project 25

judgments. Faction steels the heart of individuals against the social sympathy that makes moral evaluation possible. As Herdt argues, ‘factional zeal, and the passive, contagious sympathy by which it spreads, are directly opposed to the sympathetic understanding needed to appreciate different points of view’ and make good moral judgments.84 An essential aspect of Hume’s account of moral evaluation is ‘that it be shared and articulated.’85 As Baier describes Hume’s account of moral judgment, the test for virtue, for what makes a quality an approved quality, is ‘tendency to the good of mankind’ (T.578), recognized by impartial sympathy with all of those affected by the presence of that quality of mind. Vices are anything that renders ‘any intercourse with the person dangerous or disagreeable’ (ibid). Human happiness is the touchstone, and Hume takes it to be obvious that happiness requires fellowship, commerce, intercourse.86

Factions, none more so than the enthusiasts, block this moral intercourse.87 The fanatic, Hume writes, ‘consecrates himself, and bestows on his own person a sacred character, much superior to what forms and ceremonious institutions can confer on any other.’88 The sacred view they hold of themselves divides enthusiasts, in their own minds, from others by a gulf so wide as to completely impede the sympathy that Hume took to be the basis of moral judgment. He argues that the fanatic’s sense of his own superiority ‘naturally begets the most extreme resolutions; especially after it rises to that height as to inspire the deluded fanatic with the opinion of divine illuminations, and with a contempt for the common rules of reason, morality, and prudence.’89 Looking back upon British history, Hume found many examples of factions blocking sympathy and the social relations necessary for good moral judgments. In regard to the parties in existence during Charles I’s rule, he writes that ‘as the controversies on every subject grew daily warmer, men united themselves more intimately with their friends, and separated themselves wider from their antagonists; and the distinction gradually became quite uniform and regular.’90 That distinction produced a gulf so wide between the different parties that moral judgment became sufficiently impeded to allow for the country to be plunged into a civil war. And the British nations, Hume writes, spent the better part of four years ‘shedding their own blood, and laying waste their native country.’91 Hume thought civil war to be the greatest danger of faction. He argues that ‘[history’s] chief use is only to discover the constant and

26 The Politics of Eloquence

universal principles of human nature.’92 And he remarks that ‘it is an observation, suggested by all history . . . that the religious spirit, when it mingles with faction, contains in it something supernatural and unaccountable; and that, in its operation upon society, effects correspond less to their known causes than is found in any other circumstance of government.’93 That toxic mix of faction and religious spirit was in evidence in England leading up to the Civil War. Through the whole course of Charles I’s reign, Hume writes, the fear of popery permeated the population. And ‘nothing had more fatal influence, in both kingdoms, than this groundless apprehension, which, with so much industry, was propagated, and with so much credulity, was embraced, by all ranks of men.’94 The parliamentary faction used the people’s fear of popery as part of its efforts to consolidate its support and distinguish itself from the royalists. And ‘so great was the bigotry on both sides, that they were willing to sacrifice the greatest civil interests, rather than relinquish the most minute of their theological contentions.’95 Hume believed that once a country has descended into civil war, the damage is irreparable. He writes that ‘few or no instances occur in history of an equal, peaceful, and durable accommodation, that has been concluded between two factions, which had been inflamed into civil war.’96 On this assertion, he believed, British history bore him out. He writes that after the beheading of Charles, ‘the bands of society were everywhere loosened; and the irregular passions of men were encouraged by speculative principles, still more unsocial and irregular.’97 Peace was eventually re-established. But the horrors of the civil war left permanent scars on the fabric of British society. To Hume’s mind, the great threats that faction poses to societal peace and to morality qualify it as the single greatest danger to British society. Throughout the seventeenth century, factionalism had plunged England into a civil war, devastated its society, and impeded the very capacity of individuals to make moral judgments. Yet somehow, the British seemed to have failed to learn from this experience. Factions and zealots continued to permeate British society into the eighteenth century. So Hume enlisted himself to fight in the battle to rid Britain of these nefarious forces. Hume’s Challenge to Fanaticism Hume’s battle against faction and fanaticism was waged over the course of a lifetime. It was a battle fought on many fronts. But all were

Hume’s Political Project 27

intimately related to one another. Throughout his various writings, Hume challenged the very foundations of fanatical belief. He challenged the bases upon which fanatics purported to make moral judgments and the ways in which they believed themselves to be making those judgments. He also set out to educate people on the dangers of faction and fanaticism and on the essential role performed by sympathy in moral judgment. Hume believed that sentimental scenes in history serve moral education. He writes that ‘the historians have been, almost without exception, the true friends of virtue, and have always represented it in its proper colours, however they may have erred in their judgments of particular persons.’98 Moral education, according to Hume, ‘requires an unjaundiced eye and impartial consideration of individuals and factions.’ He argued that this impartial consideration, far from requiring emotional detachment, actually requires ‘engagement and concern, not indifference.’99 So, as Herdt writes, the many accounts of factional prejudices and their consequences that Hume recounts in his History are not merely descriptive. He ‘is never simply analyzing past events, but always also trying to shape contemporary attitudes and beliefs.’100 That project was part of the ongoing effort that Hume began in his philosophical works. In his philosophical works, the Treatise and the first Enquiry, Hume set out to discover the causal bases of belief in order to prepare for the improvement of moral and political beliefs in particular. Garrett argues that Hume’s overall project in the Treatise and in the first Enquiry is to understand human cognitive functioning in such a way as to better enable us to arrive together at a reflective assessment concerning which features of that functioning we wish to approve and encourage, and which we do not. That assessment, he hoped, would lead us to recognize the cognitive mechanisms supporting what he regarded as ‘superstitious’ religion – including belief in miracles – as irregular pernicious ones, deserving to be classified as a species of ‘unphilosophical probability.’101

In the argument for which he is perhaps most renowned, Hume persuasively argues that the relations of cause and effect – the bases for most of our beliefs about the world around us – are not demonstrative.102 More important, he demonstrates that causal beliefs are not products of any independent faculty of reason but are instead products

28 The Politics of Eloquence

of the imagination. This argument is not in any way meant to suggest that the beliefs we do hold should necessarily be discounted. In fact, Hume emphasizes the importance of beliefs in our day-to-day lives. He writes that beliefs are ‘the governing principles of all our actions.’103 And ‘though men be much governed by interest; yet even interest itself, and all human affairs, are entirely governed by opinion.’104 So Hume’s arguments in Book 1 of the Treatise and in An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding are not meant to convince people of the futility of holding beliefs. He simply wants to show us how the necessary connection of causal relations is produced by the imagination on the basis of custom and experience. In a famous passage at the end of Book 1 of the Treatise, Hume takes a step back from his inquiry into the workings of the mind and writes of his great discomfort with his conclusions. He writes that he feels like some ‘uncouth monster’ for having left nothing but the choice between a false reason and none at all.105 David Owen argues that this choice is really an instance of a more general dilemma that was the focus of Hume’s work: ‘given Hume’s account of reason, why should we prefer the use of reason rather than rely on other influences of the imagination, such as education or superstition?’106 This question sets out one of the central problems that Hume confronted in his attempt at undermining the forces of faction and fanaticism. Owen writes that in the end, Hume defends philosophy and the preference for reason by arguing that reasonableness is a virtue and that those who practise it are ‘happier and better off, and more useful to society.’ Simply put, ‘we morally approve of the wise and reasonable person.’107 In a similar vein, Don Garrett argues that Hume considered wisdom to be a virtue and ‘followed the ancient moralists, whom he greatly admired, in seeing philosophy as the way to wisdom.’108 Garrett’s central claim is that Hume’s greatness lies in his ‘development of ways to make stable and defensible human commitments to both science and morals, while at the same time understanding – and facing uncompromisingly – the underlying animal cognitive mechanisms that produce those commitments.’ Garrett writes that the ‘example of that project – of improving the character of our commitments through understanding the underlying processes of our cognition – constitutes, I believe, the most general basis for both his historical greatness and his contemporary significance.’109 Garrett’s appraisal of Hume’s work seems to accurately reflect Hume’s own feelings about the implications of his philosophical writings.

Hume’s Political Project 29

Hume saw his study of human nature as nothing short of revolutionary and so gave no thought to ‘taking now and then a castle or village on the frontier.’ He believed that, armed with his experimental method, mankind would ‘march up directly to the capital . . . to human nature itself; which being once masters of, we may every where else hope for an easy victory.’110 Challenging the prevailing systems of superstition entailed getting people to re-evaluate their most firmly held beliefs in light of the role played by the imagination in forming those beliefs. Hume was particularly concerned with the drastic types of actions that people would often sanction through reasoning that was based in superstitious ideas. His project was to undercut the degree of certainty with which such people connected their actions with their objectives. As Herdt argues, Hume was interested in exposing such people’s ‘all-encompassing selfdeception about the way the world is, a self-deception which does not just re-describe one’s evil actions as good, but which spurs one to perform new actions, such as fasting, joining the Crusades, or persecuting a heretic.’111 Hume had set himself a daunting task. So, as Mossner writes, ‘the intense excitement with which Hume greeted his discovery concerning the extension of sentiment and the nature of causation in the spring of 1729 is explainable in terms of its implications. This was not a mere metaphysical notion with no practical consequences; it was, on the contrary, a matter to be considered by every man interested in the foundations of knowledge.’112 Not only is Hume’s excitement understandable, but so too is his intense disappointment at the failure of his Treatise to excite even ‘a murmur among the zealots.’113 Hume believed that his critique of demonstrative reason would lead to a revolution in thought among philosophers and, he hoped, among significant portions of the population as well. He believed that once philosophers adopted his system, they would ‘have a reformed epistemology, a new cooperative method for deciding not only good and evil, but also truth and falsehood, reason and folly.’114 And Hume was confident that his philosophy would ‘put an end to all such controversies as that between the Deists and the Christians by proving that both sides were wrong, that rationalistic proof of matters of fact is as invalid as authoritarian proof, that the scope of analogy is strictly delimited.’115 Hume’s revolutionary philosophy laid the groundwork for a new understanding of morality. As Baier writes, ‘it is judgment, not higher laws, that we must use to endorse, or refuse to endorse, habits, customary rules, the conventions of justice and the laws of the land.’116 This

30 The Politics of Eloquence

defence of judgment was carefully targeted. As Herdt argues, ‘Hume provided a theory of moral approbation not because he believed that ethical practice required the sustenance of a supporting theory, but in order to loosen the ties linking ethical convictions, beliefs about living and doing well, to intractable theological disputes.’117 Hume’s cross hairs remained ever trained on his two great adversaries: faction and fanaticism. Conclusion Hume’s project is intensely political. Although he wrote in many genres, he never strayed far from his battle against the real moral and political effects of fanatical belief and faction on society. His focus was always on how real people understand the world. As Mossner writes, ‘it was Hume’s distinctive, if not his unique, feature that while seeking to revolutionize the study of human nature, he never lost sight of the understanding of the general public.’118 Hume showed how human beings have an innate tendency toward fanaticism. He also showed how fanaticism so often leads to faction and how faction can ravage a society, threatening it with civil war by impeding people’s capacity for moral judgment. Hume’s writing of his corpus was his political act. He strove not only to describe the processes through which fanaticism and faction can wreak havoc on a society, but also to counteract those forces by introducing a new experimental method into philosophy and by proposing new understandings of reason and morality and their relations to each other. But as concerned as he was by the excesses of faction and fanaticism, Hume felt constrained in his means for battling them. In a letter written in 1737 to Henry Home, Hume expresses his resolve ‘not to be an Enthusiast, in Philosophy, while [he] was blaming other Enthusiasms.’119 He writes that there are enow of zealots on both sides who kindle up the passions of their partizans, and under pretence of public good, pursue the interests and ends of their particular faction. For my part, I shall always be more fond of promoting moderation than zeal; though perhaps the surest way of producing moderation in every party is to increase our zeal for the public. Let us therefore try, if it be possible . . . to draw a lesson of moderation with regard to the parties, into which our country is at present divided; at the same time, that we allow not this moderation to abate the industry and

Hume’s Political Project 31 passion, with which every individual is bound to pursue the good of his country.120

Promoting moderation, particularly in regard to the certainty with which people hold beliefs, was central to Hume’s endeavours to repress what he called ‘Party-Rage.’121 But he quickly realized that philosophical writings are not the best means through which to promote ‘zeal for the public.’ History holds important lessons for the improvement of morals. And Hume was well aware of history’s lesson that great orators, perhaps more than any other type of figure, have succeeded in eliciting in people a passion to pursue the good of their country. It was while marshalling his forces for his battle against faction and fanaticism that Hume began to consider the possibility that a certain type of rhetoric could be used to promote a zeal for the public. He also began to raise questions about how to differentiate this sort of rhetoric from those employed by fanatics and zealots to promote the more harmful and destructive forms of zeal. As I will show in chapter 2, Hume’s philosophy of mind explains why this second question is so difficult to resolve.

2 Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion

There is nothing which is not the subject of debate, and in which men of learning are not of contrary opinions. The most trivial question escapes not our controversy, and in the most momentous we are not able to give any certain decision. Disputes are multiply’d, as if every thing was uncertain; and these disputes are manag’d with the greatest warmth, as if every thing was certain. Amidst all this bustle ’tis not reason, which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man needs ever despair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, who has art enough to represent it in any favourable colours. The victory is not gain’d by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the sword; but by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army.1 Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than eloquence, by which objects are presented in their strongest and most lively colours. 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 on the affections.2 It is rapid harmony, exactly adjusted to the sense: It is vehement reasoning, without any appearance of art: It is disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, involved in a continued stream of argument: And of all human productions, the orations of DEMOSTHENES present to us the models, which approach the nearest to perfection.3

At the very beginning of the introduction to his Treatise of Human Nature, Hume introduces his readers to a problem with which he would

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 33

struggle for much of his life. Reason loses the prize to eloquence in every dispute. The men at arms are no match for the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army. Reasoned arguments are not, Hume insists, mere plays on words.4 But what should we make of the fact that plays on words are so often more persuasive than reasoned arguments? In his study of Hume’s influence on George Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric, Lloyd Frank Bitzer suggests that a gap exists in the Hume literature because ‘the many books and essays which examine Hume’s philosophy or estimate its influence on later philosophical movements and on other disciplines have generally neglected its implications for and influence upon rhetorical theory.’5 Bitzer’s study concludes ‘not only that Campbell is heavily indebted to Hume for elements of his theoretical framework, but that he is indebted also to Hume for his systematic theory of eloquence.’6 Bitzer’s study makes a very strong case for Hume’s influence on Campbell’s philosophy of rhetoric. But the question of how Hume’s philosophy of mind informed his own understanding of rhetorical persuasion remains unanswered. Campbell wrote a major work on rhetoric. Hume did not. However, his writings suggest a complex understanding of rhetorical persuasion. Hume was drawn to questions about rhetoric through his explorations of belief. Because Hume’s philosophy of mind defines belief in terms of lively ideas, it has strong natural affinities with rhetoric. Hume’s central insight is that the power of rhetoric lies in its capacity to mimic the sense impressions that give rise to belief. Not only does Hume’s philosophy of mind closely link rhetoric and belief, however, but it also helps explain why differentiating good from bad rhetoric is so difficult. Unphilosophical beliefs are clearly different from sounder, more philosophical beliefs. However, because he understood belief to be produced by non-rational mechanisms – such as association – Hume never could discover objective standards for differentiating the feeling of the one kind of belief from that of the other. He could differentiate the procedures through which philosophical beliefs are developed from those that give rise to superstitious beliefs.7 But the feeling of belief appears to be the same in both cases. Hume’s discussions of persuasion and rhetoric are not, therefore, sufficient in themselves for differentiating high from low rhetoric. In these discussions, Hume uncovers the processes of the mind and the features of human nature that constitute persuasion. But he does not yet provide a full set of criteria for defining high rhetoric. Hume’s discussions of persuasion and rhetoric are, therefore, simply the foundations of his conception of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric.

34 The Politics of Eloquence

Defining Rhetoric What, exactly, did Hume mean by the terms rhetoric and eloquence? The influence of the Ancients is greatly in evidence in many eighteenthcentury works on rhetoric. However, these later writers broadened the scope of rhetorical instruction to promote the development of ‘honnêtes hommes (‘gentlemen’) capable of mixing in polite company and making a good impression in the effort to improve their station in life.’8 This objective is in evidence in the writings of George Campbell, Hume’s contemporary. Campbell defines rhetoric as including oratory, poetry, tragedy, private conversation, and expository writing.9 And he was not alone. During the Enlightenment, the scope of rhetorical instruction was broadened to include writing as well as public speaking. Rhetoric was assimilated to the study of belles lettres and the cultivation of aesthetic taste.10 It is no wonder that as the transition from oral to print culture really took off in the eighteenth century, the definition of rhetoric was expanded and rendered less precise. In keeping with the trend of his age, Hume did not always use the terms rhetoric and eloquence very precisely. In places he seems to use them in reference to both written and spoken language. But in other places, he clearly limits his meaning to oratory. This lack of precision is likely due, at least in part, to the fact that some of Hume’s discussions of language and persuasion are meant to be applicable to his own work while others are not. Hume valued good usage of language very highly. However, he was a writer, not an orator. He wrote about the importance of good writing style and was very conscious of the quality of his own prose. At the same time, he was so self-conscious about his Scottish accent that, though he admired great oratory, he was reluctant to speak in public. Therefore, Hume’s discussions of ancient eloquence – which are purely discussions of oratory – are obviously unrelated to his own writing. In his own writing, Hume was greatly influenced by ‘the emerging discourse of manners and politeness’ that became so popular in his day.11 M.A. Box argues that Hume was ‘quite conventional in his critical opinions and in accepting Addison’s, Pope’s, and Swift’s writings as standards of good taste.’12 He believed that there was no better definition of fine writing than Addison’s: writing that conveys ‘sentiments which are natural without being obvious.’ 13 For the most part, Hume ensured that his own writing adhered to the standards of elegance that would have appealed to his audience. As John Richetti writes, he ‘aspired to

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 35

correctness and simple elegance in his writing; he scorned rhetorical excess and obtrusive verbal ornament.’14 While these stylistic choices are certainly related to Hume’s conception of rhetoric, they should not be confused with it. Before we can ascribe an understanding of rhetoric to Hume, we must first distinguish between his rhetoric, discoverable by analysing the linguistic and stylistic choices that he made in his own writings, and his conception of rhetoric, being his ideas about effective means of persuasion. The distinction is important because it alleviates any tendency we might have to attribute ideas about rhetoric to Hume on the basis of his own rhetorical choices. As I have argued, Hume’s conception of rhetoric responds to the real moral and political questions raised by the influences of faction and fanaticism, forces that Hume thought to rely most heavily on the powers of pulpit and parliamentary oratory. He writes that ‘the altercation of discourse, the controversies of the pen, but, above all, the declamations of the pulpit, indisposed the minds of men towards each other, and propagated the blind rage of party.’15 Particularly around the time of the Civil War, those declamations from the pulpit were reinforced by speeches in parliament that were designed to excite the ardour of the people.16 Hume’s conception of rhetoric differentiates these sorts of speeches from a high rhetoric that consists in a resuscitated and modernized strand of ancient eloquence. His conception of rhetoric is not, therefore, a general theory of language and persuasion. It is a conception of political oratory. Rhetoric and eloquence, in this context, refer exclusively to the spoken word. Adam Potkay argues that in eighteenth-century Britain, rhetoric referred to ‘the art of deliberative oratory . . . [and served] as a metonymy for an imagined scene of ancient oratory in which the speaker moves the just passions of a civic assembly and implants a sense of community with his words.’17 This definition effectively captures the sense in which Hume used the term. While his reflections on the theatre, on conversation, on poetry, and on polite writing are certainly relevant in that they treat with the persuasive power of language, none of them are the primary subjects of Hume’s conception of rhetoric for the simple reason that none were primarily employed to promote faction and fanaticism. Rhetoric and Belief Hume’s understanding of rhetoric follows from his understanding of belief. In his system, all perceptions of the mind are either impressions

36 The Politics of Eloquence

or ideas. The former include all sensations, passions, and emotions. The latter are ‘faint images of these in thinking and reasoning.’18 Because they are more immediate, impressions usually have a livelier effect upon the mind than do ideas. But belief will ‘raise up a simple idea to an equality with our impressions, and bestow upon it a like influence upon the passions.’19 Hume defines a belief as ‘a lively idea related to or associated with a present impression.’20 He often describes a belief as an idea to which we assent.21 Hume realized that we conceive many ideas to which we do not assent. To believe is to hold something to be true, as opposed to simply having a raw picture of it in our head. For Hume, the process through which we assent to ideas – in other words, the process of belief – is sentimental. Beliefs consist ‘not in the nature and order of our ideas, but in the manner of their conception, and in their feeling to the mind . . . which distinguishes the ideas of judgment from the fictions of the imagination.’22 Hume calls this feeling ‘a superior force, or vivacity, or solidity, or firmness, or steadiness.’23 For the most part, he is concerned with causal beliefs. We see a glass falling toward a tiled floor and then it breaks. We come across a gardener planting and tending a beautiful garden. When a pattern develops such that glasses that fall on tiled floors break, or that beautiful gardens have been planted and tended by gardeners, we come to consider the relationship as one of cause and effect. As we experience the cause and the effect together more and more often, their relationship begins to feel right in our mind. The two ideas come to feel to us as though they belong together. The association between causal ideas and impressions is the inference we make, on the basis of a lively feeling in the mind, that a cause will produce its effect or that an effect was produced by its cause. When we see a falling glass, we infer that it is about to break. When we see a beautiful garden, we infer that it has been planted and tended by a gardener. This process is, for Hume, the process of judgment, or reasoning. While he obviously does not understand judgment to be an entirely passive function, Hume does understand it to be much less autonomous than do many other thinkers. For Hume, reasoning is simply associating. Judgments are the effects of custom on the imagination.24 In inferring a cause from an effect, or vice versa, we are simply completing a pattern that has been etched in our mind through custom and experience. It is from this basis that Hume argues, ‘all probable reasoning is nothing but a species of sensation.’25 Hume writes that because the necessary connection between a cause and an effect is

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 37

supplied by our imagination, ‘our judgment and imagination can never be contrary . . . custom cannot operate on the latter faculty after such a manner, as to render it opposite to the former.’26 Of course, people often do make unsound judgments. Hume’s discussion of four types of unphilosophical probability shows us how the very same principles of association that determine people to make philosophical judgments can also lead them into error. The first type of unphilosophical probability arises from the effect that distance in time has in diminishing the force and vivacity of a union between ideas. Hume argues that, irrespective of its coherence, an argument carries a different force in our mind according to whether it is recent or remote. It is undeniable, he writes, that ‘this circumstance has a considerable influence on the understanding, and secretly, changes the authority of the same argument, according to the different times, in which it is propos’d to us.’27 Likewise, Hume argues, ‘an experiment, that is recent and fresh in the memory, affects us more than one that is in some measure obliterated; and has a superior influence on the judgment, as well as the passions.’28 In both these cases, the effect of time on the force and vivacity of a union of ideas leads an individual to make unphilosophical judgments. The persuasive force of an argument is also affected by the number of links in its chain of reasoning. Hume writes, ‘’tho our reasonings from proofs and from probabilities be considerably different from each other, yet the former species of reasoning often degenerates insensibly into the latter, by nothing but the multitude of connected arguments.’29 Again, we see how unsound judgments arise from the same processes of mind that produce sound philosophical judgments. Any factor that diminishes the lively feeling in the mind that connects a given set of ideas is naturally diminishing the force of our conviction for the simple reason that our conviction, or belief, consists in that feeling of the mind. The fourth type of unphilosophical probability is that derived from general rules. Judgments of cause and effect are determined by our experience. Once a causal relation has been established in our mind, our imagination connects the cause with its effect, or vice versa, ‘by a natural transition, which precedes reflection, and which cannot be prevented by it.’30 However, our mind does not always transfer past experience to exactly corresponding situations in the present. Because the relation of resemblance has so strong an influence on the mind, our imagination often transfers ‘our experience in past instances to objects which are resembling, but are not exactly the same with those

38 The Politics of Eloquence

concerning which we had experience.’31 General rules can serve a very useful purpose because it is ‘by them we learn to distinguish the accidental circumstances from the efficacious causes.’32 However, general rules are also the bases of prejudice. The effect of resemblance on the mind can carry ‘us to a lively conception of the usual effect, tho’ the object be different in the most material and most efficacious circumstances from that cause.’33 According to Hume, unsound judgments result from the fact that ‘when set into any train of thinking,’ the imagination ‘is apt to continue, even when its object fails it, and like a galley put in motion by the oars, carries on its course without any new impulse.’34 Countering this natural propensity would have been easy had Hume been able to differentiate the feeling of sound belief from that of unsound belief. But because belief consists in a feeling of the mind that can only vary in degree, he could not do so. In fact, it is very difficult to describe the feeling of belief at all. Hume confesses that ’tis impossible to explain perfectly this feeling or manner of conception. We may make use of words, that express something near it. But its true and proper name is belief, which is a term that every one sufficiently understands in common life. And in philosophy we can go no farther, than assert, that it is something felt by the mind, which distinguishes the ideas of the judgment from the fictions of the imagination. It gives them more force and influence; makes them appear of greater importance; infixes them in the mind; and renders them the governing principles of all our actions.35

In other words, belief feels like belief. Hume did argue that ‘a man of solid sense and long experience’ usually has a greater assurance in his beliefs than does ‘one who is foolish and ignorant’ because ‘our sentiments have different degrees of authority, even with ourselves, in proportion to the degrees of our reason and experience.’36 But ultimately, the only conclusion that follows from Hume’s philosophy of mind is that belief feels like belief. This conclusion is the key to understanding the close affinity that exists between Hume’s philosophy of mind and his conception of rhetoric. For the most part, Hume believed that the feeling of the mind that he called belief would arise from the experience of habit and custom. In fact, he goes so far as to assert that ‘all belief, which follows upon any present impression, is deriv’d solely from that origin [emphasis

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 39

added].’37 In other words, we are only led to believe that a glass that we see falling toward the floor is about to break if we have had previous experience of falling glasses breaking on the floor. But eloquence also produces lively ideas. Only eloquence and education can take the place of experience in this regard. Eloquence, however, has the added potential to actually exceed the influence of experience. Hume writes that it is ‘difficult for us to withhold our assent from what is painted out to us in all the colours of eloquence; and the vivacity produc’d by the fancy is in many cases greater than that which arises from custom and experience [emphasis added].’38 The boldest statement that Hume makes in the Treatise regarding the power inherent to rhetoric appears in his discussion of the influence of the imagination on the passions. He writes that nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most lively colours. We might 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.39

‘Belief,’ Hume writes, ‘must please the imagination by means of the force and vivacity which attends it; since every idea, which has force and vivacity, is found to be agreeable to that faculty.’40 In its most perfect form, oratory appeals to the imagination through ‘rapid harmony, exactly adjusted to the sense: It is vehement reasoning, without any appearance of art: It is disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, involved in a continued stream of argument.’41 Rhetoric, therefore, can be a source of beliefs, reasonable or unreasonable. It can also appeal to people’s moral sentiments or to their conscience in ways that reason cannot. Hume argues that ‘reason is wholly inactive, and can never be the source of so active a principle as conscience, or a sense of morals.’42 In fact, he writes, reason can never be a motive to action at all. Reason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. Truth or falsehood consists in an agreement or disagreement either to the real relations of ideas, or to real existence and matter of fact. Whatever, therefore, is not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of being true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. Now ’tis evident our passions, volitions,

40 The Politics of Eloquence and actions, are not susceptible of any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and realities, compleat in themselves, and implying no reference to other passions, volitions, and actions. ’Tis impossible, therefore, they can be pronounc’d either true or false, and be either contrary or conformable to reason.43

While reason is impotent in this regard, rhetoric can elicit passions that lead people to action. Much of the power of eloquence derives from the fact that all of the passions it excites ‘are agreeable in the highest degree.’44 When rhetoric is turned toward moral questions, our imagination is naturally excited and we ‘fancy the peace of society to be at stake in every decision concerning’ them.45 Hume argues that because of its powerful appeal to the imagination, rhetoric can be employed to persuade people to pursue common goods. But so often, he saw it used to fan the flames of fanaticism and zealotry. Through powerful rhetoric, preachers and fanatics induced their audiences to adopt unphilosophical beliefs and to cling to them more tenaciously than they did to sounder beliefs. These orators also excited passions in their audiences that induced them to engage in antisocial and immoral actions. Had he been able to accurately differentiate the feeling of unphilosophical belief from that of philosophical belief, Hume would likely have adopted a Platonic view of rhetoric and pointed toward ways in which philosophy could trump the unphilosophical beliefs and quell the violent passions incited by the preachers and the immoderate patriots. But because his philosophy of mind does not allow for a distinction in kind between different feelings of belief, Hume adopted a far more nuanced conception of rhetoric. He was drawn to the Aristotelian view that rhetoric is neither inherently good nor bad. It can be used for good or for ill. An Ambivalent Stance toward Rhetoric Hume never laid out his conception of rhetoric in a single treatise. So we are left to piece it together from his various writings. His most developed argument on rhetoric appears in his essay ‘Of Eloquence.’ But in this short essay, Hume appears to express very inconsistent views. He laments the decline of ancient eloquence but then seems to argue both that his contemporaries ought and ought not to attempt to rekindle it. In trying to make sense of the essay, Potkay, borrowing a phrase from the Natural History of Religion, writes that ‘the whole is a riddle, an enigma,

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 41

an inexplicable mystery.’46 He refers to the ambiguous status of rhetoric in eighteenth-century Britain as an explanation for the contradictions in what he terms Hume’s ‘acutely perplexed essay.’ Hume’s ideas are conflicted, according to Potkay, because ‘politically, eloquence aligned with virtue, but philosophically it derived from error; and socially, it was beyond the pale.’47 While very instructive, Potkay’s assessment of the source of ambiguity in Hume’s treatment of rhetoric is not entirely accurate. I will address the tensions between rhetoric and the eighteenth-century British culture of politeness in the following chapter. With regard to the relationship between rhetoric and error, Hume did not see the former as deriving from the latter. Rather, as I have argued, Hume’s philosophy of mind demonstrates that the same principles of association lead individuals to make sound as well as unsound judgments. Rhetoric does not derive from error. However, it can certainly be employed to convince people of errors. And this fact did, no doubt, account for much of Hume’s ambivalence toward rhetoric. Hume’s ambivalent stance toward rhetoric is in evidence throughout his writings. In some passages he denigrates rhetoric. In others, he celebrates it. Hume expresses a clear attraction to the orations of Demosthenes, which, of all human productions, he terms ‘the models, which approach the nearest to perfection.’48 Yet he clearly understood that some forms of rhetoric could be used to subvert people’s reason and to manipulate or dupe them into adopting unsound and dangerous beliefs. Of the parliamentarians opposing Charles I, Hume writes that ‘one furious enthusiast was able, by his active industry, to surmount the indolent efforts of many sober and reasonable antagonists’ and so ‘seize the minds of the ignorant multitude.’49 This sort of manipulation is possible, Hume argues, because while experience is the true standard of assurance for the veracity of men, ‘as well as of all other judgments, we seldom regulate ourselves entirely by it; but have a remarkable propensity to believe whatever is reported . . . however contrary to daily experience and observation.’50 In fact, Hume writes, ‘no weakness of human nature is more universal and conspicuous than what we commonly call CREDULITY, or a too easy faith in the testimony of others.’51 In the Treatise, he argues that human credulity is explained by the influence of resemblance. The words or discourses of others have an intimate connexion with certain ideas in their mind; and these ideas have also a connexion with the facts

42 The Politics of Eloquence or objects, which they represent. This latter connexion is generally much overrated, and commands our assent beyond what experience will justify; which can proceed from nothing beside the resemblance betwixt the ideas and the facts. Other effects only point out their causes in an oblique manner; but the testimony of men does it directly, and is to be consider’d as an image as well as an effect. No wonder, therefore, we are so rash in drawing our inferences from it, and are less guided by experience in our judgments concerning it, than in those upon any other subject.52

In other words, credulity is explained by the operation of the understanding. Eloquence can make especially efficient use of people’s susceptibility to credulity. In the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Hume writes that ‘eloquence, when at its highest pitch, leaves little room for reason or reflection; but addressing itself entirely to the fancy or the affections, captivates the willing hearers, and subdues their understanding.’53 Examples of this sort of manipulative use of rhetoric abound in history. Hume points to the period after Charles’ beheading as a time when the zealots had no means ‘besides cant and low rhetoric’ to recommend their views to others.54 Here, however, Hume introduces the distinction that is absolutely essential for understanding the complexities in his discussions of rhetoric. He wrote about two very different sorts of rhetoric, what we might term high and low rhetoric. Hume is very careful to identify the zealots’ rhetoric as low. This was not the rhetoric of Demosthenes. It was the low rhetoric of the fanatics. Preachers and enthusiasts used this sort of low rhetoric to whip fanatics into a frenzy, or to persuade ordinary people to reject human reason and even morality as fallacious guides, and to deliver themselves ‘over, blindly, and without reserve, to the supposed illapses of the spirit, and to inspiration from above.’55 Once they had persuaded ordinary people to adopt these fundamentals of religious belief, the preachers and enthusiasts would reason on the basis of these principles to convince the people that actions such as participating in religious ceremonies, persecuting a heretic, or even participating in a crusade, were necessary. Thus, Hume argues that zeal, ‘the most absurd of prejudices masqued with reason, the most criminal of passions covered with the appearance of duty,’56 is often fomented through low rhetoric. Yet rhetoric, being possessed of the power to induce passions and belief, could also be turned toward the promotion of common goods and the improvement of morals. Such a rhetoric would be a high rhetoric. And it could be one of the most effective means for combating the

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 43

powers of zeal. Certainly, it would be more effective than reason. For as Hume comments sarcastically in the Natural History of Religion, ‘to oppose the torrent of scholastic religion by such feeble maxims as these, that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be, that the whole is greater than a part, that two and three makes five; is pretending to stop the ocean with a bullrush.’57 Hume’s championing of rhetoric is always hesitant. And he routinely warns against its dangers. His expressions of admiration for powerful eloquence and his attempts at understanding the effects that such orations have on the mind are often mixed with suggestions that, perhaps, rhetoric is really not so powerful after all. In the Treatise, Hume writes that ‘there is always something more forcible and real’ in the actions of an imagination moved by a customary conjunction with a present impression than in those of an imagination moved by ‘the fervours of poetry and eloquence.’58 He also writes that ‘the vigour of conception, which fictions receive from poetry and eloquence, is a circumstance merely accidental, of which every idea is equally susceptible; and that, such fictions are connected with nothing that is real.’59 For Hume, experience provides a ‘real’ basis for beliefs. But that basis does not entirely preclude the possibility of error. Even experience is not ‘altogether infallible.’60 In some cases, Hume concedes, experience can lead us into error because of our failure to acknowledge that ‘all [experienced] effects follow not with like certainty from their supposed causes.’61 Beliefs generated from experience are not, therefore, as categorically different from those generated by rhetoric as Hume would sometimes have us believe. And while he might, on occasion, write of the vigour of conception arising from eloquence as a ‘circumstance merely accidental’ to the case at hand – even if it is a result of a pervasive tendency of the imagination – Hume notes that the imagination is very consistently enlivened by the same types of ideas and by the same passions. Therefore, while rhetoric is clearly a powerful tool of the zealots and the fanatics, it also holds great potential for those interested in morality and the promotion of common goods. History shows us many cases in which rhetoric was used to promote intolerance and violence. But history also remembers the great orators. Rhetoric and the People While rhetoric was seen by many in eighteenth-century Britain to be associated with error or to be impolite, most agreed that ‘politically,

44 The Politics of Eloquence

eloquence aligned with virtue.’62 Hume believed that great eloquence was universally admired, but that only a select few were possessed of this ability. He writes that great orators are even more rare than great poets because ‘the opportunities for exerting the talents requisite for eloquence . . . depend, in some measure, upon fortune.’63 In addition, Hume’s use of the adjective ‘low’ implies a connection in his thought between fanatical rhetoric and the common people to whom Hume sometimes refers as the ‘vulgar.’ Consequently, there is a class dimension to his account of rhetoric that must be acknowledged. Hume’s classism was no worse than that of many of his contemporaries. As Harvey Chisick argues, ‘far from standing outside the mainstream of Enlightenment thought, in refusing to regard the common people as rational and responsible, Hume is representative of the enlightened elitism that predominated among the progressive thinkers of the time.’64 Nevertheless, the class dimension of Hume’s account of rhetoric implies that the segment of the population that he imagined would practice political rhetoric in the public sphere was, in fact, very small. In arguing for the contemporary relevance of Hume’s account of rhetoric for contemporary liberal and democratic politics, I will reject the classism that is evident in Hume’s writings. As I will argue in chapter 3, Hume understood politeness as a marker of proper behaviour, and not primarily as a means to differentiate social classes. Consequently, there should be nothing about his account of high rhetoric that, in a contemporary setting, limits it to the upper classes. What is more, while great rhetorical prowess might be limited to the few, Hume actually argues that the ability to appreciate it is not. In fact, he argues that we must look to ‘the people, who in all matters of common reason and eloquence are found so infallible a tribunal.’65 At one level, this argument is quite simply an obvious consequence of the fact that rhetoric aims to persuade. If the audience is convinced by an orator’s speech, then their judgment, evidenced in their persuasion, is more significant than is any analysis of the speech that renders a verdict on whether or not the speech should have been persuasive. However, Hume’s claim that the people are the best arbiters of rhetoric appears also to be getting at something deeper. There is a normative dimension to this claim that the people should be considered the best arbiters of rhetoric. In fact, there are two normative dimensions to Hume’s claim that the people should be the arbiters of eloquence. Each applies to a different context in which the meaning of ‘the people’ is different.

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 45

The first context for Hume’s claim that the people make the best arbiters of eloquence is his account of the public sphere, which I will discuss in greater detail at the end of chapter 6. In the Harringtonian republican design that Hume outlines in ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,’ rhetoric is essential to the vibrancy of the republic because it is the means through which competing interests are opposed to one another. Hume claims that in his republican ideal, the opposition of interests ‘does all the good without any of the harm. The competitors have no power of controlling the senate: They only have the power of accusing, and appealing to the people.’66 No faction can gain control of the senate in Hume’s ideal commonwealth because one of the fundamental principles undergirding the design of its political institutions is the empowerment of local counties to a degree that will eliminate any chance that particular interests can acquire unchecked political power. Local politics take on great significance in Hume’s republic. For example, if the councils of representatives in only five out of the one hundred counties in the commonwealth vote in favour of a bill, they can override a vote against that bill in the senate.67 Therefore, political speeches appealing to the representatives are of great significance. In the context of his republican writings, ‘the people’ whom Hume takes to be the best arbiters of eloquence are the county representatives.68 In the sense that rhetorical appeals are aimed at them and that political results ultimately depend upon which arguments they find most persuasive, therefore, the people’s position as the best arbiters of rhetoric is an essential aspect of Hume’s ideal republic.69 The second normative dimension of Hume’s claim that the people are the best arbiters of rhetoric relates to his distinction between philosophers and those in the realm of conversation. Hume argues that philosophers are susceptible to a weakness in judgment that does not affect those in the realm of conversation. He believed that the verdict of philosophers on matters of common reason and rhetoric was more likely to be ‘corrupted by partiality and prejudice.’ One might be tempted to believe that the best judges of rhetoric would be those who had devoted much time to the study of different rhetorical techniques. But, Hume argues, those who have done so ‘are apt to form to themselves systems of their own, which they resolve not to relinquish.’70 Therefore, the people – in this case, those in what Hume calls the middle station of life – make the best arbiters of rhetoric because they have not studied rhetoric enough to form their own systems. And while these people may be susceptible to low rhetoric, it is human nature that renders them

46 The Politics of Eloquence

so. This susceptibility applies equally to philosophers and is explained by Hume’s philosophy of mind, the basis for his conception of rhetorical persuasion. Rhetorical Persuasion Hume’s discussions of persuasion are based on his conception of belief as a feeling of the mind and on his proposition that passions are connected with their objects and with one another in the same ways as are external bodies. Hume saw rhetoric as useful toward three major purposes: to persuade an audience of particular beliefs, to move the audience to action by stimulating a particular passion in them, or to counter a particular passion in the audience and thereby turn them away from a particular course of action. It is not possible to entirely separate Hume’s understandings of appeals to the passions and appeals to reason because, in his system, ‘assistance is mutual betwixt the judgment and fancy, as well as betwixt the judgment and passion.’ We may observe, Hume writes, that ‘belief not only gives vigour to the imagination, but that a vigorous and strong imagination is of all talents the most proper to procure belief and authority.’71 However, reasoned appeals and passionate ones must be understood somewhat separately from each other because only the latter can provide a motive to action. Inside every single person, Hume argues, we find the principles of every passion and every sentiment. ‘When touched properly,’ he writes, ‘they rise to life, and warm the heart.’72 An orator seeking to persuade his audience must, therefore, apply rhetorical tools properly.73 He must pay close attention to the particular context of the audience. He must be partial to their individual sentiments and passions in formulating his speech. For, as Hume argues, ‘sentiments must touch the heart, to make them controul our passions.’ If they do not extend beyond the imagination, those sentiments will merely influence the taste of the audience members.74 Hume divided the passions into the calm and the violent. He writes that ‘when we wou’d govern a man, and push him to any action,’ it is more effective to appeal to the violent than to the calm passions.’75 An orator can elicit these passions in the audience by evoking an idea or set of ideas that naturally give rise to the desired passion. He can also communicate passions through sympathy. In the latter case, the effectiveness of rhetoric in stimulating a particular passion in the audience members rests on the orator’s ability to ‘inflame the audience, so as to make them accompany

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 47

the speaker in such violent passions, and such elevated conceptions: And to conceal, under a torrent of eloquence, the artifice, by which all this is effectuated.’76 Hume here introduces the notion that concealment contributes to the effectiveness of rhetoric. The greater the audience members’ awareness of the artifice in an orator’s rhetoric, the less naturally will they feel the passions excited by the orator, and therefore, the less powerful will be the effect of words on the passions. Paradoxically, therefore, the need to conceal the artifice by which an orator inflames the audience arises precisely because of the need to maintain the natural feel of the arising passions. Although it takes the place of experience, rhetoric is unlike experience in that it is always a matter of conscious presentation. The orator must conceal the artifice through which he elicits particular passions so as to ensure that the passions arise naturally in the audience members. The line between artifice and nature is not, however, absolute. Hume notes that ‘we readily forget, that the designs, and projects, and views of men are principles as necessary in their operation as heat and cold, moist and dry.’77 Hume’s mention of concealing the artifice by which rhetoric stimulates a passion in the members of the audience should not, therefore, be interpreted absolutely literally. Rather, we should think of Hume as echoing Addison’s definition of fine writing – it ‘consists of sentiments, which are natural, without being obvious.’78 Likewise, audience members should feel passions arise in them naturally, without being reminded too forcefully – by an oration that is overly contrived – that the orator is intentionally eliciting these passions in them. The orator does, however, need to be very precise in the passions he elicits, especially when attempting to counter a particular passion in the members of the audience in order to turn them from a particular course of action. Again, we see the importance of individual context in Hume’s conception of rhetoric. Hume argues that to succeed, the orator must elicit an exactly opposing passion, because ‘contrary passions are not capable of destroying each other, except when their contrary movements exactly recounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as in the sensation they produce.’79 As tempting as it might be to try, the orator will rarely, if ever, succeed at countering a passion in the audience members through an application of reason. In fact, Hume argues that passions can be contrary to reason only so far as they are accompany’d with some judgment or opinion. According to this principle, which is

48 The Politics of Eloquence so obvious and natural, ’tis only in two senses that any affection can be call’d unreasonable: First, When a passion such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded on the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not exist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we choose means insufficient for the design’d end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment of causes and effects . . . In short, a passion must be accompany’d with some false judgment, in order to its being unreasonable; and even then ’tis not the passion, properly speaking, which is unreasonable, but the judgment.80

Even in those cases where an orator seeks to counter passions that are accompanied by unreasonable judgments, there is no guarantee that a rational appeal will succeed. Hume’s assessment of the impotence of reason in countering strong passions is highlighted in his treatment of ridicule, which he believed to be a powerful rhetorical device. Of James I, Hume writes that his councils ‘were more wise and equitable, in their end, than prudent and political, in the means’: Though justly sensible, that no part of civil administration required greater care or a nicer judgement than the conduct of religious parties; he had not perceived, that, in the same proportion as this practical knowledge of theology is requisite, the speculative refinements in it are mean, and even dangerous in a monarch. By entering zealously into frivolous disputes, James gave them an air of importance and dignity, which they could not otherwise have acquired; and being himself inlisted in the quarrel, he could no longer have recourse to contempt and ridicule, the only proper method of appeasing it.81

The power of political satire attests to the rhetorical force that Hume ascribes to ridicule. Human nature is such that a joke often packs a bigger punch than could any rational argument. An orator must, however, make an argument. Rather than posit a system of rules for orators to follow in constructing their arguments, as Aristotle does in the Rhetoric, Hume instead points out three rhetorical flaws that will hinder the persuasiveness of an orator’s speech. The first such flaw is excessive ornamentation. Hume writes that ‘uncommon expressions, strong flashes of wit, pointed similies, and epigrammatic turns, especially when they recur too frequently, are a disfigurement, rather than any embellishment of discourse.’82 This critique of excessive

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 49

ornamentation is very much in step with the polite style of writers such as Addison.83 It is not, however, a universal prohibition against the use of rhetorical figures. Rather, it is an argument for the careful selection of such figures. Hume argues that effective oratory requires that rhetorical figures match the scale of their subject. In a passage that, given his views on religious belief, Hume must have written with a smile on his face, he argues that the rhetoric of the divines has not done justice to the subject of eternity because the strongest figures of rhetoric are so vastly inferior to that subject.84 The second rhetorical flaw to which Hume points is a lack of flow and rhythm to the spoken words. Hume writes that any words or sentences that are difficult to pronounce ‘affect the mind with a painful sentiment, and render the style harsh and disagreeable.’85 When we hear wordy or awkwardly composed orations, we experience, through sympathy, the unease that the delivery of the oration gives to the speaker. Consequently, speeches that are difficult to pronounce and present do not please the imagination of the audience members and fail to produce the feeling of belief or to elicit the passions intended by the orator. Finally, Hume warns against the delivery of orations that lack unity or simplicity. Referring to the ancient Greeks, Hume writes that ‘the genius of poets and orators, as might naturally be expected, was distinguished by an amiable simplicity.’86 In contrast to the ancient Greeks, Hume presents Oliver Cromwell, to whom he ascribes a ‘tiresome, dark, unintelligible elocution’ and whom he classes among those who, ‘though they see their object clearly and distinctly in general; yet, when they come to unfold its parts by discourse or writing, lose that luminous conception, which they had before attained.’87 In other words, they never had a general idea of their subject after all. As we will see in the next chapter, simplicity is an essential aspect of the polite style that Hume espoused. These three types of oratorical disfigurement are not merely stylistic flaws. They hinder the persuasiveness of rhetoric. And because rhetoric is inherently neither good nor bad, Hume’s insights apply to both high and low rhetoric. In his system, we develop beliefs because our imagination naturally associates ideas. It does so without reflection and without conscious direction. The process is entirely natural and easy. The ease with which the mind reaches its object, therefore, heavily determines the effect that any set of principles will have on it. Hume writes that the ‘amiable simplicity’ that characterized the great orations of the ancient Greeks ‘is so fitted to express the genuine movements of nature

50 The Politics of Eloquence

and passion, that the compositions possessed of it must ever appear valuable to the discerning part of mankind.’88 Common judgments and opinions are characterized by the ease fully accompanying the natural conception of ideas. The imagination does not experience this ease of conception when it has to piece together a convoluted argument or follow a tiresome speech.89 Hume argues that ‘the more single and united it is to the eye,’ the less effort any argument will require of the imagination to ‘collect all its parts, and run from them to the correlative idea, which forms the conclusion.’90 When the mind is required to labour excessively in order to run through the course of an argument, rhetoric will fail to take the place of experience in the formation of beliefs. The regular sentimental processes will be disturbed, and the idea will not strike on us ‘with such vivacity’ as is required to significantly influence the passions and imagination.91 Interestingly, however, Hume does not argue that the effectiveness of rhetoric depends solely upon the degree to which it facilitates the mind’s progress through an argument. One of the most intriguing features of Hume’s conception of rhetoric is his claim that overly facilitating this progress can actually hinder the effectiveness of rhetoric. Sometimes the surest way to persuade an audience is actually to raise questions. Hume writes that ’tis certain nothing more powerfully animates any affection, than to conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade, which at the same time that it shows enough to pre-possess us in favour of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. Besides that obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort, which the fancy makes to compleat the idea, rouzes the spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion.92

Effective rhetoric requires that the orator engage the imagination of the audience members because people are less convinced by an argument that is spoon fed to them than they are when they feel that they have connected the dots themselves. ‘Obscurity,’ Hume writes, is indeed ‘painful to the mind as well as to the eye; but to bring light from obscurity, by whatever labour, must needs be delightful and rejoicing.’93 He argues that ‘nature, by an absolute and uncontroulable necessity has determin’d us to judge as well as to breathe and feel.’94 Effective rhetoricians must show respect for the audience’s judgment. In other words, the most effective rhetoric stimulates the audience members to make judgments of their own.

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 51

Because the same processes of mind that lead us to develop sound ideas also lead us into error, the appeal to judgment is no guard against manipulation on the part of the orator. While a certain degree of mystery will stimulate the audience members’ curiosity, an orator who overplays the sense of the unknown will induce the audience members to become anxious. Curiosity can lead people to make sound judgments. In fact, asking questions is essential to making good judgments. But anxiety and impatience can precipitate individuals into making judgments that they would never make when not under duress. Hume’s writings on religion point toward the dangers of such judgments. In the Natural History of Religion, Hume argues that people’s original belief in the existence of a deity arose because of their anxiety. The unknown causes of the events in people’s lives became their constant preoccupations. ‘No wonder, then,’ Hume writes, ‘that mankind, being placed in such an absolute ignorance of causes, and being at the same time so anxious concerning their future fortune, should immediately acknowledge a dependence on invisible powers, possessed of sentiment and intelligence.’95 Orators can use people’s anxiety to precipitate them into developing unsound conclusions; furthermore, they can raise the anxiety of their audiences in order to elicit particular passions in them. Politicians, Hume believed, often make use of this device. He writes that when they would influence any person by a matter of fact, these politicians first ‘excite his curiosity; delay as long as possible the satisfying of it; and by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before they give him a full insight into the business.’ By this artifice, these politicians ensure that ‘his curiosity will precipitate him into the passion they design to raise, and assist the object in its influence on the mind.’96 Of course, there is a very fine line between the degree of mystery that stimulates a healthy curiosity and that which causes anxiety. Hume never tells us precisely where it lies. Presumably, this line is different for different people. We can only surmise that part of the orator’s rhetorical prowess will rest on his ability to make that assessment for each of his audiences. There is also a fine line between the degree of mystery that stimulates the judgment of the audience members and that which renders the speaker’s meaning unintelligible. And Hume never gives any clear indication of where, precisely, that line lies either. Appealing to his favourite example of a poor orator,97 Hume writes that ‘while the protector argued so much in contradiction both to his judgment and inclination,

52 The Politics of Eloquence

it is no wonder, that his elocution, always confused, embarrassed, and unintelligible, should be involved in tenfold darkness, and discover no glimmering of common sense or reason.’98 Obviously, casting the argument of an oration into too much darkness, whether purposely or not, renders the orator’s speech entirely incoherent and unpersuasive. Effective rhetoric depends not solely on the way in which ideas are presented to the audience, but also on the types of ideas that are presented by the orator. Our minds, Hume argues, are regularly drawn to the same types of topics. ‘Whatever is important engages our attention, fixes our thought, and is contemplated with satisfaction,’ he writes.99 For this reason, argues Hume, ‘the histories of kingdoms are more interesting than domestic stories: the histories of great empires more than those of small cities and principalities: And the histories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and order.’100 Here we have a further explanation for Hume’s decision to write his History of England in reverse chronological order, beginning with the House of Stuart. The events of this time period would already have exerted a powerful draw on an eighteenth-century British mind because, as Hume’s philosophy of mind suggests, events from the near past will have a greater influence on people’s imagination than will events from the distant past. In addition, however, Hume’s message about the impacts of faction and fanaticism was made all the more persuasive because it was framed in the context of a history of civil war and revolution, topics that naturally excite our interest. People are interested by great or terrible historical events, Hume argues; and to this he adds that civil wars fought over principles of liberty actually produce great eloquence. He writes that ‘by presenting nobler and more interesting objects, they amply compensate that tranquillity, of which they bereave the muses.’ As evidence of the effect of civil wars on eloquence, Hume suggests that the speeches of parliamentary orators during the period of the Commonwealth ‘are of a strain much superior to what any former age had produced in England; and the force and compass of our tongue were then first put to trial.’101 Of course, these orations were still imbued with ‘the wretched fanaticism, which so much infected the parliamentary party.’102 They were, nevertheless, effective speeches. The power of religious rhetoric can be partly explained by its focus on another topic that has a natural draw upon people’s imaginations. Hume writes that there is a ‘usual propensity of mankind towards the marvelous, and that, though this inclination may at intervals receive a

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 53

check from sense and learning, it can never be thoroughly extirpated from human nature.’103 Though Hume does argue that we should be suspicious of testimony that attempts to establish the marvellous or the extraordinary,104 he never retracts his assertion that the attraction to such topics is a feature of human nature. This phenomenon is explained by the passions excited by the miraculous. Hume writes that ‘the passion of surprise and wonder, arising from miracles, being an agreeable emotion, gives a sensible tendency towards the belief of those events, from which it is derived.’105 A final feature of human nature that can determine the persuasiveness of rhetoric is the quality that ‘leads us to prefer whatever is present to the distant and remote, and makes us desire objects more according to their situation than their intrinsic value.’106 Hume writes that no other quality causes more fatal errors in our conduct. Nevertheless, much like our attraction to the marvellous, this propensity remains a feature of human nature that inclines people to believe. The notion that the very same processes of mind that lead us to make sound judgments are also those that lead us into error is central to Hume’s conception of persuasion. So too is his notion that judgment and the passions mutually assist one another. 107Appeals to judgment cannot be entirely divorced from appeals to the passions. According to this understanding of persuasion, rhetoric must be considered morally neutral. It can be used for good and it can be used for ill. High and low rhetoric cannot be differentiated from each other on the basis of how they appeal to the imagination because both appeal to the same principles of association through which the mind functions. Differentiating the two types of rhetoric, therefore, requires that we take a broader view of persuasion. Conclusion Hume often used very imprecise terms in his discussions of rhetoric. In addition to his discussions of ‘cant and low rhetoric,’108 Hume also contrasts ‘art or eloquence of composition’ with the rhetorics of ‘noise and fury, cant and hypocrisy.’109 He writes of ‘tinsel eloquence,’ ‘ambitious ornaments,’ and ‘forced turns and sentiments.’110 Of these last three, Hume writes that ‘we admire the imagination which produced them, as much as we blame the want of judgment which gave them admittance.’111 Though lacking in definitions, these references reveal the distinction that Hume maintained between high and low

54 The Politics of Eloquence

rhetoric. However, Hume’s discussions of persuasion and rhetoric are not, of themselves, sufficient to fully differentiate the two types of rhetoric. Cant and fury can be very persuasive. Yet Hume clearly associates these with low rhetoric. The persuasive power of devices such as ridicule can be harnessed by either high or low rhetoric. In his discussions of rhetoric and persuasion, therefore, Hume is more concerned with discovering the features of effective rhetoric than he is with differentiating high from low rhetoric. Hume viewed elegance, clarity, simplicity, and ease as characteristics of effective rhetoric because they facilitate the mind’s natural processes for forming beliefs and for eliciting passions. For Hume, rhetoric must take the place of experience if it is to be persuasive. Orations must, therefore, enable the easy progress of the audience members’ imaginations through the argument presented. Orations can also be made persuasive by appealing to natural human interests such as the miraculous, important events such as wars and revolutions, or our preference for the present over the distant and remote. Furthermore, in order to be persuasive, orators must be sensitive and partial to the particular contexts of their audiences. They must evoke passions selectively according to their objectives. The orator must conceal the artifice through which he elicits passions so as not to block the sympathy through which they are transmitted to the audience members or the processes of mind through which they arise in reaction to particular ideas or sets of ideas. But high rhetoric is not merely stylish oratory. Hume argues that if an orator’s rhetoric ‘be not elegant, his observations uncommon, his sense strong and masculine, he will in vain boast his nature and simplicity. He may be correct; but he never will be agreeable.’112 Hume also argues that our suspicions are raised by any matter of fact presented by a speaker of ‘a doubtful character.’113 Therefore, in order to understand Hume’s distinction between high and low rhetoric, we must look beyond his discussions of persuasion. Accurate, just, and polite rhetoric consists in philosophically sound arguments that are presented in a style that appeals to the audience members’ judgment by an orator of good character. Each of these three criteria is agreeable to the mind. Hume’s conception of rhetoric points toward the potential of their combined influence and appeal. One major hindrance that Hume faced in developing his conception of high rhetoric was the climate of politeness that prevailed in eighteenthcentury Britain. The polite virtues of manners and moderation – the virtues that defined a gentlemanly character – were generally considered

Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion 55

to be incompatible with impassioned rhetoric. Trumpeting the virtue of rhetoric and appealing for a revival of ancient eloquence was not, therefore, unproblematic in the climate in which Hume was writing. But Hume understood politeness differently from many of his contemporaries. His particular understanding of politeness is integral to his high rhetoric as well as to his conception of good character.

3 Hume’s Conception of Politeness

There are in England, in particular, many honest gentlemen, who being always employ’d in their domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations, have carry’d their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which are every day expos’d to their senses. And indeed, of such as these I pretend not to make philosophers, nor do I expect them either to be associates in these researches or auditors of these discoveries. They do well to keep themselves in their present situation; and instead of refining them into philosophers, I wish we cou’d communicate to our founders of systems, a share of this gross earthy mixture, as an ingredient, which they commonly stand much in need of, and which wou’d serve to temper those fiery particles of which they are compos’d.1 The virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt.2

The power of politeness is, perhaps, nowhere more clearly in evidence than in Hume’s own life. Though branded the Great Infidel, Hume lived most of the last twenty-five years of his life as a citizen of Edinburgh, surrounded by a close-knit group of friends, most of whom, like the vast majority of Edinburgh’s citizens, were members of the kirk.3 Hume’s friends were, for the most part, members of the Moderate Party, the party in the kirk that battled the enthusiasm of the Evangelical Party, also known as the Highflyers or the Popular Party. The Moderates ‘sought to shift the emphasis of Scottish Presbyterianism from predestination and election to individual and social morality’4 and endorsed the system of lay patronage for selecting ministers in opposition to the

Hume’s Conception of Politeness 57

Evangelicals’ preferred system of election by individual presbyteries. Some of Hume’s friends, such as Hugh Blair, Alexander Carlyle, Adam Ferguson, John Home, and William Robertson, were even ministers and preachers. Yet somehow, despite his arguments for the indefensibility of religious beliefs, Hume lived out his life as a well-loved and well-respected friend among friends in a city of which the kirk was a central institution. When, in 1755–6, the Popular Party attempted to have Hume and Henry Home (Lord Kames) excommunicated from the kirk for infidelity, it was Hume’s friends in the Moderate Party, led by Hugh Blair and William Robertson, who came to his defence. Certainly, the campaign against Hume and Kames was in part a thinly veiled attack on the Moderate Party.5 Nevertheless, the Moderates’ defence of Hume remains intriguing. After all, it was not only on religious questions that the Moderates differed from Hume. Whig-Presbyterian moralists, as many of the Moderates were, felt threatened by Hume’s approach to moral philosophy.6 And in religious matters, the differences that divided Hume from them were wide. As Richard Sher writes, the Moderates ‘esteemed a rational, polite form of Presbyterianism that would bridge the gap between John Knox and David Hume, between fanaticism and infidelity, between tradition and modernity.’7 However, they certainly never sought to embrace Hume’s ‘infidelity.’ Sher argues that there was a ‘tension between the Moderates’ exceptionally liberal views on such matters as intellectual freedom, religious tolerance, and the need for politeness, learning and enlightenment, and their staunchly conservative stance on most questions of social, political, and ecclesiastical law and order.’8 So, despite their religious differences, it is clear that the Moderates shared a set of values with Hume. The Moderates’ values of enlightenment and politeness accorded quite well with Hume’s own values, certainly better than did their ecclesiastical values. However, this concordance of values does not fully explain the friendships that developed between the Moderates and Hume. Why, then, did Hume’s friends in the Moderate Party defend him so vigorously? And how is it that they became and remained such close friends of his despite the deep chasms separating their approaches to moral and religious questions from his? Quite simply, the Moderates overlooked their ecclesiastical and moral differences with Hume because he was a polite gentleman.9 They viewed politeness as ‘the distinctive mark of a fully civilized individual and the happy medium between “effeminacy” and “enthusiasm.”’10

58 The Politics of Eloquence

Together, Hume and his friends enjoyed good conversation, good food, and good claret. In his letter relating the circumstances of Hume’s death to William Strahan, Adam Smith writes that the ‘gaity of temper, so agreeable in society, but which is so often accompanied with frivolous and superficial qualities, was in [Hume] certainly attended with the most severe application, the most extensive learning, the greatest depth of thought, and a capacity in every respect the most comprehensive.’11 Smith describes his friend as ‘approaching as nearly to the idea of a wise and virtuous man, as perhaps the nature of human frailty will permit.’12 Hume never sought to press his own ideas on his friends, nor – apart from what he put in his writings – did he overtly attempt to convince them to abandon their religious beliefs.13 Even in his writings, Hume’s anti-religious arguments usually appear in a more indirect form such as a dialogue as opposed to a tract. Hume’s manners, his sociability, and his generalist approach to study made him a gentleman. These were the character traits that bridged the methodological and ideological differences separating Hume, the Great Infidel, from his friends in the kirk. They are also the character traits that are essential to defining the polite component of Hume’s accurate, just, and polite rhetoric. To apply the notion of politeness to rhetoric is to borrow a characteristic from the egalitarian world of conversation14 and to apply it in the stratified realm of rhetoric. There are two principal justifications for this transposition in Hume’s conception of rhetoric. The first is evidenced in the story of Hume’s life. In eighteenth-century Britain, the gentleman was a likeable, admirable, and – equally important – trustworthy character. The power of the polite character to bridge wide ideological and methodological divides is evidenced by Hume’s friends in the Moderate party overlooking their differences with him. Second, the groundedness of the gentleman has strong affinities with Hume’s empiricism. As M.A. Box writes, ‘the empiricist stress on experience as against ratiocination was appealingly analogous to the gentlemanly stress on worldly experience as against book-learning. Both were seen as means of keeping one’s feet firmly on the ground.’15 As Annette Baier writes, Hume believed that ‘it is philosophy which must become worldly, not the world which must become philosophical.’16 By inverting the classical hierarchy of reason and the passions, Hume also elevated the people – or at least some of them – above the philosophers. Rather than convert the ‘many honest gentlemen’ into philosophers, Hume wished instead to ‘communicate to our founders of systems, a share

Hume’s Conception of Politeness 59

of [the honest gentlemen’s] gross earthy mixture, as an ingredient, which they commonly stand much in need of, and which wou’d serve to temper those fiery particles, of which they are composed.’17 Hume clearly believed that politeness could be exported from the realm of conversation. Incorporating politeness into Hume’s conception of rhetoric lends the trustworthiness of the gentleman to the orator, and the groundedness of politeness to his orations. Politeness, which Hume defines as ‘the arts of conversation,’18 sits comfortably with his experimental method and with the lack of certainty that is inherent to his sceptical empiricism. A polite orator persuades without appealing to the dogmas of either the ‘schoolmen’ or the religious zealots. His orations are marked by three contributions that politeness brings to Hume’s conception of high rhetoric: manners and decorum, sociability, and a generalist approach to learning. Arts of Conversation Two major influences on Hume’s understanding of politeness were Joseph Addison and Anthony Ashley Cooper, the third earl of Shaftesbury. In his famous mission statement, Joseph Addison wrote in the Spectator that while ‘it was said of Socrates, that he brought Philosophy down from Heaven, to inhabit among Men,’ Addison hoped that it would be said of him that he had ‘brought Philosophy out of the Closets and Libraries, Schools and Colleges, to dwell in Clubs and Assemblies, at Tea-tables, and Coffee-Houses.’19 This sentiment is echoed in Hume’s portrayal of himself as ‘a Kind of Resident or Ambassador from the Dominions of Learning to those of Conversation.’20 However, the philosophy of politeness really originated in the work of Shaftesbury. As Lawrence Klein writes, ‘the argument at the heart of Shaftesbury’s cultural politics was that, while the Church and the Court had traditionally dominated English culture to its detriment, post-1688 England and post-1707 Britain had the opportunity to create a new public and gentlemanly culture of criticism.’21 There were two major aspects to Shaftesbury’s program for developing a culture of polite criticism. The first was his model of the polite gentleman, who was to be versed both in high culture and in philosophy. The second was the definition of a particular social setting for philosophy, best exemplified in Shaftesbury’s portrayal of Palemon and Philocles in the park in ‘The Moralists.’22 At the very beginning of ‘The Moralists,’ Philocles observes

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to Palemon, ‘you are the only well-bred Man who wou’d have taken the Fancy to talk Philosophy in such a Circle of good Company as we had round us yesterday, when we were in your Coach together, in the Park.’23 As Klein writes, ‘this concern with the site of philosophy was important, for it implied that philosophy had to meet specifically social criteria. Philosophy could not be hermetic, an undertaking of the cloister or ivory tower. Rather, it had to be placed in the midst of society (at least of a certain level).’24 Shaftesbury’s vision of politeness, according to Klein, was as ‘refinement that had submitted to the disciplines of sociability: the combination of self-confidence and unpretentiousness, the naturalness and ease, the honesty and elegance, of the fully autonomous being.’25 Politeness, for Shaftesbury, was centred in discursivity,26 by which he meant the dynamic of conversation in which ideas are openly exchanged and debated between and among equals. Klein writes that ‘the kernel of “politeness” could be conveyed in the simple expression, “the art of pleasing in company,” or, in a contemporary definition, “a dextrous management of our Words and Actions, whereby we make other People have better Opinions of us and themselves.”’27 Following Shaftesbury, Hume defines politeness as ‘the arts of conversation.’28 At the beginning of Hume’s Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, while commenting on the topics that are best treated through the writing of dialogues, Pamphilus, the narrator, observes to Hermippus that ‘reasonable men may be allowed to differ where no one can reasonably be positive: Opposite sentiments, even without any decision, afford an agreeable amusement; and if the subject be curious and interesting, the book carries us, in a manner, into company, and unites the two greatest and purest pleasures of human life – study and society.’29 The Dialogues, in fact, model Hume’s notions of gentlemanliness and politeness quite effectively. Toward the end of Dialogue X, Philo, the sceptic, seems to have fully refuted Cleanthes’ defence of the infinite power, wisdom, and goodness of God. But rather than push his advantage and end the conversation, Philo backs off and cedes the floor to Cleanthes. ‘It is your turn now,’ he says, ‘to tug the laboring oar, and to support your philosophical subtilties against the dictates of plain reason and experience.’30 Cleanthes, the defender of the argument from design for the existence of God, is described as having an ‘accurate philosophical turn.’31 Thus, as a polite individual, he is able to continue the conversation with Philo. The first to leave the conversation is Demea. At the end of Dialogue XI, Pamphilus observes that ‘Demea did not at all relish the latter part

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of the discourse; and he took occasion soon after, on some pretence or other, to leave the company.’32 Demea, as the defender of the a priori argument for the existence of God, is the least polite of the characters in the Dialogues because of his ‘rigid and inflexible orthodoxy.’33 Demea’s impoliteness ultimately impedes his ability to converse with Philo and Cleanthes, so he simply slinks off. Pamphilus does not recount the end of the conversation between Cleanthes and Philo. Rather, he breaks away from it, simply stating that the two ‘pursued not this conversation much further.’34 What is significant, however, is that they did continue it. Demea leaves the conversation before it ends because he is impolite. Cleanthes and Philo continue the conversation past the end of the Dialogues, demonstrating that they are polite and thus are capable of civilly examining these sorts of disputes. Politeness and Social Class The notions of politeness and gentlemanliness suggest a type of elitism. However, as I suggested in the previous chapter, Hume’s treatment of these concepts is much more complex than one might expect. Adam Potkay argues that ‘politeness is an eighteenth-century ideology in formation, intended to consolidate the members of the gentry and professional orders and to differentiate this group from a “vulgar” class of labourers, servants, and “cits.”’35 However, while Hume does use the terms gentlemen and politeness to differentiate the social classes that Potkay describes, he is most interested in using them to make distinctions within the elite. His famous invocation of ‘the many honest gentlemen,’ quoted at the beginning of this chapter, contrasts them not to members of any lower social classes but to the philosophers Hume calls ‘our founders of systems.’36 And when he differentiates Demea from Philo and Cleanthes, Hume nowhere suggests that Demea is of a lower class than the other two characters. In fact, his every indication is that all three are members of the same class. Politeness is not, therefore, inherent to all members of the gentry and the professional classes. As Klein points out, ‘“politeness” [is] a criterion of proper behaviour.’37 When Hume wrote of gentlemen and of polite discourse, he was referring primarily to those in what he called the middle station of life.38 He argues that these form the most numerous Rank of Men, that can be suppos’d susceptible of Philosophy; and therefore, all Discourses of Morality

62 The Politics of Eloquence ought principally to be address’d to them. The Great are too immers’d in Pleasure; and the Poor too much occupy’d in providing for the Necessities of Life, to hearken to the calm Voice of Reason. The Middle Station, as it is most happy in many Respects, so particularly in this, that a Man, plac’d in it, can, with the greatest Leisure, consider his own Happiness, and reap a new Enjoyment, from comparing his Situation with that of Persons above or below him.39

Hume argues that the middle station of life both safeguards virtue and provides the most opportunities for its exercise because those in this station of life can exert their patience, resignation, industry, and integrity toward their ‘superiors,’ and their generosity, humanity, affability, and charity toward their ‘inferiors.’40 Hume also argues that the middle station of life is more conducive than the upper station to wisdom and ability. He writes that ‘a Man so situate has a better Chance of attaining a Knowledge both of Men and Things, than those of a more elevated Station.’41 As we have seen, Hume maintained that people in the middle station of life made the best judges of rhetoric. Hume’s understanding of politeness as related to the middle station of life was very much in keeping with the trend noted by M.A. Box whereby, ‘from the Restoration age through the eighteenth century . . . the identity of the “gentlemen” came to exchange somewhat its aristocratic for a bourgeois character.’42 In this sense also, Hume’s conception of gentlemanliness was more Addisonian than Shaftesburian. As Klein remarks, there are some notable differences between Addison’s and Shaftesbury’s conceptions of politeness: ‘Addison’s tone was matterof-fact while Shaftesbury’s was rarefied; Addison’s clientele was a wide segment of the upper and middling population while Shaftesbury’s was more restrictively gentlemanly; Addison’s project was more harnessed to the sites of ordinary life while Shaftesbury’s, again, was more exclusive.’43 What Hume retained from Shaftesbury’s model of politeness was the equality and the reciprocity that are at its heart. As Klein writes, ‘polite conversation assumed the equality of participants and insisted on a reciprocity in which participants were sometimes talkers and sometimes listeners.’44 Within the category of polite gentlemen, all are equal. Hume writes of the virtue of friendship ‘that seems principally to ly among Equals, and is, for that Reason, chiefly calculated for the middle Station of Life.’45 The reciprocity and equality of polite conversation help explain why there is no clear victor in Hume’s Dialogues

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Concerning Natural Religion. Throughout the Dialogues, Cleanthes and Philo treat each other as equals. They also end the Dialogues, as nearly as possible, as equals and as friends. As Philo remarks at the beginning of Dialogue XII, he and Cleanthes live ‘in unreserved intimacy.’46 The Politeness, Manners, Civility, and Sociability of the Gentleman What, then, are the characteristics of a gentleman? In his brief autobiography, Hume describes himself in unequivocally gentlemanly terms. ‘I was,’ he writes, ‘a man of mild dispositions, of command of temper, of an open, social, and cheerful humour, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions.’47 Each of these qualities is gentlemanly because each facilitates conversation. As Klein writes, conversants were warned against taciturny, stiffness, self-effacement, and withdrawal, which starved conversation. They were also warned against excesses of assertiveness and sociability, which killed conversation more efficiently. It was wrong to dominate discussion or push one’s opinions too relentlessly. Self-righteousness, self-solemnity, and gravity were odious. To terminate a conversation with dispatch, one needed only be pedantic or magisterial! Finally, affection, the striving for effect, was noxious to conversation.48

Politeness ‘presupposed an intersubjective domain in which the cultivation and exchange of opinions and feelings were involved.’49 This intersubjective domain was, however, far more than a simple forum for the exchange of ideas. As Susan Purviance writes, ‘if social behaviour provides the context for the cultivation of virtue, then discussion and conversation provide the context for the refinement of moral judgement.’50 For Hume, moral judgment relies on one’s capacity for sympathy and on one’s moral sentiments. Everyone has the capacity for moral judgment. However, that capacity does admit of improvement. Politeness is intimately tied to the refinement of moral judgment because it facilitates social interaction that is free from the factionalism of the sort that coloured so many other aspects of eighteenth-century British life. As Hume writes of one who exhibits a delicacy of taste, ‘a polite and judicious conversation affords him the highest entertainment; rudeness or

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impertinence is as great a punishment to him. In short, delicacy of taste has the same effect as delicacy of passion: It enlarges the sphere both of our happiness and misery, and makes us sensible to pains as well as pleasures, which escape the rest of mankind.’51 Factional discourses have the opposite effect. Hume understood them to foment animosities and divide individuals, thus blocking their sensitivities to the pains and pleasures of others. Understanding the connection between polite conversation and the development of moral judgment better positions us to understand the passage of Hume’s History that I discussed in the previous chapter in which he argues that James I of England would have been better off responding to religious quarrels with ridicule than with any meaningful engagement.52 These quarrels were not polite because, instead of involving a free exchange of ideas, they were characterized simply by the assertions and reassertions of ideological positions. The zealots’ dogmatic adherence to their religious beliefs hindered rather than facilitated conversation. Thus, though ridicule might seem completely antithetical to polite conversation, Hume advocates its use as an effective means of overcoming barriers to conversation. In this sense, ridicule can be a precondition for politeness in some circumstances, especially when one is confronted with religious dogmatism. In a very interesting passage in his autobiography, Hume writes that he consciously resolved never to reply to any critics of his own writings, in order to keep ‘clear of all literary squabbles.’53 As in the passage from the History, Hume again appears to eschew conversation in a very impolite manner. However, once again, Hume aims only to avoid impolite conversation. He writes that he never responded to the pamphlet that Dr Hurd wrote against the Natural History of Religion that embodied ‘all the illiberal petulance, arrogance, and scurrility, which distinguish the Warburtonian school.’54 Hume might just as well have written of the impolite petulance, arrogance, and scurrility of that school. Once again, his advocacy of avoiding impolite disputes should not be confused with an aversion to conversation. Of course, Hume cannot completely escape the charge that he simply avoided conversations with his detractors. His famous response to Thomas Reid also attests to his tendency to do so.55 In some respects, therefore, Hume was not the model polite gentleman. However, his avoidance of conversations with ideologically intransigent interlocutors – or at least those he took to be ideologically intransigent – also points to Hume’s awareness that certain people are incapable of sustaining conversation.

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For Hume, as for other eighteenth-century advocates of politeness, the polite gentleman was characterized by his ability to keep conversations moving forward. This ability requires, among other things, that gentlemen sometimes restrain their impulse to speak in order that their interlocutors be able to voice their own opinions. Hume writes that ‘among the arts of conversation, no one pleases more than mutual deference or civility, which leads us to resign our own inclinations to those of our companion, and to curb and conceal that presumption and arrogance, so natural to the human mind.’56 This passage could easily be misinterpreted as an endorsement of mere formality, but in reality it prescribes an antidote to the types of bullish conversation that lead only to the development of animosities and entrenched positions, which in turn provide the perfect breeding grounds for the development of faction and fanaticism. Hume notes that ‘nothing is more useful to us in the conduct of life, than a due degree of pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a confidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprises.’57 However, expressions of that pride are often received very badly by those about us. Therefore, Hume writes, good-breeding and decency require that we shou’d avoid all signs and expressions, which tend directly to show that passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful partiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our sentiments in this particular, we shou’d mutually cause the greatest indignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of our judgments. In like manner, therefore as we establish the laws of nature, in order to secure property in society, and prevent the opposition of self-interest; we establish the rules of good-breeding, in order to prevent the opposition of men’s pride, and render conversation agreeable and inoffensive.58

The formality that Hume is here advocating requires a type of insincerity. He writes that ‘no one, who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate into the inner sentiments of men, will assert, that the humility, which good-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside, or that a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteem’d a real part of our duty.’59 Quite the opposite, Hume argues, a healthy and well-founded pride in oneself is ‘essential to the character of a man of honour.’60 In conversation, however, polite individuals will restrain their expressions of pride. And though this restraint will inevitably

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entail a degree of insincerity, the formality of polite individuals directly contributes to facilitating their conversations. Excessive formality can, however, impair an individual’s ability to converse freely. And most of the eighteenth-century writers on politeness were well aware of this danger. As Klein writes, ‘although “politeness” implied that sociability was enhanced by good form, tension might arise between these two principles; for instance, when “politeness” declined into mere formality or ceremoniousness, it could be portrayed as hostile to true sociability.’61 Of course, formality was a central aspect of politeness. Formality of manners injected a calming dynamic into conversation. In his treatment of gallantry, Hume, in fact, criticizes Shaftesbury for not fully acknowledging the importance of formality to politeness. He writes that some ‘zealous partisans of the ancients’ have asserted modern notions of gallantry ‘to be foppish and ridiculous, and a reproach, rather than a credit, to the present age.’62 Far from being foppish and ridiculous, Hume argues, gallantry is a close relative of politeness. The only significant difference between the two is that the former is oriented toward women while the latter is oriented toward men. ‘Nature,’ according to Hume, ‘has implanted in all living creatures an affection between the sexes, which, even in the fiercest and most rapacious animals, is not merely confined to the satisfaction of the bodily appetite, but begets a friendship and mutual sympathy, which runs through the whole tenor of their lives.’63 Hume suggests that because the confinement of appetite is not natural to men, the ‘complacency and benevolence’ that softens the affections between the sexes must be more prevalent in them than in women.64 This is the basis of gallantry. For Hume, gallantry plays a very important role in preserving societal peace and preventing the development of dangerous animosities. Gallantry, Hume writes, is as generous as it is natural. To correct such gross vices, as lead us to commit real injury on others, is the part of morals, and the object of the most ordinary education. Where that is not attended to, in some degree, no human society can subsist. But in order to render conversation, and the intercourse of minds more easy and agreeable, good-manners have been invented, and have carried the matter somewhat farther. Wherever nature has given the mind a propensity to any vice, or to any passion disagreeable to others, refined breeding has taught men to throw the biass on the opposite side, and to preserve, in all their behaviour, the appearance of

Hume’s Conception of Politeness 67 sentiments different from those to which they naturally incline. Thus, as we are commonly proud and selfish, and apt to assume the preference above others, a polite man learns to behave with deference towards his companions, and to yield the superiority to them in all the common incidents of society.65

Thus, according to Hume, good manners do not preclude the development of divergent views, nor do they require that conversants accept the views of their interlocutors. What good manners demand is that the interlocutors allow one another to speak freely and without fear of being berated for their views. To converse politely is to mask one’s natural pride and selfishness and to refrain from putting one’s interlocutors on the defensive. When conversing with an aggressive and threatening interlocutor, individuals often take refuge in dogmas and ideological intransigence, both of which are great hindrances to conversation. Polite individuals alleviate this tendency by showing a generous deference to their interlocutors that makes them feel at ease and free to express themselves. For Hume, the generosity inherent to gallantry and politeness has its roots in a form of love. He writes that love ‘is the source of all politeness and refinement.’66 Of, course, Hume’s model of gallantry arises from a very outdated conception of gender relations. But the value of generosity that he is promoting is not inherently sexist. It is only Hume’s explanation for gallant men’s generosity toward women that is. If we look beyond the obvious sexism, we discover a conception of generosity that could easily be stripped of its sexist associations. Gallantry, Hume writes, is nothing but an instance of ‘generous attention. As nature has given man the superiority above woman, by endowing him with greater strength both of mind and body; it is his part to alleviate that superiority, as much as possible, by the generosity of his behaviour, and by a studied deference and complaisance for all her inclinations and opinions.’67 This generosity, writes Hume, is very similar to that of a host. ‘In good company,’ he writes, ‘you need not ask, Who is the master of the feast? The man, who sits in the lowest place, and who is always industrious in helping every one, is certainly the person.’68 What is more, gallantry, writes Hume, ‘is not less compatible with wisdom and prudence, than with nature and generosity; and when under proper regulations, contributes more than any other invention, to the entertainment and improvement of the youth of both sexes.’69

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In furtherance of this spirit of improvement, which was a key feature of politeness in the eighteenth century, the polite writers that Hume looked up to, such as Shaftesbury and Addison, redefined philosophical writing to make it more accepted in society. As M.A. Box writes, this endeavour required them, not only to write philosophy well, but also to adjust the very topics they wrote about to coincide with the concerns of ‘a sensible man of the world.’ The only questions worthy of philosophical investigation were those that directly related to the affairs of everyday life. ‘Philosophy had to be made to turn from topics merely curious.’ And philosophers had to eschew pedantry in order to become ‘wise men helping people to live constructive, moral lives.’70 As Box argues, the idea was ‘not to trivialize philosophy, but to raise the moral sophistication with which people conduct their daily lives. Philosophy that shows people how to get along better is much more valuable than that which squares the circle.’71 Politeness and the Generalist Orientation The relationship between philosophy and the social setting of conversation was, thus, a two-way relationship. Politeness defined a certain social setting for philosophy. That social setting, in turn, prescribed the appropriate topics for philosophical investigations. This double relationship produced a new dynamic in the development of politeness. As Klein observes, ‘the amalgamation of gentleman and scholar became a virtual paradigm of polite writing.’72 Learning took on a more generalist character to better reflect the real issues affecting the real lives of gentlemen: Polite learning was gentlemanly because it did not demand technical or specialist knowledge. Rather, it was generalist in its orientation, tending to the development of the whole person and keeping the person and his social relations in view. It fixed knowledge in a firm ethical and social grid, flagged by such key words as ‘judgment’ and ‘taste.’ Polite learning was also the stuff of gentlemanly conversation. What was inimical to politeness in learning was aspersed as ‘pedantry.’ This label was a social category since it damned its object as lacking the qualities of a polite gentleman.73

Hume developed his own reputation as a polite author by presenting himself as an ambassador from the world of learning to the world of conversation. While Socrates and Addison had sought to bring philosophy

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into the real world, Hume sought to have a foot in each world so as to best position himself to bring the real world to philosophy. In the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Hume gives his most precise accounts of the polite character and of polite learning. He writes that the most perfect character lies between the extremes of the mere philosopher who lives ‘remote from communication with mankind, and is wrapped up in principles and notions equally remote from their comprehension,’ and the mere ignorant. The most perfect character is supposed to lie between those extremes; retaining an equal ability and taste for books, company, and business; and preserving in conversation that discernment and delicacy which arise from polite letters; and in business, that probity and accuracy which are the natural result of a just philosophy. In order to diffuse and cultivate so accomplished a character, nothing can be more useful than compositions of an easy style and manner, which draw not too much from life, require no deep application or retreat to be comprehended, and send back the student among mankind full of noble sentiments and wise precepts, applicable to every exigence of human life. By means of such compositions, virtue becomes amiable, science agreeable, company instructive, and retirement entertaining.74

For Hume, the French provided the greatest model of a polite people. He writes that they are ‘the only people, except the GREEKS, who have been at once philosophers, poets, orators, historians, painters, architects, sculptors, and musicians.’ And ‘in common life, they have, in great measure, perfected that art, the most useful and agreeable of any, l’Art de Vivre, the art of society and conversation.’75 Hume’s views on the generalist nature of polite learning were very much in keeping with the prevailing attitudes of his time. According to Box, ‘the prevailing cultural values, extending often to firm prejudice, were against specialization and the compartmentalization of learning. They were toward an ideal of the evenly developed, wellbalanced, erudite but polished performer in society.’76 The Scottish universities sought to contribute to this ideal. Their curricula were chiefly directed toward ‘the production of well-rounded gentlemen, imbued with Christian humanist values and familiar with all branches of polite learning.’77 The education of gentlemen was wide-ranging, non-specialized, and directly related to their daily lives. Equipped with this education, along with the transposed manners and decorum of gallantry, the gentleman

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was prepared for polite conversation. He was prepared to discuss wide-ranging topics. However, as a non-specialist, he was somewhat immunized against the dogmatism that most often characterized the discourses of the ‘schoolmen’ and the religious zealots. The gentleman sought to encourage a free exchange of ideas through conversation. Politeness and Simplicity Simplicity was one of the most pervasive aspects of gentlemanly politeness in the eighteenth century. Box writes that ‘it is a commonplace of literary history that during this period English prose changed in the direction of the gentlemanly virtues of simplicity and elegance.’78 At first, the value of simplicity might seem at odds with the decorum and formality of politeness. However, simplicity was valued for several important reasons. First, and most obviously, simplicity was related to the groundedness and the opposition to specialization that were central to the gentlemanly outlook. Ideas and arguments that were presented in a clear and simple prose were much more easily apprehended and understood than were those presented in highly technical and specialized jargon or in a complex, dense, and flowery prose. What is more, the latter could be used to mask the absurdity of a given set of ideas or arguments, whereas clear and simple prose could not. In a sense, simplicity and honesty went hand in hand. Simplicity was an antidote to deception. Simplicity stands in opposition to ornamental formality. And Hume advocated a healthy balance between the two. He was very aware of the danger that politeness could degenerate into mere formality. However, he was also aware of the danger inherent to an overemphasis on simplicity. He writes that ‘as modern politeness, which is naturally so ornamental, runs often into affectation and foppery, disguise and insincerity; so the ancient simplicity, which is naturally so amiable and affecting, often degenerates into rusticity and abuse, scurrility and obscenity.’79 Politeness requires a balance between simplicity, on the one hand, and decorum or formality, on the other. However, given the choice of erring more toward one than the other, Hume argues that ‘we ought to be more on our guard against the excesses of refinement than that of simplicity; and that because the former excess is both less beautiful, and more dangerous than the latter.’80 The danger he writes of is that a speaker will mask the absurdity of an argument with an excessively refined manner of speaking. Listeners will be drawn in by the speaker’s

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argument but, because the argument contains significant absurdities, the listeners will have no sound means of defending it. When people are drawn in by an argument but cannot properly defend their agreement with it, they become dogmatic. And dogmatism is, of course, a great enemy to open conversation. Simplicity contributes to the persuasiveness of arguments in two other important ways. First, simplicity implies brevity. As Klein writes, ‘concision in expression would produce an apothegmatic effect which would, in turn, enhance quotability. Quotability meant that the ethical message would more easily circulate among polite readers.’81 Second, simplicity in an oration or in a written work could, somewhat paradoxically, produce the type of mystery that both Shaftesbury and Hume thought conducive to audience members using their own reason and judgment. Klein writes that ‘the simplicity of concision, thus, authorized an elliptical style, aiming to provoke thought. Shaftesbury warned himself against excess explanation, which would reduce the autonomous processes of the thinking reader.’82 This idea is mirrored in Hume’s discussion of oratorical strategy wherein he advocates that orators not belabour their argument. Hume, we will remember, advocates that orators leave ‘still some work for the imagination’ of their audience members.83 While this argument could be read as implying a tension between close argument and the polite virtue of simplicity, the point is simply that an orator must show respect for the judgment of his audience members by avoiding excessive explanation. At the risk of stating an oxymoron, Hume’s conception of gentlemanly politeness involves a complex simplicity. Simplicity, besides furthering several ends, actually serves to increase the complexity of an argument. Or, perhaps more accurately, it enhances the allure of an argument. The audience can easily understand an argument that is presented simply. The concision of the simple argument also piques the curiosity of the audience members and spurs them to use their own judgment in its apprehension. Simplicity thus guards against dogmatism in two important ways: First, it precludes the possibility of the argument being pure nonsense and persuading only because its true nature is so obfuscated by flowery language or specialized jargon. Second, it ensures that audience members will understand the argument in their own terms, thus facilitating their engagement with it and allowing them to recount it in their own words. The quotability of a concise argument ensures that the audience members will leave with the ability to repeat its essential points. But they will

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recount the details and further implications of that argument in their own words. Politeness beyond the Realm of Conversation As can be seen from the preceding discussion of simplicity, the concept of politeness quickly radiated out beyond the realm of conversation. In fact, in the eighteenth century, ‘social agreeableness became a way of comprehending the values that informed not only social interactions and conversation but the range of cultural expressions and, indeed, manners in general.’84 In short, the eighteenth century saw ‘the remaking of the world in a gentlemanly image.’85 The standards that defined this gentlemanly image ‘can be most easily grasped as expressions of an idealised vision of human intercourse, peopled by gentlemen and ladies, sited in the drawing room or coffeehouse, engaged in intelligent and stylish conversation about urbane things, presided over by the spirit of good taste.’86 As Sher observes, ‘polite society meant well-bred people of taste and refinement; polite literature and learning meant the rational, elegant, polished poetry and prose and empirical scientific investigations that appealed to polite society; polite preaching meant the sensible, restrained religious instruction that polite society appreciated.’87 The notion of politeness evoked the scene ‘of refined sociability, with its rules and participants, as against scenes in which sociability was distorted or neglected.’88 The rise of politeness in England as a standard for interpreting and evaluating all manner of cultural expressions was part of the process through which the church came to be more firmly placed under civil control. As Klein argues, pointing to the decline in prestige of the English universities as evidence, ‘this process weakened the Church’s presumption of authority over discourse and culture.’89 Of course, the situation in Scotland was significantly different. During the eighteenth century, the kirk and the universities, particularly in Edinburgh and Glasgow, played absolutely central roles in the intellectual movement of Enlightenment as well as in the everyday lives of the Scots.90 So, while English notions of politeness heavily influenced the Scots, politeness developed in Scotland in relation to different societal forces. Like the proponents of politeness in England, the Moderates too were reacting against the authority of the church. However, the Episcopal structure of the Church of England embodied a very different system of authority than did the Presbyterian kirk in Scotland. Where

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Shaftesbury ‘was fundamentally a Whig who, in opposition to the classic commitments of the Tories, wished to see the power of both Church and Monarch reduced,’91 the Moderates invoked notions of politeness in opposition to the theocratic and democratic impulses of the Popular Party. Klein argues that, for Shaftesbury, ‘the paradigm of politeness offered an alternative to the reliance on traditional authoritative institutions for ordering the discursive world, because it sought processes within the babble, diversity, and liberty of the new discursive world of the Town that would produce order and direction.’92 The Moderates too looked to the town for models of polite discourse. However, they invoked the models that they drew from the babble of the Town as part of their efforts to quell the babble of the rabble. In particular, the Moderates supported the 1712 Patronage Act, and thus endorsed the selection of church ministers through lay patronage as opposed to the far more democratic system of election by individual presbyteries. Hume’s friends in the Moderate Party made much use of the concept of politeness in their battles with the Popular Party in the kirk. As Sher writes, they were ‘conspicuous for their commitment to such polite, enlightened values as genteel manners, religious moderation and tolerance, and high esteem for scientific and literary accomplishments’ as part of their effort to overturn ‘the persistent stereotype of Scottish Presbyterian ministers as ignorant, bigoted, and narrow-minded fanatics while guiding Scotland toward virtue, order, and enlightenment.’93 The Moderates sought to develop a polite clergy, and for the most part they were very successful in this endeavour. After the 1750s, ‘hell-anddamnation sermonizing steadily lost ground to polite, moral preaching. Free intellectual inquiry and religious tolerance became, with very few exceptions, the order of the day. In short, the Church of Scotland was transformed into a stronghold of “enlightened,” Moderate principles concerning manners, religion, literature, and virtually every other sphere of culture.’94 For the Moderates, polite learning was centrally important to the project of enlightenment ‘insofar as it contributed to the liberalization of manners and the decline of superstition, prejudice, and vice.’95 Hume was, of course, very supportive of the Moderates’ attempts to eradicate the hell-and-damnation enthusiasm from the kirk. And while he was never persuaded by religious doctrines, the Shaftesburian notions that ‘true religion had to withstand the test of free, polite discourse’ and that ‘comparison and toleration were the only foundations for rational belief’ were highly compatible with Humean methodology.

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Hume actually argued that polite discourse could work to mitigate the power of the priests. In ‘The Parties of Great Britain,’ he writes that ‘liberty of thinking and of expressing our thoughts, is always fatal to priestly power, and to those pious frauds, on which it is commonly founded.’96 Hume’s position on the relationship between politeness and the church sits somewhere in between those of Shaftesbury and the Moderates. Certainly, as part of his larger concern with fanaticism, Hume shared the Moderates’ distrust of Presbyterian democracy. On the other hand, he was no fan of priestly authority. For the masses, whom he deemed too vulgar to appreciate true philosophy, Hume could see the utility of religious ceremony.97 So in one sense, he did in fact feel that polite preaching could be conducive to helping people live moral lives. However, the polite preachers in the Moderate Party were still tying morality to religious doctrines in a manner that Hume deemed philosophically indefensible. So Hume believed that, while religious ceremony could give ‘place to order and decency’ among the masses,98 people at least in principle should also be able to appreciate the moral advantages of order and decency without the religious element. Hume did not fully agree with the Moderates on the nature of politeness, in that he viewed the concept as a means to temper enthusiasm as well as to promote the type of discursivity that could actually lead people to question religious dogma. In addition, he responded differently than did the Moderates to the generally held concern about the tendency of politeness to slide into empty ornament. Ornament was usually associated with courtliness. And, as Klein writes, ‘interaction and conversation at court were hopelessly distorted by the vectors of patronage, the need to please those in power or with access to it. The courtly game required the abandonment of directness, openness, and honesty in favor of pandering and flattering, the dominant forms of courtly interaction.’99 The Moderates, along with most polite gentlemen in the eighteenth century, tended to be especially suspicious of ornament. This suspicion led many to deride the tropes and figures of rhetoric. Hume, like Shaftesbury before him, dismissed courtly ornament as foppish. However, the courtier and the orator are fundamentally different characters. As Daniel Javitch writes, ‘a basic difference between the orator and the courtier in their use of ornament is that the former aims to captivate the largest possible audience while the latter seeks to exclude all but a privileged few.’100 Hume held a more nuanced view of

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ornament than did the Moderate preachers. He realized that, if applied judiciously, ornament could be polite. Politeness and Rhetoric Rhetoric and politeness were commonly seen as antithetical to each other in the eighteenth century. The figures, tropes, and flair of oratorical stylings seemed to clash with the gentlemanly virtues of simplicity and clarity. Yet classicism was also alive and well in eighteenth-century Britain. Adam Potkay argues that the ‘tension between a nostalgia for ancient eloquence and an emerging ideology of polite style defines both the literary and political discourses of mid-eighteenth-century Britain.’101 Hume certainly did struggle with this tension. However, he did not understand politeness and rhetoric to be completely incompatible. In fact, his conception of high rhetoric suggests ways in which ancient eloquence can be modernized through an infusion of eighteenth-century standards of politeness. The thrust of Potkay’s argument is that Hume ‘increasingly expressed his distrust of eloquence not in philosophic terms but rather in terms of the emerging discourse of manners and politeness. That is, he came to disapprove of eloquence not so much because it is deceptive or impolitic as because it is impolite.’102 What is missing from Potkay’s argument is Hume’s distinction between high and low rhetoric. Hume certainly thought low rhetoric – the rhetoric of the zealots – to be impolite. But this judgment is not inconsistent with his great esteem for high rhetoric. In his essay ‘Of Eloquence,’ Hume writes that ‘perhaps it may be acknowledged, that our modern customs, or our superior good sense, if you will, should make our orators more cautious and reserved than the ancient, in attempting to inflame the passions, or elevate the imagination of their audience: But, I see no reason, why it should make them despair absolutely of succeeding in that attempt.’103 Potkay concludes that ‘Hume’s attitude toward eloquence certainly expresses contradictions that a single ideology cannot quite manage’ because ‘it exhibits a certain complacency in the politeness of modern passion and administrative politics’ while also resonating ‘with a stirring, nostalgia, at once aesthetic and political, for the classical orator’s power to elicit moral sympathy and inflame a popular assembly.’104 However, politeness, as I have been arguing, was much more than an ethic of restraint. Polite moderation could serve as an antidote to the enthusiasm of the zealots. And Hume certainly advocated such moderation. However, his

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advocacy of moderation did not translate into a general distrust of rhetoric. It is inaccurate to suggest that Hume distrusted rhetoric because it is impolite. He distrusted impolite rhetoric. Hume is very clear in his writings that he did not believe rhetoric to be necessarily impolite. In fact, he praises the Greek orators for their politeness. In the History, Hume writes that ‘on the origin of letters among the Greeks, the genius of poets and orators, as might naturally be expected, was distinguished by an amiable simplicity, which, whatever rudeness may sometime attend it, is so fitted to express the genuine movements of nature and passion, that the compositions possessed of it must ever appear valuable to the discerning part of mankind.’105 Hume stresses the importance of simplicity repeatedly in his writings. He argues that in texts and orations containing what he calls ‘frivolous beauties . . . nature and good sense are neglected: Laboured ornaments studied and admired: And a total degeneracy of style and language prepares the way for barbarism and ignorance.’106 Simplicity is, however, only one aspect of eighteenth-century politeness. In other respects, Hume believed that ancient orators could be quite impolite. In ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ Hume argues that in the ancient republics the arts of writing and composition were brought nearer to perfection than were those of conversation. He writes that ‘the scurrility of the ancient orators, in many instances, is quite shocking, and exceeds all belief.’107 Even Cicero is subjected to Hume’s critique. Hume asserts that ‘among the ancients, there was not much delicacy of breeding, or that polite deference and respect, which civility obliges us either to express or counterfeit towards the persons with whom we converse. CICERO was certainly one of the finest gentlemen of his age; yet I must confess I have frequently been shocked with the poor figure under which he represents his friend ATTICUS, in those dialogues, where he himself is introduced as a speaker.’108 Hume’s critique of the Ancients is, therefore, also grounded in politeness. This time, however, he focuses on the criteria of deference and respect as opposed to simplicity. Hume is also critical of ancient orators for employing excessive figures in their orations. Potkay writes that what complicates the eighteenthcentury ‘ideal of classical eloquence is an ambivalence toward its actual style . . . A chief problem for any attempted revival of classical eloquence was the putative irrelevance of figures to the polite or enlightened mind.’109 This observation is undoubtedly accurate as a general statement of the values of eighteenth-century British gentlemen.

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However, as I will discuss in chapter 4, Hume understood the relationship between politeness and rhetorical figures very differently from his Scottish Enlightenment contemporaries. It is also worth noting – as Potkay himself does – that Hume added the remark, that ancient rhetoric could seem excessive, to his essay ‘Of Eloquence’ in 1768: ‘a year that witnessed the rise of Wilkite radicalism and Priestley’s early political tracts.’110 The Wilkes crisis in particular had a very significant impact on Hume.111 It reinforced his concerns about factionalism and fanaticism. It also affirmed his view that these concerns should be extended to include political as well as religious faction and fanaticism. So it should come as no surprise that Hume would warn of the dangers of impolite rhetoric in 1768. And though he critiqued aspects of ancient rhetoric for being impolite, for the most part he saw the ancient world as standing for ‘moderation, sociability, toleration, and civility – qualities that the thought of most Christians’ as well as political zealots lacked.112 Though ancient rhetoric was not always polite, Hume, unlike most of his contemporaries, recognized that politeness had many important affinities with classical rhetoric. As Klein writes, like classical rhetoric, modern politeness aimed at persuasion through the skillful use of formal means. Also like rhetoric, politeness assumed that all knowledge, insight, and expression arose in specific social and discursive situations. Thus, the fully realized polite gentleman combined learning and other virtues with the ability to deploy them skillfully as occasion demanded. More important, politeness could inspire an account of human life in which ethical and political possibilities were grounded in a recognition of their linguistic, historical, and cultural character.113

Politeness arose from the realm of conversation. However, ‘the arts of conversation’114 could be transposed to the rhetorical realm. It was a commonplace of the eighteenth century to apply the norms of politeness to literary productions. So applying the notion to rhetoric as well was not untoward. After all, the Moderates had applied the notion of politeness to preaching. Hume was simply applying it to non-religious rhetoric. Conclusion The impulse of improvement that is central to politeness is also central to Hume’s conception of rhetoric. Hume’s conception of high rhetoric

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suggests a means of combating the rhetoric of the zealots and leading people to improve their moral and political beliefs. The notion of politeness makes three major contributions to this project. First are the manners and decorum of politeness. These ensure that orations are respectful rather than bullish. In the world of conversation, this decorum manifests itself in the conversants’ willingness to cede the floor to one another. However, it would be a mistake to interpret this ‘mutual deference’115 as acquiescence. Hume defines it as ‘civility.’116 Another word would be respect. Politeness requires that conversants respect one another and that they not treat their conversation as a blood sport. In conversation, there should be no objective of winning. Rather, conversants should seek an open exchange of ideas for the sake of the exchange. The decorum of politeness translates into the realm of rhetoric as a respect for the individual reason and judgment of the audience members. In Hume’s conception of rhetoric, the orator appeals to these faculties in his audience rather than seeking to overpower them. A rhetorical setting does not allow for the reciprocity of a conversational setting. However, the orator can still respect his audience members. He does this through some of the techniques that I discussed in the previous chapter, including purposefully leaving to the audience the task of completing the argument and drawing out all of its implications. The polite orator is not a lecturer. Through rhetoric, the orator engages with the audience members. This engagement is closely related to the second contribution that the notion of politeness makes to Hume’s conception of high rhetoric, namely, sociability. In the realm of conversation, sociability is the capacity to sustain conversation with one’s interlocutors. In the realm of rhetoric, it translates as the capacity to stimulate and to contribute to larger societal conversations. While the orator may not be engaged in a reciprocal conversation with his audience members, his orations become the subject matter for their conversations, both with one another and with others. The virtue of simplicity increases the quotability of the orations, thus facilitating their dissemination throughout society. The capacity to sustain conversation is closely related to Hume’s experimental method. It belies the certainty of dogmatism and, instead, promotes the type of controlled uncertainty that is central to Hume’s epistemology. Hume argues that we can never have certainty in our beliefs about the causal relations that determine our world, but only greater and greater degrees of probability following from repeated

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experiments. Similarly, the capacity to sustain conversation allows for the development of a justifiably greater and greater trust in the merits of our political and moral judgments. When individuals engage in polite conversation, they hone their ability to sense the pleasures and pains of their interlocutors and, thus, enhance their capacity for sound moral judgment. Lastly, politeness introduces the generalist approach to learning into Hume’s conception of rhetoric. As mentioned earlier, this generalist approach, along with its rejection of pedantry and specialized learning, fits neatly with Hume’s empiricism. Both imply a sort of groundedness, a connection with everyday life. In the opening quotation of this chapter, Hume suggests that the groundedness of the gentlemen could help bring the systems theorists back down to earth. In the following chapter, we will see how Hume’s conception of the relationship between politeness and rhetoric set him apart from his contemporaries of the Scottish Enlightenment. For most of his contemporaries, passionate rhetoric and politeness were simply incompatible with each other. For Hume, the notion of politeness offered a means of modernizing ancient eloquence. As we will see, this union of politeness and rhetoric is one of the most novel aspects of Hume’s conception of high rhetoric.

4 Polite in His Own Way (Hume and the Scots)

These lines which I believe few understand are generally admired and I believe because few take the pains to consider the authors reall meaning or the significance of the severall expressions, but are astonished at the pompous sounding expression.1 Would that we could know what Hume’s response was to the only rhetorical theory that attempted to meld Hume’s rhetoric-friendly epistemology with the classical tradition!2

Hume’s conception of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric is not a set of strategies for different types of oratory. Rather, it is a conception of persuasive political speech. Drawing on the philosophy of the mind that he develops in the Treatise, Hume’s conception of high rhetoric describes a mode of communication through which an orator might convince people, without manipulating them, to pursue common goods and to make good political and moral judgments. It also offers a means through which interests might be opposed without generating factions and violent sects. In these senses, therefore, Hume’s conception of rhetoric already stands apart from the more classical lectures and published works on rhetoric that emerged as part of the Scottish Enlightenment. But the novelty of Hume’s conception of rhetoric runs deeper still. In particular, his conception of rhetoric stands apart from the lectures and theories of his Scottish contemporaries because of the ways in which it presents the relationship between rhetoric and politeness. The novelty of Hume’s conception of rhetoric is highlighted when his ideas are contrasted with those of Adam Smith, John Trenchard,3

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and George Campbell. Smith, Hume’s close friend, presented a view of rhetoric that can be taken as representative of the dominant polite position. Smith’s critique of figurative language, illustrated in the opening quotation of this chapter, is indicative of the generally accepted view on the use of rhetorical figures. John Trenchard’s treatment of rhetoric supplements Smith’s by articulating the same critique of rhetorical figures more explicitly in the context of political speech. Smith’s and Trenchard’s critiques of figures ground their respective understandings of manipulative rhetoric and are defined by the reliance of each on the possibility of distinguishing between rational and passionate persuasion. Hume did not allow for so clean a distinction and, as a consequence, developed a far more nuanced understanding of the difference between manipulative and non-manipulative rhetoric, one that is based in the processes of association through which the imagination operates. The distinction that Smith draws between persuasion and conviction – one with which Trenchard would certainly have agreed – winds up being highly problematic because it relies on an untenable distinction between rational and passionate persuasion. Hume’s account of the distinction between manipulative and nonmanipulative rhetoric shows it to be one of degree, not kind. Campbell, like Hume, rejected the possibility of cleanly demarcating the boundary separating rational from passionate persuasion. His Philosophy of Rhetoric is widely understood as a reconciliation of Hume’s philosophy of the mind with ancient rhetoric. The Philosophy of Rhetoric grounds the rhetoric of Quintilian and Cicero in the cognitive psychology developed by Hume. However, Campbell’s faith in revelation and his appeals to Common Sense philosophy undercut the discursivity of Hume’s polite rhetoric by artificially limiting the range of questions that can be asked. Hume is reported to have read Campbell’s book as he lay near death on his sickbed. However, he never publicly answered Arthur Walzer’s question about his reaction to the Philosophy of Rhetoric. Campbell’s philosophy of rhetoric draws heavily on Hume’s philosophy of the mind. In particular, both Campbell and Hume understood that the power of rhetoric lies in its capacity to make discourse resemble a sense impression. However, despite their similar conceptions of rhetoric, Hume would likely have been concerned that Campbell’s work marked the first step toward the spread of fanatical belief because of the inherent impoliteness of Common Sense and revelation. The comparisons with Adam Smith, John Trenchard, and George Campbell demonstrate the ways in which Hume’s reconciliation of rhetoric

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and politeness was truly unique in eighteenth-century Scotland. They also demonstrate the interconnectedness of the three components – accurate and just reasoning, rhetorical style, and politeness – of Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. The comparison with Trenchard and Smith illustrates the ways in which Hume’s reconciliation of politeness and rhetoric relies on his understanding of the relationship between reason and the passions. The comparison with Campbell illustrates why politeness can only be combined with a conception of accurate reasoning grounded in Hume’s sceptical epistemology. Adam Smith’s Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres Between 1748 and 1751, Adam Smith delivered a series of public lectures on rhetoric in Edinburgh.4 He continued to lecture on rhetoric after his appointment to the University of Glasgow as Professor of Logic and Rhetoric in 1751. Smith is useful as a contrast for Hume, for in many ways he originated the tradition of Scottish Enlightenment rhetorical instruction that includes such thinkers as Hugh Blair and George Campbell. Many of the eighteenth-century Scots, particularly in Edinburgh, were concerned about the quality of their English. Hume famously wrote that the Scots spoke a ‘very corrupt Dialect of the Tongue.’5 And his aversion to ‘Scotticisms’ is well documented. However, these stylistic concerns were not the primary motivating forces behind Hume’s conception of rhetoric. In contrast, Smith’s lectures on rhetoric were primarily concerned with questions of style. The Oxford-educated Smith was invited to Edinburgh to deliver a series of lectures on rhetoric that would contribute to a general improvement in quality of spoken and written English. As Ian Simpson Ross writes of Smith’s lectures, ‘one intention was to give the young professionals who attended his classes sufficient command of received standard English to allow them to share in the economic and other opportunities afforded by a Hanoverian British state and an empire run from London.’6 Smith published only two works during his lifetime: The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759) and An Inquiry Into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776). In the week before his death, Smith had his literary executors, Joseph Black and James Hutton, destroy all of his unpublished manuscripts. Among those manuscripts were unfinished works on jurisprudence and on rhetoric and belles lettres. The Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres that survive to this day are in fact a set of

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student notes from the lectures that Smith delivered at the University of Glasgow in 1762–3. Consequently, the Lectures lack the conceptual clarity of Smith’s published works. Nevertheless, though not written by his own hand, there are good reasons to believe that the Lectures are accurate presentations of Smith’s ideas. Principal among these is the consistency between the arguments presented in the Lectures and accounts of the lectures that Smith had delivered over a decade earlier in Edinburgh.7 In his lectures, Smith often tries to distance himself from the classical tradition of rhetorical instruction. He claims that ‘it is rather reverence for antiquity than any great regard for the Beauty of the thing itself which makes me mention the Ancient divisions of Rhetorick.’8 He also refers to systems of rhetoric that list divisions and subdivisions of figures as ‘a very silly set of Books’ that are ‘not at all instructive.’9 Here, Smith probably had in mind works such as Henry Peacham’s The Garden of Eloquence or John Hoskins’s Directions for Speech and Style. Despite his protestations to the contrary, however, Smith lectured on rhetoric in a way that fit quite neatly into the classical tradition of rhetorical instruction. Like other works in the field, Smith’s Lectures present effective rhetorical strategies for different situations. And though he supplements Aristotle’s categories of epideictic, forensic, and deliberative rhetoric, with a fourth category of didactic oratory, Smith works for the most part with the typology set out by Aristotle. Smith played a significant role in the eighteenth-century move to assimilate rhetoric into the study of belles lettres and the cultivation of aesthetic taste. He approached the study of rhetoric very much as we, today, approach the study of literature. Literature was important to Smith for demonstrating one of his central claims about proper style. He argues that ‘we in this country are most of us very sensible that the perfection of language is very different from that we commonly speak in. The idea we form of a good stile is almost conterary to that which we generally hear.’10 What, then, is perfection of style? Smith argues that Shaftesbury’s writings were only popular because Shaftesbury kept ‘at a vast distance from the language we commonly meet with.’11 But this is no good reason to emulate his writing style. Smith argues that Shaftesbury adopted a ‘pompous, grand and ornate stile’ because ‘he was of no great depth in Reasoning,’ and thus, was ‘glad to set off by the ornament of language what was deficient in matter.’12 In contrast to Shaftesbury, Smith presents Jonathan Swift, ‘who is the plainest as well as the most proper and precise of all English writers.’13 Smith’s central

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claim about style is that the Scots ought to emulate Swift rather than Shaftesbury. As Ross notes, quoting Thomas Sprat, ‘it is well known that the Royal Society advocated a “close, naked, natural way of speaking, positive expressions, clear senses, a native easiness, bringing all things as near the Mathematical plainness” as possible, and rejected all “amplifications, digressions, and swellings of style” (Sprat, [1667]1958). Smith taught exactly a New Rhetoric of this kind.’14 Although his lectures often focus on written English, Smith made it very clear that his lessons applied equally to spoken English.15 Smith’s overarching aim was to establish that ‘perfection of stile consists in Express in the most concise, proper and precise manner the thought of the author, and that in the manner which best conveys the sentiment, passion or affection with which it affects or pretends it does affect him and which he designs to communicate’ to his audience.16 This stylistic model grounds Smith’s critique of figurative speech and his general distrust of rhetoric. A key distinction in Smith’s lectures is that between instruction and persuasion. Smith argues that every discourse is intended either to ‘barely relate some fact, or to prove some proposition.’ The first is accomplished through narrative discourse. The latter, however, is the foundation of two Sorts of Discourse: The Didactick and the Rhetoricall. The former proposes to put before us the arguments on both sides of the question in their true light, giving each its proper degree of influence, and has in its view to perswade no farther than the arguments themselves appear convincing. The Rhetoricall again endeavours by all means to perswade us; and for this purpose it magnifies all the arguments on the one side and diminishes or conceals those that might be brought on the side conterary to that which it is designed that we should favour. Persuasion which is the primary design in the Rhetoricall is but the secondary design in the Didactick. It endeavours to persuade us only so far as the strength of the arguments is convincing, instruction is the main End. In the other Persuasion is the main design and Instruction is considered only so far as it is subservient to perswasion, and no farther.17

Smith is a champion of didactic discourse and goes to great lengths to denigrate what he calls rhetorical discourse. Rhetoric, for Smith, is equivalent to dishonest argumentation. Rhetorical persuasion, in his model, is tantamount to manipulation.18

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At first glance, the distinction that Smith draws between the didactic and the rhetorical styles appears to parallel Hume’s distinction between high and low rhetoric. And in many ways, the parallel holds. The deceitfulness of Smith’s ‘rhetoricall style’ is clearly also a feature of the ‘cant and low rhetoric’ that Hume ascribes to the fanatics.19 And just as Hume’s conception of high rhetoric appeals to the judgment of the audience members, Smith’s didactic discourse is meant to ‘persuade us no farther than our unbiased judgement is Convinced.’20 However, a fundamental difference exists between the distinctions drawn by the two friends. Hume argues that all rhetoric appeals to the same processes of the mind. Smith, on the other hand, distinguishes reasoned from passionate appeals and contrasts the manipulation of rhetoric with a highly rational model of argumentation. He argues that ‘an orator or didactick writer has two parts to his work: in the one he lays down his proposition and in the other he brings his proof of that proposition.’21 Communicating Ideas and Passions: Reason and Sympathy One key to understanding this point of disagreement between Smith and Hume lies in the relationships that each draws between reason and sympathy. Both authors have in mind to address the same problem: how to distinguish between manipulative and non-manipulative oratory. Both also consider sympathy as the means through which sentiments are communicated and as the essential mechanism of moral judgment. However, while Hume’s treatment of sympathy exposes the ways in which reasoned judgments are in fact based in sentiment, Smith argues that a conscious process of the mind that closely resembles a model of reason must regulate the communication of sentiments through sympathy. Smith is, thus, able to set up a clean distinction between reasoned and passionate appeals, a distinction that Hume explicitly disallows. From this difference flow the differences in Smith’s and Hume’s respective discussions of manipulation, rhetorical figures, and the relationship between politeness and rhetoric. Sympathy is, of course, one of the primary means through which orators communicate with their audiences. It is through sympathy that, according to Hume, a great orator will ‘inflame the passions, or elevate the imagination of the audience.’22 According to Smith, ‘when the sentiment of the speaker is expressed in a neat, clear, plain and clever manner, and the passion or affection he is possed of and intends, by sympathy, to communicate to his hearer, is plainly and cleverly hit off,

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then and then only the expression has all the force and beauty that language can give it.’23 In the Treatise, Hume famously makes sympathy the basis for his model of moral judgment. He argues that the ‘propensity we have to sympathize with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and sentiments,’ is the most remarkable quality of human nature.24 Through sympathy, Hume argues, we actually come to experience the passion that another experiences. ‘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 convey an idea of it. The 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.’25 The transition from idea to impression is achieved through the relations of contiguity and resemblance, or causation. Our proximity to the person experiencing the passion in question combines with the resemblance26 we share as fellow human beings to ‘convey the impression or consciousness of our own person to the idea of the sentiments or passions’ of that person.27 Smith’s conception of sympathy is markedly different from Hume’s, though he does share Hume’s assessment of the importance of sympathy. According to Smith, sympathy is ‘our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever.’28 He argues that if you have no fellow-feeling for the misfortunes I have met with, or none that bears any proportion to the grief which distracts me; or if you have either no indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or none that bears any proportion to the resentment which transports me, we can no longer converse upon these subjects. We become intolerable to one another. I can neither support your company, nor you mine.29

Both Smith and Hume see sympathy as key to sociability. The crucial difference is that for Hume it is our own situation as a human being that allows us to sympathize with the passions of others, whereas for Smith it is only by putting ourselves into the situation of another that we can come to experience his or her passions. Smith views sympathy as a means through which we experience the passions that others feel or should feel. According to Hume, we sympathize with the passions of others by feeling them as our own. This difference explains why Smith understands sympathy to be a conscious process while Hume conceives

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it as a process that appears instantaneous to anyone who reflects upon it with less than the ‘strict scrutiny of a philosopher.’30 Hume does acknowledge that sympathizing with the sentiments of others requires effort.31 But Smith evidently believed that the effort required was much greater. In fact, he argues that the effort required to sympathize accurately with the passions or sentiments of another leads most people to base their everyday moral judgments on a conditional type of sympathy based upon ‘the general rules derived from our preceding experience of what our sentiments would commonly correspond with.’32 Sympathy, for Smith, requires that we step outside our own condition and assume the role of the impartial spectator. It is necessary that we adopt this impartial perspective because sympathy ‘does not arise so much from the view of the passion as from the situation which excites it.’33 From the position of the spectator, we place ourselves in the situation of the person with whom we sympathize and, through a conscious act of the imagination, become aware of the passion that we would feel under those circumstances. Often, this passion is the same as that experienced by the other person. However, Smith’s model of sympathy further differs from Hume’s because it allows that ‘we sometimes feel for another, a passion of which he himself seems to be altogether incapable; because, when we put ourselves in his case, that passion arises in our breast from the imagination, though it does not in his from the reality.’34 Smith gives several examples to support this claim. Most famous among them is his argument that we can sympathize with the dead. Smith writes that ‘if the injured should perish in the quarrel, we not only sympathize with the real resentment of his friends and relations, but with the imaginary resentment which in fancy we lend to the dead, who is no longer capable of feeling that or any other human sentiment.’35 Through sympathy, we judge the sentiments of others. Smith argues that a person’s sentiments are proper or improper insofar as ‘a reasonable man is ready to adopt and sympathize’ with them after having considered the whole situation that gave rise to those sentiments from the perspective of the impartial spectator.36 The imaginative effort required for sympathy, in Smith’s model, creates an onus on individuals to moderate their passions in order to facilitate the spectator’s attempt to enter into them. Smith’s model of sympathy also establishes a connection between passions and reason in which the impartial spectator is the ‘reasonable man.’ Charles L. Griswold, Jr, argues that Smith’s conception of reasonableness ought not to be confused with philosophical rationality.

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He writes that Smith’s reasonable man ‘is the person of reflective and informed imagination and appropriately engaged emotions, suitably detached from the actor so as to allow perspective.’37 While Griswold is undoubtedly correct in asserting that Smith’s ‘reasonable man’ is not exercising philosophical rationality, Smith differs significantly from Hume in that he conceives sympathy as a deliberate process.38 Neither Smith’s notion that sympathy is a deliberate process nor his requirement that people moderate their passions to facilitate the job of the spectator is present in Hume’s model of sympathy. In fact, Hume argues that it is the liveliness and vivacity of the idea of a passion that facilitates its transformation, through sympathy, into an impression. The livelier is our idea of that passion, the easier will be its transformation into an impression that we can feel as our own. And as to the relationship between sympathy and the understanding, Hume writes that what is principally remarkable in this whole affair is the strong confirmation these phænomena give to the foregoing system concerning the understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning the passions; since these are analogous to each other. ’Tis indeed evident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments of others, these movements appear at first in our mind as mere ideas, and are conceiv’d to belong to another person, as we conceive any other matter of fact. ’Tis also evident, that the ideas of the affections of others are converted into the very impressions they represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we form of them.39

In other words, the understanding functions in much the same way as the seemingly ‘immediate’ process of sympathy. The comparison of Hume’s and Smith’s treatments of sympathy and reason points us toward the ways in which the two thinkers conceived differently the distinction between legitimate persuasion and manipulation. For Smith, legitimate persuasion, or instruction, requires that the audience members deliberate actively on the relative strengths of arguments on all sides of an issue. Once they have submitted the evidence to rigorous scrutiny, they actually persuade themselves of the merits of an argument. Persuasion arising from anything short of this active individual process is, for Smith, manipulative. For Hume, on the other hand, judgment, or the process of arriving at conviction, is a far less active process. He writes that in our judgments concerning cause and effect, ‘our imagination passes from the first to the second, by a natural

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transition, which precedes reflection, and which cannot be prevented by it.’40 The imagination naturally combines and arranges ideas. And it is custom, habit, education, and rhetoric that imbue ideas with the force and vivacity of an impression and thereby produce the feeling in the mind that is belief. For Hume, we can certainly reflect upon our mind’s transitions between ideas and impressions. However, because he views reasoning as a sentimental process, Hume does not allow for as clear a distinction between passionate and reasoned appeals as Smith does. The difference is one of degree, not of kind. However, it holds great importance for understanding Hume’s conception of rhetoric. Impropriety and Burlesque: Hume’s and Smith’s Critiques of Rhetorical Figures We are now in a position to understand the differences between Smith’s and Hume’s positions on the use of rhetorical figures in oratory. Smith argues that the use of figures, such as metaphors and allegories, often leads one into ‘a dungeon of metaphorical obscurity.’41 And those who are guilty of misusing figures – Smith singles out Shakespeare in this regard – are carried into either burlesque or bombast.42 It might seem a bit odd that a man most renowned for his ‘invisible hand’ was responsible for articulating the protracted critique of figures that appears in the Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres.43 Smith does allow that figures can contribute to the beauty of language when they are ‘just and naturall forms of Expressing’ the sentiment the author intends to convey.44 But for the most part, he argues that ‘the most beautiful passages are generally the most simple’ and that ‘very often the figures seem to diminish rather than add to the beauty of an excellent passage.’45 Smith argues that ‘figures of speech give no beauty to stile: it is when the expression is agreeable to the sense of the speaker and his affection that we admire it.’46 For this reason, Smith announces himself to be a proponent of the style of eloquence that was held in the ‘greatest esteem’ in eighteenthcentury Britain, namely, ‘a plain, distinct, and perspicuous Stile without any of the Floridity or other ornamentall parts of the Old Eloquence.’47 This style can be understood as that of Swift rather than Shaftesbury. As I discussed in chapter 2, Hume also argues that figures can disfigure compositions. He writes that ‘uncommon expressions, strong flashes of wit, pointed similies, and epigrammatic turns, especially when they recur too frequently, are a disfigurement, rather than any embellishment of discourse.’48 And in a 1743 letter to William Mure of

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Caldwell, Hume writes that most figures of rhetoric have ‘an evident Impropriety’ in them.49 Notwithstanding these similarities with Smith’s arguments, however, Hume’s position on the use of figures is markedly different. Smith implies that rhetorical figures appeal to the mind in a different and more powerful way than do reasoned arguments and, therefore, overwhelm our reason. Hume, on the other hand, argues that figures appeal to the mind in the same way as do other kinds of ideas. From his perspective, it is therefore impossible for figurative rhetoric to overwhelm reason. Of course, this is not to say that, from Hume’s perspective, rhetoric cannot be manipulative. But where Smith draws the distinction between the persuasion of rhetoric and the conviction brought about by didactic oratory, Hume draws a distinction between manipulative and persuasive rhetoric. Hume’s distinction is more nuanced than Smith’s. But as we will see, it ultimately identifies a more meaningful difference. If Hume is right in his contention that reasoning is a sentimental process, then Smith’s distinction between the persuasion of didactic oratory and the manipulation of rhetoric misses the mark. To better understand the difference between Hume’s and Smith’s positions on the possible manipulative effects of rhetorical figures in political oratory, it is useful to look at an intermediate position that was well known in eighteenth-century Britain. Cato’s Letters is a series of letters that John Trenchard and Thomas Gordon wrote to the London Journal between 1720 and 1723.50 In the works of both Smith and Hume, we hear echoes of Trenchard’s and Gordon’s ideas.51 The letters ‘Of Eloquence, Considered Politically’ and ‘Of Eloquence, Considered Philosophically’ are particularly useful for our current inquiry because they illustrate how Smith’s critique of rhetorical figures is applied in the context of political rhetoric. By comparing Smith’s and Trenchard’s critiques of figures with Hume’s position in the context of political oratory, we achieve a more useful comparison that better helps us understand Hume. It is worth noting that Trenchard begins his treatment of rhetoric by considering its political uses and abuses. In this regard, the treatment of rhetoric in Cato’s Letters mirrors Hume’s treatment of the subject and stands in contrast to Smith’s lectures, which assimilate the study of rhetoric to the study of literature. Trenchard’s concerns are, principally, political. The examples he draws on are Cicero, Pericles, Themistocles, Thucydides, Xenophon, Alcibiades, Sulla, Pompey, Caesar, Cato, Brutus,

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Mark Anthony, and others. And when he writes of the effects of manipulative rhetoric, we know he is referring to real political consequences. In ‘Of Eloquence, Considered Politically,’ Trenchard writes that if we enquire into the use and purposes of eloquence, and into the good and evil which it has done, we must distinguish between eloquence and eloquence. That which consists of good sense, put into words, is everywhere useful and commendable: But as to that which consists of fine figures and beautiful sounds, artfully and warmly applied to the passions, and may disguise and banish sense, embellish falsehood as well as truth, and recommend virtue as well as vice; it has done some good, and infinite mischief. It is the art of flattering and deceiving, as one of the ancients calls it: It fills the mind with false ideas; and, by raising a tempest in the heart, misleads the judgment: It confounds good and evil, by throwing false colours over them; and deceives men with their own approbation: And it has in many instances unsettled all good order, and thrown flourishing states into pangs and desolation.52

Trenchard’s distinction between ‘eloquence and eloquence’ seeks to get at the same difference as does Smith’s distinction between didactic and rhetorical compositions and Hume’s distinction between high and low rhetoric. However, by distinguishing ‘good sense’ from rhetorical devices ‘applied to the passions,’ Trenchard presents the opposition in terms that fit closely with Smith’s treatment of rhetoric, but that are incompatible with Hume’s philosophy of mind. Trenchard supplements his discussion of the distinction between ‘eloquence and eloquence’ in his second essay, ‘Of Eloquence, Considered Philosophically.’ Therein, he explains how figures can be employed to appeal to the passions, ‘heat’ the brain, and overwhelm reason. He writes that the fancy when once it is heated, quickly improves the first spark into a flame; which being an assemblage of strong and glowing images, is, while it lasts, the strongest motion, and consequently the greatest power, in a man; for all animal power is motion. And when a man has thus got a fire in his head, his reason, which is the gradual and deliberative weighing of things, and the cool comparing of one inward pulse with another, must shift its quarters till his brains grow cool again.53

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The view of reason that emerges in this letter is one of a confined and deliberative faculty. Reason operates within a limited sphere. The problem with rhetorical figures is that they inflame the mind and draw it outside of that limited sphere into a realm of thought that is wide open and that lacks the structure of reason. Figures lift the mind into the realm of flights of fancy. This view of the effect that figures have on the mind is very much in keeping with Smith’s view. In his lectures, Smith argues that proofs can be of two types. They can be either ‘a strict one applyed to our reason and sound judgment, or one adapted to affect our passions and by that means persuade us.’54 Hume, however, could not have accepted this view. Appeals to the passions and to judgment cannot be so easily distinguished. In Hume’s system, ‘assistance is mutual betwixt the judgment and fancy, as well as betwixt the judgment and passion.’55 Hume writes that human nature being compos’d of two principal parts, which are requisite in all its actions, the affections and understanding; ’tis certain, that the blind motions of the former, without the direction of the latter, incapacitate men for society: And it may be allow’d us to consider separately the effects, that result from the separate operations of these two component parts of the mind. The same liberty may be permitted to moral, which is allow’d to natural philosophers; and ’tis very usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and consisting of two parts separate from each other, tho’ at the same time they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable.56

Hume, therefore, rejects the notion that manipulative rhetoric can be accounted for as merely rhetoric that overwhelms reason by appealing solely to the passions. The difference between Hume’s position and that of Smith and Trenchard becomes even clearer when we look at their respective views on credulity. Smith argues that it is the ignorance of a ‘rude and ignorant people’ that renders them credulous.57 In other words, credulity is mitigated by education. For Hume, on the other hand, credulity is a much more inherent feature of human nature. It is related less to a lack of good information, and more to the very process through which we make judgments, specifically to the effect of resemblance on the mind.58 Smith’s model of didactic oratory aims at instructing the audience and thereby alleviating its members’ credulity. Smith believes that by

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presenting the audience with all relevant facts, one can ensure that its members will reach sound conclusions. For Hume, however, a full presentation of the relevant facts is unlikely – because we are rarely aware of all the causes affecting a particular outcome – as well as unlikely to alleviate the audience members’ credulity. Smith and Trenchard’s position assumes that, once we have all the ‘facts’ in front of us, we have some impartial and effective means of judging them. This gauge is reason. For Hume, the gauge would be experience. But as he so often reminds us, ‘we seldom regulate ourselves entirely by it; but have a remarkable propensity to believe whatever is reported, even concerning apparitions, enchantments, and prodigies, however contrary to daily experience and observation.’59 Hume certainly considered apparitions and enchantments to be unlikely, yet he did not entirely discount their possibility. For him, the mind has an almost unlimited capacity to combine and arrange ideas. In the Lectures, Smith critiques Joseph Addison’s praise for Ovid’s Metamorphoses, arguing that ‘for my part, when I see Tithonus in a picture with the wings and legs of a grasshopper, I feel no pleasure at seeing such an unnaturall and inconceivable object.’60 In contrast, Hume argues that nothing we can conceive in our minds can be shown to be impossible. In the Treatise, he writes that there can be no demonstrative arguments to prove, that those instances, of which we have had no experience, resemble those, of which we have had experience. We can at least conceive of a change in the course of nature; which sufficiently proves, that such a change is not absolutely impossible. To form a clear idea of any thing, is an undeniable argument for its possibility, and is alone a refutation of any pretended demonstration against it.61

Reason, as Hume understands it, is not the cool, deliberative faculty that Smith and Trenchard describe. But he still believes that rhetorical figures can be used to impede judgment. He writes that ‘eloquence, when at its highest pitch, leaves little room for reason or reflection; but addressing itself entirely to the fancy or the affections, captivates the willing hearers, and subdues their understanding.’62 What is important to note is that, for Hume, rhetorical figures subdue or limit the power of reason. This is a stark contrast to the pictures painted by both Smith and Trenchard, in which figures push the mind beyond the bounds of reason. Both models point to the mind reaching unsound conclusions. But in Trenchard and Smith’s model, the mind reaches unsound

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conclusions by operating outside the bounds of reason. In Hume’s model, the mind reaches unsound conclusions when its power of reason is hindered or not fully exercised. For Hume, a principal problem with rhetorical figures is the way they can mislead by artificially limiting the scope and reach of reason. In a passage from the Treatise that I discussed in chapter 2, Hume points to this capacity of rhetorical figures: ‘Let us consider on the one hand what divines have display’d with such eloquence concerning the importance of eternity; and at the same time reflect, that tho’ in matters of rhetoric we ought to lay our account with some exaggeration, we must in this case allow, that the strongest figures are infinitely inferior to the subject.’63 The problem with religious rhetoric, then, is that it understates the scope of eternity. The audience’s judgment is therefore misled, because the divines’ rhetoric has artificially limited the scope and range of the ideas for their imaginations to associate. Returning to Hume’s letter to William Mure, we find him making a similar argument. Only this time, his concern is with the effects of figures on the speaker. Hume writes that ‘the Addressing of our virtuous Wishes & Desires to the Deity, since the Address has no Influence on him, is only a kind of rhetorical Figure, in order to render these Wishes more ardent and Passionate.’64 The impropriety in this figure arises from the fact that ‘we can make use of no Expression or even Thought, in Prayers & Entreaties, which does not imply that these Prayers have an Influence.’65 The constant use of prayer only encourages people to believe that they are having a direct influence on God. Therefore, Hume argues that the figures of prayer lead ‘directly & even unavoidably to Impiety & Blasphemy.’66 The vivacity and liveliness of these figures does not lead the imagination directly to an erroneous conclusion. Rather, individuals assent to the ideas conveyed in the figures because they are so vivid, and in so doing, limit the scope of their imagination’s capacity to associate other ideas and impressions. This limitation, in turn, causes the individuals to believe in a causal relationship that is not supported by the experimental method. Hume’s understanding of the impact that rhetorical figures can have on the imagination is explained by the fact that his conception of reason is far richer and far more nuanced than Trenchard’s ‘gradual and deliberative weighing of things.’67 Hume divides reason into three types according to the different types of evidence involved. He distinguishes reason ‘from knowledge, from proofs, and from probabilities. By knowledge, I mean the assurance arising from the comparison of ideas. By

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proofs, those arguments, which are deriv’d from the relation of cause and effect, and which are entirely free from doubt and uncertainty. By probability, that evidence, which is still attended with uncertainty.’68 Because the political and moral subjects of rhetorical discourse do not admit of the certainty of the first type of reason, Hume understands rhetoric to be entirely concerned with the second and third: from proofs and from probabilities. This third species of reason is, in turn, divided into two types: ‘that which is founded on chance, and that which arises from probabilities.’69 For Hume, chance is merely the absence of a cause. He argues, therefore, that no single chance can be greater than another and that, consequently, there ‘must always be a mixture of causes among the chances, in order to be the foundation of any reasoning.’70 So, for Hume, reasoning from probabilities and reasoning from proofs are actually two points on the same continuum. The difference between the two amounts only to the degree of certainty we have in the associations of ideas and impressions about which we reason. Proofs entail a higher degree of assurance than do probabilities. The degree of certainty attributed to each should properly arise from the uniformity and extent of our past experiences. Uniformity of experience is, however, a rare occurrence in political and moral matters for the simple reason that events in the real world rarely have but a single cause. According to Hume, the vulgar often account for this lack of uniformity by attributing an inconsistency to the cause. In other words, faced with a series of inconsistent events, they most often abandon the principle of causality rather than inquire further into the possible causes of the inconsistency. Philosophers, on the other hand, ‘observing, that almost in every part of nature there is contain’d a vast variety of springs and principles, which are hid, by reason of their minuteness or remoteness, find that ’tis at least possible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency in the cause, but from the secret operation of contrary causes.’71 Associating all of these various causes and effects requires that the imagination be free from artificial constraint. Rhetorical figures appeal to the imagination because of the vivacity and liveliness of the ideas they convey. But this liveliness, this appeal to the sentiments, does not draw the audience members’ imagination beyond the bounds of reason. Rather, if an orator uses a figure inappropriately – such as was the case with the divines speaking about eternity – it can limit the scope of the audience’s imagination. In believing the association of ideas and

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impressions conveyed in such a figure, the audience members place barriers in their mind that limit the range of causes and effects that their imagination can associate. It is easy to see how the practical consequences of this limitation might appear to some as the mind being pushed outside the bounds of reason. Audience members who had been affected by such a rhetorical figure might, for example, hold a particular view with far more assurance than their experience warranted. Audience members who had been manipulated with rhetorical figures might ignore Hume’s seemingly obvious maxim that ‘there is no probability so great as not to allow of a contrary possibility.’72 The practical result would be to collapse the distinction between reason from proofs and reason from probabilities. Audience members would assign to probabilities the assurance that should be reserved for proofs and thus be led to adopt unsound positions. For Smith and Trenchard, rhetorical figures are misleading when they lead the audience members to wrong or unsound conclusions. For Hume, figures mislead when they misrepresent the scale of options from which the audience members can identify causal relations. In religious and political rhetoric, figures are often used to boil moral or political options down to strict dichotomies: black or white, virtue or sin, right or wrong. The central problem Hume identifies with these sorts of rhetorical figures is not so much that they produce wrong answers as that they present wrong, or incomplete, choices. All three thinkers – Hume, Smith, and Trenchard – address the possibility that rhetorical figures will somehow be used in manipulative ways. Smith and Trenchard respond by calling for individual judgment to be given precedence over the passions or the affections. We see this response in Smith’s model of didactic oratory as well as in Trenchard’s advocacy of ‘good sense, put into words.’73 From the Humean perspective, however, Smith’s and Trenchard’s responses are based on an incomplete understanding of cognitive psychology. One of Hume’s major contributions to the study of rhetoric is his understanding that the process Smith and Trenchard understand as figures overwhelming judgment is, in fact, simply the process through which the understanding functions. Lively ideas and strong impressions are not, in and of themselves, antithetical to close reasoning. On the contrary, they form the basis of all close reasoning. Therefore, Smith’s distinction between persuasion and conviction collapses. Hume succeeds in drawing a more useful distinction between manipulative and non-manipulative

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rhetoric because his demonstration of the ways in which figures can be used manipulatively links figures directly to the principles of association through which the imagination functions. According to Hume, a manipulative use of figures is one that hinders the mind’s capacity to reason by artificially limiting the options it has for associating ideas and impressions. For example, a manipulative orator might use powerful figurative language to associate a particular choice with virtue and vice or good and evil, thus rendering it a dichotomous choice between two options when in fact many other options might be possible. In this case, the orator would manipulate his audience by limiting their range of options to two and then powerfully associating one with vice or evil, thus leaving the audience with only one option and effectively removing their power of choice. The following comparison of Smith’s and Hume’s treatments of the relationship between politeness and rhetorical figures further illustrates how the view that non-manipulative rhetoric consists simply in a strict appeal to reason is ultimately untenable. The Meaning of Moderation: Rhetorical Figures and Politeness Hume’s conception of rhetoric is really set apart from those of Smith and his other contemporaries by the differences separating their respective understandings of the relationship between politeness and rhetoric. Polite behaviour, Smith argues, is ‘calm, composed, unpassionate serenity noways ruffled by passion.’74 Certainly, Smith understood that English politeness was not a universal standard. He distinguished the French from the English by arguing that a ‘Frenchman in telling a story that was not of the least consequence to him or any one else will use 1000 gestures and contortions of his face, whereas a well bread Englishman will tell you one wherein his life and fortune are concerned without altering a muscle in his face.’75 It is clear that Smith believed polite English behaviour to be superior to that of other countries’ citizens: The Spaniards notion of Politeness is a Majestick Proud and overbearing philosophic Gravity. A Frenchman again places it in an easy gaity, affableness and Sensibility. Politeness again in England consists in Composure, calm and unruffled behaviour. The most Polite persons are those only who go to the Operas and any emotion there would be altogether indecent. And we see that when the same persons go out of frolick to a Beargarden or such like ungentlemanny entertainment they preserve the same

98 The Politics of Eloquence composure as before the Opera, while the Rabble about express all the various passions by their gesture and behaviour.76

Understood in this way, politeness has absolutely no affinities with the rhetorical figures that Hume thought capable of representing objects ‘in their strongest and most lively colours.’ 77 Smith actually associates the use of figures with ‘the lowest and most vulgar conversation.’78 But Hume’s conception of politeness was fundamentally different from Smith’s, as he articulated it in the Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres. Smith, it should be remembered, was operating with the objective of helping Scots improve their chances of success in Hanoverian England. In the Theory of Moral Sentiments, he argues that politeness is so much the virtue of the great, that it will do little honour to any body but themselves. The coxcomb, who imitates their manner, and affects to be eminent by the superior propriety of his ordinary behaviour, is rewarded with a double share of contempt for his folly and presumption. Why should the man, whom nobody thinks it worth while to look at, be very anxious about the manner in which he holds up his head, or disposes of his arms while he walks through a room?79

As we saw in the previous chapter, Hume was far less concerned with the ‘eminence’ of polite individuals. In fact, he used the concept of politeness to make distinctions within the gentry and the professional classes on the basis of proper behaviour. The behaviour that Hume was most concerned with pertained directly to communication, as is evidenced by his definition of politeness as ‘the arts of conversation.’80 Smith too was concerned with communication. But as we have seen, his discussion of oratory contrasts with Hume’s in that Smith suggests that the communication of ideas can be neatly divorced from the communication of passions. This difference, combined with the difference between Hume’s and Smith’s respective conceptions of sympathy, helps explain why the two thinkers understood differently the relationship between rhetoric and politeness. For Smith, the polite individual is one of moderated passions. In his moral theory, Smith argues that we are under a moral obligation to moderate our passions because doing so facilitates the spectator’s attempts to enter into them.81 This argument reappears in Smith’s Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres where he argues that a wise man will ‘regulate his naturall temper, restrain within just bounds and lop

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all exhuberances and bring it to that pitch which will be agreeable to those about him.’82 The spectator is unable to enter into more forceful passions because ‘mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree of passion which naturally animates the person principally concerned.’83 There is, therefore, a direct connection between Smith’s conception of polite, dispassionate behaviour and his moral theory. Because he understands there to be a split between reasoned and passionate appeals, Smith presents polite oratory as dispassionate reasoned argument. The dispassionate character of the orator facilitates the communication, through sympathy, of his passions to the audience. The reasoned appeal of his oration appeals to the reason, as opposed to the passions, of the audience members. Smith thus differentiates between ‘plain downright strong arguments’ and ‘ornamentall and what are called oratorical expressions.’84 Smith’s conception of the relationship between politeness and rhetoric was widely accepted in eighteenth-century Britain. It no doubt accounted for some of Hume’s reticence at being seen to champion passionate rhetoric. Hume certainly understood moderation to be a fundamental feature of polite oratory. But he did not insist on the dispassionate character of the orator to the extent that Smith did because he did not distinguish between reason and the passions as cleanly as Smith did and because he did not consider moderation of the passions essential for sympathy. In fact, according to Hume, the sentiments must play a role in the calm and reasonable moderation of the polite individual because reason is a sentimental process. We can see, therefore, that Hume and Smith did not use the term moderation in precisely the same way. For Smith, moderation referred to a stoic-type control of one’s passions. For Hume, it referred to a condition in which the calm passions are the principal motivators of action. Contrary to what the name might suggest, calm passions are not necessarily weak passions. Hume writes that ‘’tis evident passions influence not the will in proportion to their violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper; but on the contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled principle of action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul, it commonly produces no longer any sensible agitation.’85 The predominance of the calm passions might give the outward appearance of the dispassionate politeness described by Smith. However, the crucial difference is that Hume’s conception of moderation is not dispassionate. This crucial difference further helps us understand why Hume’s distinction between manipulative and non-manipulative

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rhetoric identifies a more useful difference than does Smith’s distinction between instruction and persuasion. Whereas Hume identifies different ways in which orators appeal to the passions, his account of judgment shows us why Smith’s distinction between appeals to the passions and appeals to reason cannot be sustained. As we have seen, Hume worried that rhetorical figures could be used to limit the reasoning power of the audience by enlivening, and thus causing the audience members to assent to, artificial limits on the range of ideas and impressions that their imagination could associate. But Hume also had another concern about lively ideas. This concern emerges in Hume’s discussion of madness where he writes that as a lively imagination very often degenerates into madness or folly, and bears it a great resemblance in its operations; so they influence the judgment after the same manner, and produce belief from the very same principles. When the imagination, from any extraordinary ferment of the blood and spirits, acquires such a vivacity as disorders all its powers and faculties, there is no means of distinguishing betwixt truth and falsehood; but every loose fiction or idea, having the same influence as the impressions of the memory, or the conclusions of the judgment, is receiv’d on the same footing, and operates with equal force on the passions. A present impression and a customary transition are now no longer necessary to enliven our ideas. Every chimera of the brain is as vivid and intense as any of those inferences, which we formerly dignify’d with the name of conclusions concerning matters of fact, and sometimes as the present impressions of the senses.86

Beliefs consist in the vivacity or liveliness of ideas. We distinguish them from fictions of the imagination purely through a feeling in the mind. If ideas come to be enlivened at random, or if they all come to share the same vivacity, the mind loses its capacity to judge. Hume argues that this effect of madness can also be, to a lesser extent, an effect of eloquence. Eloquence has the power to enliven ideas and so replace experience in the process of belief formation. And it can be used, as it is by zealots and fanatics, to enliven ideas that are not grounded in experience or that place limitations on the range of ideas and impressions that the mind can associate. In this sense, it can be used to enliven ideas at ‘random.’ And the ideas propounded by the zealots can be thought to produce a type of madness. The word is certainly not too strong to describe Hume’s perception of fanaticism.

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The madness induced by some fanatical rhetoric further explains why Hume’s conception of accurate and just reason is an essential component of his accurate, just, and polite rhetoric. Hume’s is not, however, a conception of reason divorced from passion. What Smith and Trenchard miss is the fact that both manipulative and non-manipulative rhetoric appeal to the imagination in the same way. In the case of manipulative rhetoric, the audience members assent to ideas that are unsound because the orator enlivens those ideas to counterfeit the feeling of ideas that have been enlivened by experience. With no sound basis in experience, these lively ideas impact the mind as a sort of madness. However, the fact that orators use appeals to the passions manipulatively does not mean that manipulative rhetoric can be defined solely in terms of appeals to the passions. In the end, Smith’s distinction between the instruction that appeals to reason and the persuasion that appeals to the passions misses the mark. If reasoned and passionate appeals are both sentimental processes and, thus, cannot be cleanly divorced from each other, then Smith’s distinction between persuasion and instruction collapses. Hume’s distinction much more accurately pinpoints the difference that Smith is trying to identify because it does not rest on a specious distinction between reason and the passions. Smith does not seem to have agreed with the full set of implications that Hume’s conception of lively ideas has for discussions of rhetoric. The Scottish thinker who did grasp the full rhetorical implications of Hume’s discussions of lively ideas was George Campbell. And it is to him that we now turn. A Half-Hearted Humean: George Campbell and his Philosophy of Rhetoric George Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric (1776) is one of the most important works on rhetoric to emerge from the Scottish Enlightenment. For our purposes, what is most significant about the work is the ways in which it is grounded in Hume’s cognitive psychology. Unlike Smith and Trenchard, Campbell did not try to disassociate appeals to reason from appeals to the passions. He adopted the cognitive psychology that Hume lays out in the Treatise as the basis for his discussions of persuasion. With one major exception, Campbell’s work details a Humean conception of rhetoric. The significant difference between the two thinkers arises from that fact that, unlike Hume, Campbell was a clergyman. He could not,

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therefore, accept the full implications of Hume’s philosophy, particularly in regard to revelations. Campbell could accept Hume’s challenge to the primacy of reason over passion. However, he ‘would have placed Revelation above reason as the basis for value, and faith above reason as the arbiter of beliefs.’87 Therefore, he could not accept Hume’s dismissal of revelation as a sound basis for knowledge. So he based his philosophy of rhetoric on a conception of human nature that is a hybrid between Hume’s philosophy of the mind and the Common Sense philosophy developed by one of Hume’s most vocal critics, Thomas Reid. As Arthur Walzer argues, Campbell accepted Reid’s ontology and Hume’s psychology. His position was that ‘Hume’s psychology would hold as warrant and explanation for rhetoric, even if Reid [was] correct on the ultimately more important question of the ground of our knowledge. The orator tests the truth by Reid and can persuade by Hume.’88 The problem with Campbell’s philosophy of rhetoric, from a Humean perspective, is that it describes strategies for persuasion that are well grounded in Hume’s cognitive psychology while, at the same time, suggesting a far surer basis for knowledge than is admitted by the conception of reason that informs Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. The comparison with Campbell demonstrates the importance of Hume’s epistemology to his conception of polite oratory. George Campbell was a minister in the Church of Scotland, a Professor of Divinity, and, for a time, the Principal of Marischal College. He was also, along with such luminaries of the Scottish Enlightenment as Thomas Reid, Alexander Gerard, and James Beattie, a founding member of the Philosophical Society of Aberdeen. The members of this society gathered regularly to present papers, most of which were responses to Hume. In fact, in a letter to Hume, Thomas Reid famously wrote, your Friendly adversaries Drs Campbell & Gerard as well as Dr Gregory return their compliments to you respectfully. A little Philosophical Society here of which all three are members, is much indebted to you for its entertainment. Your company would, although we are all Christians, be more acceptable than that of Saint Athanasius. And since we cannot have you upon the bench, you are brought oftener than any other man to the bar, accused and defended with great zeal but without bitterness. If you write no more in morals politicks or metaphysicks, I am afraid we shall be at a loss for subjects.89

Reid’s An Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of Common Sense (1764), which takes aim at Hume’s philosophy of the mind, was

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first developed as a set of papers for the society, as was Campbell’s A Dissertation on Miracles (1762). The target of Campbell’s work was Section X of Hume’s Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding: the section titled ‘On Miracles.’ In ‘On Miracles,’ Hume famously argues that ‘no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous, than the fact, which it endeavours to establish: And even in that case, there is a mutual destruction of arguments, and the superior only gives us an assurance suitable to that degree of force, which remains, after deducting the inferior.’90 Campbell’s religious faith would not allow this conclusion. For Campbell, the force of Revelation surpasses that of reason. So he set out to establish that our faith in human testimony, the foundation for our knowledge of miracles, is a feature of human nature and is not, as Hume argues, based in experience. To this end, Campbell appealed to the principles of Common Sense, the philosophy that Thomas Reid had set out in an effort to refute some of Hume’s sceptical conclusions, particularly as they applied to religious belief. The essence of Reid’s critique is that, while Hume’s discussions of empiricism are correct for the most part, they do not account for all the beliefs we hold. Human nature is such that we are naturally determined to hold certain common sense beliefs that are not based in experience. These beliefs can be discovered through an examination of ordinary language. Hume, of course, had no time for Reid’s ideas. In a letter to Reid, Hume famously opted to correct one of Reid’s Scotticisms rather than offer any meaningful response to Common Sense. Presumably, Hume did not think Reid’s theory worthy of a meaningful response. His critique of Common Sense, therefore, amounted simply to this: ‘there is only one passage in this chapter, where you make use of the phrase, hinder to do, instead of hinder from doing, which is the English one.’91 In the Philosophy of Rhetoric, Campbell establishes six maxims of his own Common Sense philosophy. These are maxims that cannot be discovered from experience. Instead, following Reid, Campbell presents them as beliefs that we are determined by human nature to accept. In fact, Campbell writes that ‘it is equally impossible, without a full conviction of them, to advance a single step in the acquisition of knowledge, especially in all that regards mankind, life, and conduct.’92 Among these six principles are two that bear directly on our present discussion. Campbell writes that (1) ‘when there is in the effect a manifest adjustment of the several parts to a certain end, there is intelligence in the

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cause,’ and (2) ‘the clear representations of my memory, in regard to past events, are indubitably true.’93 The first of these maxims grounds the argument from design for the existence of God. The second grounds Campbell’s claim that our faith in the testimony of others is a feature of human nature. In other words, the second maxim is meant to refute Hume’s conclusions in ‘On Miracles’ by establishing the veracity of testimony and thus denying Hume’s claim that the likelihood of a miracle having taken place is usually lower than the likelihood that the witness’s testimony is in error. Campbell’s philosophy of rhetoric is far broader in scope than is Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. For Campbell, rhetoric is ‘that art or talent by which the discourse is adapted to its end.’94 Rhetoric, therefore, encompasses all forms of human communication. However, though his definition of rhetoric was far more expansive than was Hume’s, Campbell, like Hume, believed that rhetoric had to be grounded in some manner. Campbell writes that ‘as logic therefore forges the arms which eloquence teacheth us to wield, we must first have recourse to the former, that being made acquainted with the materials of which her weapons and armour are severally made, we may know their respective strength and temper, and when and how each is to be used.’95 Campbell understood reason in much the same way as did Hume. He argues that it requires ‘little or no reflection.’96 An impression ‘is instantaneously followed by a conclusion or judgment founded on experience.’97 In this sense, Campbell accepted Hume’s philosophy of mind, which accounts for the many close similarities between their respective conceptions of rhetoric. As Walzer writes, ‘because the sense impression is the basis for the origin and validity of belief, a rhetorical theory based on this psychology would emphasize that rhetoric is the art of making discourse resemble a sense impression.’98 This, of course, is the essence of Hume’s conception of rhetoric. It is also central to Campbell’s. It is in this regard that Campbell’s philosophy of rhetoric differs most notably from that developed in Smith’s lectures. Smith, as we recall, wrote of oratorical style as ornamental. Campbell, like Hume, understood a far more intimate relationship between style and communication. As Lloyd Frank Bitzer writes, although Campbell mentions aesthetic qualities of style (music and elegance) by virtue of which rhetoric is a fine art, he treats style as exclusively functional. That is, he interprets style not as an appendage to communication but as the indispensable agency of effective communication; he

Polite in His Own Way (Hume and the Scots) 105 interprets techniques of style not as ornaments but as means of enlivening ideas. Finally, he interprets style as serving the same end that evidence serves: in fact, style and evidence coincide in the language of metaphor. Effective communication is so directly dependant on style that the central problem of style – How can the orator generate lively ideas in the minds of hearers and readers through the use of language – is no other than a slight modification of the more general inventional problem – How can the orator enliven the ideas he communicates, so as to make them lively as impressions of sense and ideas of memory?99

As Bitzer has effectively argued, Campbell borrowed the central concept in his theory of rhetoric – that of the ‘lively idea’ – from Hume. Campbell writes that ‘passion must be awakened by communicating lively ideas of the object.’100 He did, however, understand the relationship between liveliness and belief differently from Hume. Where Hume understood the superior force and vivacity of ideas to be the feeling of belief, Campbell argued that belief enlivens ideas.101 As Walzer writes, ‘this formulation saps Hume’s thesis of its radical skepticism and turns it into a confirmation of what the rhetoricians have long taught – that rhetoric can make ideas forceful, moving, and memorable.’102 Campbell emphasizes this difference with Hume’s thought in order to ‘maintain that Hume had collapsed an essential distinction between ratiocination and imagery – between appeals to the understanding or judgment and appeals to the imagination.’103 For Hume, ‘the inferential faculty of reason is itself also a feature of the representational faculty of imagination.’104 By re-establishing the distinction between ratiocination and imagery, Campbell is able to argue that there are different ways of gaining knowledge. This is the crucial break with Hume’s epistemology that allows Campbell to introduce Common Sense maxims as alternative bases of knowledge. Campbell’s last word on persuasion is remarkably similar to Hume’s. Campbell argues that persuasion requires an appeal to both the passions and the judgment. In contrast to Smith, and in keeping with Hume, Campbell maintains that to say that it is possible to persuade without speaking to the passions, is but at best a kind of specious nonsense. The coolest reasoner always in persuading addresseth himself to the passions some way or other . . . in order to persuade, there are two things which must be carefully studied by an orator. The first is, to excite some desire or passion in the hearers;

106 The Politics of Eloquence the second is to satisfy their judgment that there is a connexion between the action to which he would persuade them, and the gratification of the desire or passion which he excites. This is the analysis of persuasion. The former is effected by communicating lively and glowing ideas of the object; the latter, unless so evident of itself as to supercede the necessity, by presenting the best and most forceful arguments which the nature of the subject admits.105

This argument appears to mirror Hume’s claim in the Treatise that reason can affect our actions only when ‘it excites a passion by informing us of the existence of something which is a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of causes and effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion.’106 The fundamental difference separating Campbell’s conception of rhetoric from Hume’s is that Campbell allows for judgments from Common Sense that Hume would never allow. Campbell’s religious faith required that Revelation be a sound basis for knowledge. By separating the feeling of belief from belief itself – arguing that belief enlivens ideas – Campbell fundamentally divorced his conception of belief from Hume’s. From a Humean perspective, therefore, Campbell’s epistemology deracinated his philosophy of rhetoric. Conclusion The works of Campbell, Smith, and Trenchard are useful contrasts with those of Hume because they accentuate the complexity of Hume’s reconciliation of politeness and rhetoric. The comparison with Smith and Trenchard demonstrates the importance of Hume’s understanding of the relationship between reason and the passions to his conception of high rhetoric. Both Trenchard and Smith critique the use of rhetorical figures by assuming that it is possible to distinguish reasoned from passionate appeals. Smith attempts to guard against manipulative rhetoric by distinguishing instruction from persuasion. The polite orator conveys ideas to his audience members through strictly reasoned appeals and facilitates the communication of his passions to them through sympathy by maintaining a calm and controlled demeanour. Hume’s model of reason as a sentimental process collapses Smith’s distinction between reasoned and passionate appeals and, consequently, limits the significance of his distinction between instruction and persuasion.

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Ultimately, Hume points toward a much more useful distinction than do Smith and Trenchard. Hume’s is a distinction in degree, not in kind. Manipulative and non-manipulative rhetoric sit at opposite ends of a single spectrum. But the difference between them is not as simple as Smith and Trenchard would have us believe. Because of the mutual assistance that Hume identifies between the passions and reason in the process of judgment, manipulative political rhetoric cannot simply be identified by its appeals to the passions. Campbell’s philosophy of rhetoric highlights the importance of Hume’s empiricism to the discursive nature of politeness that is at the heart of his conception of high rhetoric. In order to maintain the discursivity that is essential to Hume’s conception of polite rhetoric, there can be no artificial limitations placed on the questions an orator can raise or inquire into. Campbell’s Common Sense maxims and his faith in Revelation introduce an impoliteness into his philosophy of rhetoric to the extent that they erect such limitations that are intended to terminate certain lines of inquiry. Though intended to conform to accepted eighteenth-century standards of politeness, Smith’s and Trenchard’s arguments for delineating between reasoned and passionate appeals fail to fully account for the differences that distinguish manipulation from non-manipulative persuasion. The problems in their works highlight the complexity of Hume’s reconciliation of politeness with rhetoric. This reconciliation relies on all three elements of Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. It was unique in eighteenth-century Scotland.

5 Resuscitating the Passionate Eloquence of the Ancients

Shall we assert, that the strains of ancient eloquence are unsuitable to our age, and ought not to be imitated by modern orators? Whatever reasons may be made use of to prove this, I am persuaded they will be found, upon examination, to be unsound and unsatisfactory.1 Ancient eloquence, that is, the sublime and passionate, is of a much juster taste than the modern, or the argumentative and rational; and, if properly executed, will always have more command and authority over mankind.2

In his essay ‘Of Eloquence,’ Hume argues that a certain strain of ancient eloquence ought to be rekindled and integrated into modern political discourse. He also argues that, if properly resuscitated, this strain of eloquence will prove more persuasive than any rhetoric of the modern age. Having established the complex and necessary relationship between each of the three components of Hume’s accurate, just, and polite rhetoric, we are now able to look back upon ancient eloquence in order to identify the strain of eloquence that Hume had in mind. The emphasis on judgment that Aristotle develops in the Rhetoric is central to Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. However, where Aristotle considered reason to be generally persuasive above all else, Hume believed that most people were usually deaf to reason.3 Hume turned, therefore, to Cicero’s project of reconciling philosophy and rhetoric because it resonated more fully with his conception of high rhetoric. Hume, however, did not believe that Cicero reasoned very soundly in his own oration. Therefore, while Cicero’s theoretical understanding of the orator’s art is closely aligned with Hume’s, Hume did not choose Cicero as his

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model orator. Instead, he chose an idealized vision of Demosthenes. Hume’s conception of Demosthenes as the model orator is likely more an ideal or a fantasy than it is a carefully considered and informed position. That Demosthenes was the greatest of the Greek orators was a view widely held in the eighteenth century. This common view was likely heavily influenced by his portrayal in Plutarch’s Lives. Hume’s description of Demosthenes very closely echoes that of Plutarch, suggesting that Hume simply accepted much of what he read there about Demosthenes. The ancient eloquence that Hume admired was, to his mind, more philosophically grounded than that of Aristotle and more accurate than that of Cicero. Hume’s model practitioner of this rhetoric was the Demosthenes about whom he had read in Plutarch’s Lives. Hume and Aristotle In order to understand the strain of ancient eloquence that Hume admired, we begin with Aristotle. There are two principal reasons for beginning with the Rhetoric. First, Aristotle was so central a figure in the development of ancient eloquence that his Rhetoric usually stands as an unavoidable reference point in any discussion of the subject. I do not intend to make any claims about Aristotle’s influence on Hume’s thinking. Rather, I seek to use the comparisons with Aristotle’s Rhetoric in order to clarify important elements in Hume’s treatment of rhetoric. The contrast between Hume’s and Aristotle’s respective treatment of rhetoric is important because it helps illustrate how much more limited was Hume’s conception of the role of reason in our decisions about what to do. Second, I begin this chapter with a discussion of the Rhetoric because Aristotle articulates a conception of the political importance of rhetoric that Hume certainly shared and that differentiates Hume’s discussions of rhetoric from those of many of his contemporaries. As we saw in the previous chapter, Hume wrote during a time in which the dominant outlook was deeply suspicious of political rhetoric and in which rhetoric was most often considered in relation to literature and poetry rather than ethics and politics. Like Hume, Aristotle presents a conception of rhetoric that contrasts starkly with this belles lettrist notion of rhetoric. According to Aristotle, ‘rhetoric is an offshoot of dialectic and also of ethical studies. Ethical studies may fairly be called political.’4 This conception of rhetoric clearly resonated with Hume and, though modified according to his own thinking on ethics and reason, is reflected in Hume’s own conception of rhetoric in very significant ways.

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An obvious objection to my beginning with Aristotle is the fact that Hume refers to Aristotle only once in his own discussions of rhetoric.5 Hume was certainly acquainted with Aristotle’s Rhetoric.6 His first exposure to it likely came at the University of Edinburgh, where, according to Peter Jones, ‘the normal four-year curriculum was as follows: the first year was devoted to Greek grammar, and the rules of rhetoric, with special reference to Cicero and Ramus; the second year was devoted to practical rhetoric and to logic, and the third to Aristotelian ethics and politics.’7 Given the canonical importance of Aristotle’s Rhetoric, and given Hume’s education in both the theory of rhetoric and practical rhetoric, it is surprising that he pays so little attention to Aristotle in his own writings. One possible explanation for this anomaly is that Hume considered the Rhetoric to be so well known that any discussion of it would be unnecessary. A more likely explanation, or at least partial explanation, is that Hume avoided discussing Aristotle because of the latter’s importance for the development of Scholasticism, the target of so much seventeenth- and eighteenth-century philosophy. A third reason why Hume may have avoided making explicit his disagreements with Aristotle is that doing so would have highlighted Hume’s understanding of the relationship between rhetoric and reason, an understanding that, as I discussed in the previous chapter, did not necessarily sit easily with the polite culture in which Hume lived and wrote. It is not necessary, or indeed possible, to determine which of these explanations is correct. The discussion of Aristotle’s Rhetoric is important because it highlights key features of Hume’s conception of rhetoric, helps us place Hume in the rhetorical tradition, and significantly contributes to our understanding of Hume’s admiration for ancient eloquence. In contrast to the commonly held view that a skilled rhetorician will, as Aristophanes writes in The Clouds, make the weaker argument the stronger,8 and in contrast to Socrates’ argument in the Gorgias that rhetoric is merely a form of ‘flattery,’9 Aristotle presents rhetoric as a skill that, although it can be used to manipulate, is not inherently manipulative. Rhetoric, according to Aristotle, ‘may be defined as the faculty of observing in any given case the available means of persuasion.’10 The skilled orator is one who can ‘see how and from what elements a deduction is produced.’11 Aristotle’s Rhetoric is principally concerned with exploring two tripartite divisions within the field of rhetoric. The first distinguishes the three types of rhetoric: epideictic (praising the virtue of an individual or many people at once, as in a funeral oration praising the war dead in a given year), forensic (arguing for or against

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a statement of fact, as in a law court), and deliberative (arguing for or against a course of action, as in a political assembly). The second division distinguishes three means of persuasion: character, emotion, and argument. Aristotle appears to have been primarily interested in deliberative rhetoric.12 Therefore, most of the Rhetoric is devoted to discussions of the second tri-partite division within deliberative rhetoric. As Amélie Oksenberg Rorty writes, Aristotle believed that ‘without rhetoric, politics is empty; without politics, rhetoric is blind.’13 Although he devotes very few words to an explicit discussion of the relationship between politics and rhetoric,14 Aristotle suggests to us that ‘without rhetorical skill, even the wisest politikos is pathetic and helpless; without political knowledge – knowledge of the city’s constitution and laws, its commercial and military treaties, its economic and military strength – even a clever, well-intentioned rhetorician is a menace, a danger to the state.’15 Certainly, Hume conceived the relationship between rhetoric and politics similarly. Writing during a time in which rhetoric was studied as a means to personal refinement, Hume sought to resuscitate a highly political form of rhetoric. ‘It would be easy to find a PHILIP in modern times;’ he writes, ‘but where shall we find a DEMOSTHENES?’16 Hume felt comfortable asking such questions because, as we saw in the previous chapter, he considered the fanatical rhetoric of political extremism to be a danger of fanaticism, not of rhetoric. For this reason, Hume’s conception of rhetoric also concurs with Aristotle’s view that it is merely a craft that can be practised for good or for ill. In the famous opening line of the Rhetoric, Aristotle writes that ‘rhetoric is the counterpart of dialectic.’17 The precise meaning of this line has been hotly debated. In particular, the debate has centred on the relationship between the enthymeme and the syllogism.18 For Aristotle, the former is the structure of rhetorical proof, whereas the latter is the basis of dialectic. In the Rhetoric, Aristotle writes that enthymemes ‘must consist of few propositions, fewer often than those which make up a primary deduction.’19 One possible interpretation of this statement suggests that enthymemes have only one premise in contrast to the two premises necessary for a syllogism. On this reading of Aristotle, rhetorical proof is essentially shorthand for dialectical proof. Because the orator is addressing a general audience made up of people who are likely incapable of following the intricacies of a dialectical argument, he must arrive at his conclusions through a truncated form of reasoning, namely, the enthymeme.

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A more complex interpretation of Aristotle’s claim that an enthymeme arises from fewer facts than does a syllogism relates this claim to the context of rhetorical argument. According to M.F. Burnyeat, the two relevant features of the rhetorical context are the variable subject matter of the oration and the simplicity of the audience. In regard to the first, Burnyeat argues that ‘rhetoric’s function is to speak on issues where we deliberate because (a) we have no specialist expertise (techné) to guide us, and (b) we believe that the outcome is open and can be affected by our decision.’20 In regard to the simplicity of the audience, Burnyeat argues that because ‘the speaker is addressing an audience of people who cannot easily follow a long train of reasoning,’ a further function of rhetoric is to ‘adjust a speech to the limitations of its audience.’21 On Burnyeat’s interpretation, Aristotle does not require that an enthymeme be limited to only one premise. Rather, the necessary brevity of an enthymeme can be achieved ‘by a suitable choice of premises rather than by their suppression.’ In other words, a good enthymeme ‘omits to formulate premises that the audience can supply for themselves.’22 For the purposes of this discussion, the precise relationship between enthymemes and syllogisms is less important than the undisputed fact that Aristotle’s discussion of rhetorical argument gives great weight to a demonstrative method of reasoning that closely resembles the syllogistic reasoning of dialectic. Hume would find this focus on demonstrative reasoning problematic for two important reasons. First, it does not take into account the impossibility of demonstrating causation, the discussion of which is one of the most significant contributions that Hume makes in Book 1 of the Treatise. As Rorty writes, ‘Aristotle seems unconcerned about just how – if at all – efficient and formal causes are related to one another. Indeed, he would regard that question as confused and regressive. The schema of causal explanations is basic. Asking for an explanation of the relation among its dimensions carries the air of (what we would call) a category mistake.’23 Hume, of course, is greatly concerned with the relations between causes and effects. He considers a lack of attention to the nature of these relations to be a hallmark of low rhetoric. It is precisely by misrepresenting the surety of causal relations that zealots misrepresent the true interests of their audience members in their orations. Second, though Hume agrees with Aristotle in allowing for reasoning from common opinions, his emphasis on exploring the foundations of those opinions contrasts with Aristotle’s emphasis on the logical structure of the demonstrative arguments that an orator builds upon

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them. As David Owen writes, ‘in syllogism, rightness of reason is primarily a matter of validity. Syllogistic theory gives us a formal account of the validity of the argument, irrespective of the truth, or even the content, of the premises.’24 For Hume, the content of the premises – that is, whether they are based on superstitious or on sound opinions – is determined by subjecting them to the scrutiny of the experimental method. Some commonly held views could certainly form sound bases for reasoned arguments. However, many commonly held opinions are mere superstition. Hume’s discussions in the History of England of the Protestants’ opinions about popery, for example, reveal these opinions to be unsound superstitious beliefs that cannot stand up to any rigorous examination based on experience.25 From Hume’s perspective, syllogistic reasoning from these types of premises could be very dangerous. Such reasoning could appear valid on account of its form while masking the absurdity of the principles upon which it was constructed. We will recall that Hume characterizes zeal as ‘the most absurd of prejudices masqued with reason.’26 He, therefore, is far more concerned with examining the premises upon which reasoning is developed than in analysing the form of the argument. For Aristotle, the premises upon which orators reason are common opinions because persuasion will often require that the orator accept the audience’s general beliefs. However, this use of common opinion is buttressed by Aristotle’s belief that human beings have a natural tendency toward the truth. In all cases, he writes, ‘things that are true and things that are just have a natural tendency to prevail over their opposites.’27 This is because ‘men have a sufficient natural instinct for what is true, and usually do arrive at the truth.’28 Aristotle’s position contrasts sharply with Hume’s view that ‘no weakness of human nature is more universal and conspicuous than what we commonly call CREDULITY.’29 In the sense that he believes that beliefs consist in a feeling of the mind ‘which distinguishes the ideas of judgment from the fictions of the imagination,’30 Hume does agree with Aristotle that human beings have a natural disposition to believe. But as a practical reality, Hume is much more inclined to view humans as credulous and as deaf to reason. From this perspective, Aristotle’s focus on the structure of arguments based in common opinions is potentially very dangerous. Aristotle’s faith in the persuasive power of truth vastly exceeds Hume’s. Robert Wardy argues that in Aristotle’s system, ‘the natural prevalence of truth, its persuasive superiority, is intended to offset mistrust of rhetoric.’31 In fact, argues Wardy, Aristotle would have us

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believe that ‘the natural prevalence of truth dictates that in rhetoric we are prone to be persuaded of the truth (or at the very least are not naturally inclined to be taken in by falsehood).’32 Hume, we will recall, argues that zealots can quite easily ‘seize the minds of the ignorant multitude.’33 Tendencies of human nature such as those that lead us ‘to prefer whatever is present to the distant and remote,’ those that make ‘us desire objects more according to their situation than their intrinsic value,’34 and the ‘usual propensity of mankind towards the marvelous,’ easily outweigh any natural propensity we might have toward the truth. Hume argues that although the features of human nature that lead us into error may ‘at intervals receive a check from sense and learning,’ they ‘can never be thoroughly extirpated from human nature.’35 The high value that Aristotle places on the persuasiveness of truth explains his claim that enthymeme is the ‘substance of rhetorical persuasion.’36 It also explains why he presents the other two means of persuasion – character and emotions – as secondary to the argument itself. Aristotle writes that, ‘since rhetoric exists to affect the giving of decisions . . . the orator must not only try to make the argument of his speech demonstrative and worthy of belief; he must also make his own character look right and put his hearers, who are to decide, into the right frame of mind.’37 Aristotle’s concerns regarding character and emotion are, therefore, threefold: (1) to present the elements of character that will establish the credibility of the orator; (2) to identify the emotions that, when raised in the audience, will lead its members to the types of judgment defended by the orator; and (3) to identify the different ways in which those emotions can be elicited from different types of characters in the audience. Like Hume after him, Aristotle rejects any clean distinction between rational and emotional persuasion. However, where Hume argues for the passionate nature of reason, Aristotle argues for the opposite. As Martha Nussbaum writes, for Aristotle, ‘emotions may appropriately be assessed as rational or irrational, and also (independently) as true or false, depending on the character of the beliefs that are their basis or ground.’38 Aristotle’s conception of the rationality of emotions is evidenced in his introduction to the subject, in which he argues that every emotion can be broken into three elements: the state in which people experience that emotion, toward whom the emotion is directed, and under what circumstances the emotion is aroused.39 As Nussbaum argues, ‘while depending on belief and judgment, the emotions may depend upon a type of belief and judgment that is less accessible to dialectical scrutiny than are most of the person’s other beliefs.’40

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Nevertheless, Aristotle’s characterization of the emotions grounds what Robert Wardy calls ‘one of the crowning virtues of Aristotelian philosophy of mind,’ namely, that it ‘permits us to drive a wedge between the concepts of emotional appeal and of emotional manipulation.’41 Orators can arouse rational or irrational passions in their audience. And therein, for Aristotle, lies the difference between emotional persuasion and manipulation. As Wardy writes, Aristotle allows that ‘the proper use of rhetorical skill will indeed speak to our emotions, but only when the pathé so formed enhance our receptivity to truthful logos, rather than setting our feelings at odds with our reasoning.’42 Hume does not allow that passions can be rational or irrational, because he conceives the relationship between reason and the passions fundamentally differently from Aristotle. Where Aristotle argues that it is through the orator’s argument that audience members are led into a passion that will affect their judgment, Hume argues that we assent to reasonable conclusions through the feeling they produce in the mind. Reason is not the product of a feeling of the mind; rather, it consists in the feeling of the mind. There is, therefore, no independent faculty of reason that can produce a passion. Hume argues that passions can be considered unreasonable only if they are accompanied by a judgment or opinion that is unreasonable. And in these cases, ‘’tis not the passion, properly speaking, which is unreasonable, but the judgment.’43 Hume acknowledges only two possible scenarios in which any passion can be called unreasonable: ‘First, When a passion, such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded on the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not exist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we choose means insufficient for the design’d end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment of causes and effects.’44 In all other cases, a passion cannot be considered to be unreasonable. As Hume famously writes, ’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 choose 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.45

Hume’s account of the irrationality of passions explains why, for him, manipulative rhetoric cannot be distinguished from non-manipulative rhetoric by such markers as rational and irrational passions. What it

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does not explain, according to Rorty, is how an orator can ‘stabilize appropriate emotions, along with their attendant desires,’46 or in other words, how an orator can ensure that the audience members will remain affected by his oration once his speech is over. Rorty argues that Hume’s account of the passions fails in this regard because ‘what Hume rather mysteriously calls a double relation between impressions and ideas . . . seems to make the formative force of rhetorical persuasion unnecessary. If a set of perceptions were sufficient to elicit a motivating passion when it is time to act, the rhetorician’s speech would play little role in persuasion.’47 Rorty argues that though the psychology that Aristotle presents in the Rhetoric is clearly incomplete, he offers a more satisfying solution to the problem of stabilizing emotions in the orator’s audience. Aristotle’s account suggests that ‘a successful rhetorician structures his speech to elicit emotions that are connected with stable motivational structures,’ namely, the desires and interests of particular characters.48 It is because of this connection that Aristotle’s discussions of character and emotion are so closely associated in the Rhetoric. A successful orator must understand the differences in interests and desires that arise from differences in age and fortune if he is to succeed in arousing the particular passions he intends in his audience members. Hume would have no problem accepting Aristotle’s argument that different character types have different sets of interests and desires. However, he would not allow, as Aristotle does, that the audience members’ emotions are susceptible to reason. In order to understand Hume’s account of how orators can stabilize emotions in their audiences, we must look to his distinction between direct and indirect passions. The emotions discussed by Aristotle49 include both types. Hume would agree that both the direct passions – under which denomination Hume numbers desire, aversion, grief, joy, hope, and fear – and the indirect passions – love, hatred, pride, and humility – motivate us to action. The problem with Rorty’s analysis is that Hume’s famous double relation of impressions and ideas is unrelated to the direct passions. The double relation of impressions and ideas is the mechanism through which he understands the indirect passions – those he associates with moral judgment – to arise.50 The direct passions, Hume argues, arise very differently. He writes that these ‘arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is perfectly unaccountable.’51 Therefore, Rorty’s critique misses a whole category of motivating passions. What is more, her critique fails to take account of Hume’s discussion of the vivacity of passions. From a Humean perspective, the emotions of

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an orator’s audience, be they direct or indirect passions, are stabilized by the force and vivacity of the orator’s speech as well as by the regularities of human nature. When an orator’s speech takes the place of experience by appealing to the audience members as a primary sense impression, it acts on the mind with the same vivacity as does experience. The passions that are transmitted to the audience through sympathy will naturally decline in force once the speech is over. However, when an orator succeeds, those passions will be aroused in the audience members when, later on, they reflect upon the speech they have heard. The force of these aroused passions will depend on the force of the beliefs upon which they are based. The forcefulness of those beliefs will depend upon the skill of the orator. It will also depend upon the character of the orator. The most persuasive orator, on Hume’s account, will display the virtues of politeness. Aristotle too is interested in the orator’s ability to persuade through his own character. A persuasive orator, according to Aristotle, is characterized by credibility, which, for Aristotle, rests on ‘good sense, excellence, and goodwill.’52 It is in their treatments of character that Hume and Aristotle come closest to agreement. However, there is a fundamental difference separating the two. Aristotle’s conception of character is closely related to credibility and is reliant upon past performance. Ultimately, the credibility of an orator is determined by the results of the actions he either endorses or opposes. An orator whose predictions and arguments are born out will develop a reputation for credibility. Thus, the credible orator is one who develops a reputation for having a grasp on truth and reason. Hume would certainly agree that an orator’s credibility is an important aspect of his character. On Hume’s account, ‘we morally approve of the wise and reasonable person.’53 And he notes that there is a natural tendency in human nature to regard the judgment of another ‘as a kind of argument for what they affirm.’54 Correspondingly, Hume argues that our suspicions are raised by any matter of fact presented by a speaker of ‘a doubtful character.’55 However, credibility based upon past performances does not fully account for character in Hume’s conception of rhetoric. Hume’s treatment of politeness – the arts of conversation – suggests that the character of an orator is determined, at least in significant part, by the audience members’ perception of how he speaks to them. An orator who harangued his audience would not be considered polite by the members of that audience even if the orator had a previous reputation for politeness. As I discussed in chapter 3, politeness is a criterion of

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proper behaviour. While an individual may certainly develop a reputation for politeness, that reputation can be lost during a speech if the orator does not continue to speak politely. Aristotle’s conception of credibility, on the other hand, only allows for an alteration in perceptions of the orator’s character after his speech is completed. Audience members can only change their perceptions of the orator’s credibility once the events about which the orator spoke have or have not actually come to pass. Therefore, an orator with a good reputation for credibility could intentionally mislead his audience. And, because of the orator’s reputation, the audience members would be inclined to accept his arguments. Hume’s discussion of character does not allow for an orator to mislead so easily. Clearly, this example suggests a relatively unlikely scenario. The example is important, however, because it further illustrates how Aristotle’s advice to the orator is, ultimately, grounded in his faith in the persuasiveness of truth and reason. Aristotle’s answer to the hypothetical scenario in which the credible orator decides to intentionally mislead his audience would likely be that the untruth of his oration would guard against its convincing many people. For Aristotle, the argument is the ‘substance of rhetorical persuasion.’56 The orator’s demonstrated connection with truth and his understanding of the rationality of emotions only further augment the persuasiveness of his oration. From a Humean perspective, the Aristotelian theory of persuasion ultimately fails because it is so heavily grounded in Aristotle’s faith in truth. Aristotle‘s treatment of the emotions in the Rhetoric shows them to be a secondary means of persuasion. For Hume, of course, a proper understanding of the passions and their interconnections is fundamental to any understanding of persuasion. His whole conception of rhetoric is based in his understanding of the passions because, according to him, it is the passions that motivate us to action. Reason is ‘utterly impotent in this particular.’57 In most respects, therefore, Hume’s conception of rhetoric differs markedly from Aristotle’s. These differences arise from Hume and Aristotle’s different understandings of judgment. For both thinkers, rhetoric appeals to the judgment of the audience members. However, because Hume understands judgment to be a sentimental process, his conception of rhetoric poses a much more significant challenge to the Platonic distinction between reason and persuasion than does Aristotle’s. So, while it certainly remains correct to claim that Hume’s conception of rhetoric fits better into the Aristotelian school than it does into the

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Platonic school, the fit is clearly not a very comfortable one. In many ways, Hume’s conception of rhetoric sits outside the spectrum of the Aristotelian and Platonic schools. And this, quite likely, helps explain why Hume wrote so little about Aristotle. It also helps explain Hume’s attraction to the rhetorical works of Cicero. Hume, Cicero, and Demosthenes Hume’s intellectual debts to Cicero are well known.58 He famously wrote to Francis Hutcheson, ‘upon the whole, I desire to take my Catalogue of Virtues from Cicero’s Offices, not from the Whole Duty of Man. I had, indeed, the former Book in my Eye in all my Reasonings.’59 Of primary relevance to this discussion is Hume’s interest in Cicero’s project of reconciling philosophy with rhetoric. In particular, Cicero’s emphasis on the orator’s need for grounding in philosophy would have appealed to Hume’s sensibilities and is echoed in Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. Given Hume’s intellectual debts to Cicero, and given Cicero’s grand status in the rhetorical canon, one might be surprised to find that Hume instead holds up an idealized vision of Demosthenes as his model orator. It is the orations of Demosthenes, after all, not of Cicero, that Hume designates the human productions that ‘approach the nearest to perfection.’60 Though he holds both up as the greatest orators of their respective times, Hume argues that Cicero’s reasoning was often the greatest weakness in his speeches. Hume, therefore, draws on Cicero for his understanding of rhetoric and on the idealized Demosthenes for a model orator. Hume’s perceptions of Demosthenes and Cicero – that ‘GREECE and ROME produced, each of them, but one accomplished orator’61 – were likely influenced by Plutarch’s portrayal of the two orators.62 In addition to emphasizing Cicero and Demosthenes, Hume appears to borrow language from Plutarch in his discussions of ancient eloquence. For example, Plutarch’s view that ‘Cicero’s love of mockery often ran him into scurrility’63 appears to be echoed in Hume’s discussion of the ‘scurrility of the ancient orators.’64 The distinction that Plutarch draws between Cicero and Demosthenes also corresponds exactly with Hume’s understanding of the relative importance of the two ancient orators. Plutarch distinguishes the two as follows: Demosthenes, to make himself a master in rhetoric, applied all the faculties he had, natural or acquired, wholly that way that he far surpassed in force

120 The Politics of Eloquence and strength of eloquence all his contemporaries in political and judicial speaking, in grandeur and majesty all the panegyrical orators, and in accuracy and science all the logicians and rhetoricians of his day; . . . Cicero was highly educated, and by his diligent study became a most accomplished general scholar in all these branches, having left behind him numerous philosophical treatises of his own on Academic principles as, indeed, even in his written speeches, both political and judicial, we see him continually trying to show his learning by the way.65

Hume certainly considered Cicero to be a master orator in his own right. And very often, he mentions Demosthenes and Cicero in the same sentence. For example, Hume argues that the Attic orators ‘were esteemed in their time; but when compared with DEMOSTHENES and CICERO, were eclipsed like a taper when set in the rays of a meridian sun.’66 However, Hume holds Demosthenes up as the greater orator of the two. He is Hume’s model orator.67 In Cicero, we find the scholar whose conception of rhetoric comes the closest to defining the strain of ancient eloquence that Hume sought to resuscitate in his conception of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric. The aspect of Cicero’s writings on rhetoric that is most powerfully echoed by Hume is Cicero’s desire to unite philosophy and rhetoric. This unification is one of the central features of Cicero’s writings. However, rather than unification, Cicero actually saw his project as one of reunification. He argues that ‘the followers of Socrates dissociated the pleaders of cases from themselves and from the shared title of philosophy, though the ancients had intended there to be an amazing sort of communion between speaking and understanding.’68 It is this ‘communion’ that Cicero sought to re-establish. As Crassus advises in De oratore, ‘we must not only forge and sharpen our tongues, but we must load our minds to the brim with the attractive richness and variety of the most important matters in the greatest possible number.’69 Crassus here merely concurs with Cicero’s view, expressed in the prologue in his own voice, that ‘it will be impossible for anyone to be an orator endowed with all praiseworthy qualities, unless he has gained a knowledge of all the important subjects and arts.’70 Cicero’s communion of speaking and understanding is echoed in Hume’s discussions of the painter and the anatomist. In the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Hume writes of uniting two species of philosophy. Painters extol virtue, ‘borrowing all helps from poetry and eloquence, and treating their subject in an easy and obvious

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manner, and such as is best fitted to please the imagination, and engage the affections.’71 Anatomists endeavour to ‘understand’ the nature of people rather than to cultivate their manners.72 Hume considered himself to be an anatomist and pointed to Hutcheson as a model of the painter. ‘The anatomist,’ Hume advises, ‘ought never to emulate the painter . . . An anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give advice to a painter; and ’tis even impracticable to excel in the latter art, without the assistance of the former.’73 Therefore, Hume argues that if we want to ‘undermine the foundations of an abstruse philosophy which seems to have hitherto served only as a shelter to superstition and a cover to absurdity and error,’ we ought to ‘unite the boundaries of the different species of philosophy by reconciling profound inquiry with clearness, and truth with novelty.’74 Hume’s proposed union challenges conceptions of knowledge as rarefied and as standing above any type of emotional persuasion. Likewise, Cicero’s writings challenge the debate that raged in his day, pitting philosophy against rhetoric. In De oratore, he rejects the outlook that presents knowledge as ‘deeply concealed within the very heart of philosophy’ where rhetoricians cannot ‘so much as touch it with the tips of their tongues’75 by presenting the ideal orator as a philosopher. Against philosophers who denigrate rhetoric, Crassus argues that if anyone wants to give the name of orator to the philosopher who imparts to us a full range of subject matter as well as fullness of speech, he may do so as far as I’m concerned. Or if someone prefers to give the title of philosopher to this orator who, as I say, unites wisdom and eloquence, I shall not hinder him. But it should be clear that no praise is due to the dumbness of the person who has mastered the matter but cannot unfold it in speech, nor, conversely, to the ignorance of the one who does not have the subject matter at his command, but has no lack of words. If we must choose between these alternatives, I myself would prefer inarticulate wisdom to babbling stupidity. But if we are looking for the one thing that surpasses all others, the palm must go to the learned orator. If they allow that he is also a philosopher, then the quarrel is over. If, however, they keep the two distinct, they will be inferior in that all their knowledge is present in the perfect orator, while the knowledge of the philosopher does not automatically imply eloquence. And although they scorn it, yet it is inevitably true that eloquence somehow sets a capstone upon their arts.76

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The ideal orator (for it is this ideal that is the subject of De oratore) is, therefore, not simply an equal of the philosopher. Cicero presents the ideal orator as the philosopher’s superior because, to borrow Hume’s phrase, the ideal orator unites the boundaries of the different species of philosophy. Hume and Cicero share a common understanding of the power inherent in oratory that is grounded in philosophy. And they share a common prescription for ensuring that that power is put to good uses. In De oratore, Crassus argues that the unity of philosophy and rhetoric holds the power to unfold ‘the thoughts and counsels of the mind in words, in such a way that it can drive the audience in whatever direction it has applied its weight.’ 77 This passage is echoed in Hume’s argument that it is ‘difficult for us to withhold our assent from what is painted out to us in all the colours of eloquence.’78 Crassus argues that as a consequence of the mind’s susceptibility to rhetorical argument, it is absolutely necessary that the power of eloquence be joined ‘to integrity and the highest measure of good sense. For if we put the full resources of speech at the disposition of those who lack these virtues, we will certainly not make orators of them, but will put weapons into the hands of madmen.’79 As I have argued, Hume too was keenly aware of the possibility that his discussions of the power of rhetoric could empower the zealots whose influence he sought to counter. And similar to Crassus’ call for rhetoric to be joined to integrity and good sense, Hume’s conception of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric joins sound reasoning and the virtue of politeness to powerful oratory. Hume holds both Cicero and Demosthenes up as powerful orators. However, as we have seen, Hume does hold Demosthenes up to be the model orator. His rhetoric, Hume argues, is ‘rapid harmony, exactly adjusted to the sense: It is vehement reasoning, without any appearance of art: It is disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, involved in a continued stream of argument.’80 Hume believed that Cicero, on the other hand, did not always reason well in his speeches. In a letter to Henry Home, Hume concedes that ‘Cicero’s Reasonings in his Orations are very loose, & what we shou’d think to be wandering from the Point.’81 The Verrines, which Hume describes as having ‘a very great Merit,’ are an ‘Exception’ in this regard.82 Of the Oration for Milo, Hume writes that though it be ‘commonly esteem’d Cicero’s masterpiece,’ he is surprised by certain points in the reasoning, in particular by the fact that Cicero ‘scarce spoke any thing to the Question, as it wou’d now be conceived by a Court of Judicature.’83 While Hume finds that ‘the Orations for Marcellus & Ligarius as also that for Archias are very fine,’

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he does so ‘chiefly because the Subject do not require or admit of close Reasoning.’84 Hume believed that some of Cicero’s orations, especially the first Phillipic, were exemplary in one particular regard, namely, manners.85 When his speeches did not run into scurrility, Cicero could be a polite orator. And in this regard, Hume lauded his oratorical skills. The Noble Art of the Ancients The ancient eloquence that Hume sought to resuscitate is defined by Aristotelian, Ciceronian, and Demosthenic elements. In Aristotle’s Rhetoric, we find an articulation of the political importance of rhetoric, a defence of rhetorical figures against the charge that they necessarily obfuscate ideas, and a powerful articulation of the importance of judgment in the reception of rhetoric. All three features of Aristotle’s work have important resonance with Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. However, Hume’s conception of rhetoric sits uncomfortably with Aristotle’s because Aristotle conceives the persuasiveness of truth and demonstrative reason in ways that Hume rejects. Cicero’s rhetorical theory, particularly his reunification of speaking and understanding through a union of philosophy and rhetoric, provides the theoretical basis for Hume’s conception of rhetoric. However, Hume was unimpressed with the reasoning in Cicero’s own orations. He writes of the ‘tinsel eloquence, which is observable in many of the Roman writers, from which Cicero himself is not wholly exempted.’86 Hume, therefore, rejects Cicero as a model orator. Instead, he paints an idealized picture of Demosthenes and props him up in this role. Though Demosthenes predated Cicero by many years, he is Hume’s model practitioner of the rhetorical theory that Cicero later defined. Hume defines the strain of ancient eloquence that he sought to resuscitate as the ‘noble art’ that is ‘requisite to arrive, by just degrees, at a sentiment so bold and excessive.’87 Bold and excessive sentiments were not, however, commonly considered compatible with eighteenthcentury standards of politeness. Therefore, Hume’s conception of high rhetoric consists in a modernized version of this strain of ancient eloquence, one that has been united with the ‘arts of conversation.’88 This combination, along with the accurate and just standard of reasoning that he defines in the Treatise, is the basis for Hume’s conception of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric. It is the standard against which Hume evaluates the political speeches that he discusses in the History of England.

6 Rhetoric and the Public Sphere

The chief support of the BRITISH government is the opposition of interests; but that, though in the main serviceable, breeds endless factions.1

The rhetoric of Hume’s idealized Demosthenes is the ancient eloquence that he sought to modernize in his conception of high rhetoric. This conception of rhetoric is the primary gauge that Hume uses for assessing the political speeches in the History of England. In his discussions of these speeches, Hume shows us important differences between high and low rhetoric. The examples of low rhetoric to which he points are impolite, devoid of sound reasoning, and show no respect for the audience members’ judgment. By contrast, Hume discusses one speech – the 1st Earl of Strafford’s speech at his impeachment trial – that embodies his conception of high rhetoric. Hume’s account of Strafford’s speech shows it to combine the ancient rhetoric that Hume admired with the modern standards of politeness that are requisite for appealing to a modern audience and that demonstrate a respect for the audience members’ judgment through an emphasis on discursivity. Hume’s discussion of this speech demonstrates how high rhetoric can win the day against the rhetoric of fanatics and factionalism. When understood in terms of his conception of rhetoric, Hume’s discussions of political oratory in the History of England give us a new window into his account of a pluralist public sphere in which a range of different interests are opposed to one another through political rhetoric. One of his primary political interests was to address the problems that arise from the Janus-faced character of that competition of interests. Hume saw the opposition of interests as both vital to the

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stability of the British constitution and as a danger to that very constitution on account of the violent sects that it sometimes produced. The importance of the opposition of interests and Hume’s concerns with mitigating its dangers are both highlighted in the essay ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth.’ In that essay, the dangers attending the opposition of interests are mitigated through institutional design. But Hume makes clear that interests are opposed to one another through political rhetoric. Because Britain is not a republic and its constitution does not contain the safety mechanisms that Hume built into that of his ideal commonwealth, he understood that the dangers attending the opposition of interests in Britain must be mitigated differently. The discussion of Strafford’s speech in the History of England shows the political importance of Hume’s conception of high rhetoric to be the promise it holds out for enabling the opposition of interests while simultaneously mitigating its attendant dangers. Accurate, Just, and Polite Rhetoric Before looking at the accounts of political oratory in Hume’s History of England, let us draw the discussions of the previous five chapters together to paint a complete picture of Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. The starting point is his concern with questions about the real moral and political effects of faction and fanaticism. The spectre of seventeenth-century English and Scottish politics still loomed large in Hume’s day. British society was still coming to grips with the forces that had plunged their island into civil war in the previous century. And, as the Jacobite rebellions of 1715 and 1745 make plain, the political disputes of the seventeenth century had not been fully resolved by the time that Hume began his literary career. Questions about faction and fanaticism were, therefore, in the air as he embarked on his career as a man of letters. And they continued to be present in political discourse throughout his life. Battles between Whigs and Tories, between Court and Country, dominated British politics. In Scotland, church politics played a very central role in the lives of the citizens. These politics too were marked by contests among factions and by various forms of fanaticism. It is important to recognize Hume’s concerns with these questions about the real moral and political effects of faction and fanaticism because doing so illuminates an important thread that runs throughout his literary career and that ties many of his different works together.

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In the Treatise, Hume develops a philosophy of mind that explains how the same processes of association through which the mind arrives at reasonable judgments are also responsible, at times, for leading people into error. Together with the challenge that Hume poses to probabilistic reason, showing it to rest on principles of association, this understanding of the mind’s natural processes undercuts the foundations of dogmatic and fanatical belief. In addition, Hume’s Treatise develops a moral philosophy that relies on a type of sympathetic communication among individuals that belies the social divisions promoted by faction. In his essays and his writings on religion, Hume explains the natural human susceptibility to faction and fanaticism. He also begins to lay out some of the nefarious social effects that can be attributed to these two forces. This didactic project reaches its fullest expression in Hume’s History of England, particularly in the fifth and sixth volumes of that work. As Herdt writes, Hume intended the History to ‘increase awareness of the hypocrisy and self-deception of religious belief, thereby deflating factional bigotry, encouraging mutual sympathetic understanding, and enhancing concern for public welfare at the expense of factional interests.’2 When read in the context of his concerns with faction and fanaticism, Hume’s discussions of rhetoric acquire great political significance. These discussions cannot be interpreted as insignificant musings on style. Though they are not gathered in a single treatise, Hume’s discussions of rhetoric are linked by the question he poses in ‘Of Eloquence’: ‘Where shall we find a DEMOSTHENES?’3 Faction and fanaticism rely heavily on the power of rhetoric. As Hume comments on numerous occasions, zealots use the power of oratory to manipulate and influence ordinary people, to persuade them to relinquish their moral standards in favour of religiously derived moral codes, or to refocus their view of political questions such that the liberty and good of the country are superseded by the interests of their faction. However, political and religious extremism are dangers of fanaticism, not of rhetoric. Hume’s idealized vision of Demosthenes employs rhetoric toward the promotion of common goods and a general improvement in morality. He practises a high form of rhetoric – an accurate, just, and polite rhetoric – to combat the forces of faction and fanaticism. The question of how to distinguish this high form of rhetoric from the low rhetoric of the fanatics is the central question of Hume’s discussions of rhetoric. Hume’s conception of the power of rhetoric is rooted in his philosophy of mind. For Hume, belief consists in a lively or vivacious feeling

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of the mind that connects a present impression with an associated idea. Reasoning, therefore, consists in associating on the basis of this feeling. And rational and passionate appeals are necessarily connected with one another because there is a mutual assistance between reason and the passions in Hume’s conception of judgment. Rhetorical persuasion, therefore, has a much more central role to play in Hume’s conception of how the mind functions than it does in a conception of the mind that allows for a clean distinction between reason and the passions. Where reason and the passions can be cleanly divorced, and even understood to be in conflict with each other, rhetoric can easily be juxtaposed to reasoned argument, with the latter being assigned a greater persuasive and normative weight. However, Hume’s philosophy of mind does not allow for this easy distinction between different ways of appealing to the mind. This is not to say that Hume had no concept of accurate reasoning. He did. For Hume, we can reason from knowledge, from proofs, or from probabilities. Because the first is limited to the comparison of ideas, it is only the latter two types of reasoning – those involving causal relationships – that are involved in politics. Accurate reasoning of these two kinds involves reasoning on the basis of experiments drawn from experience. Hume’s scientific method allows us to acquire greater and greater certainty about the causal relations that determine our world, but never absolute certainty, because the necessary connection of causal relations is supplied by our imagination. And ‘there is no probability so great as not to allow of a contrary possibility.’4 Accurate and unsound reasoning can, therefore, be cleanly delineated from each other. The former consists in reasoning on the basis of experiments drawn from experience. The latter can take many forms. Most often, unsound reasoning takes the form of syllogistic or demonstrative arguments that are based in premises that do not mandate a positive link of ideas. However, in the realm of politics, the power of reason is limited. First, it does not provide much valuable information because causal relations cannot be demonstrated. Second, the determination of what one is to do is ultimately about the passions. What is more, on Hume’s understanding of cognition, reason is not generally very persuasive. As he writes in the Treatise, in most debates ‘’tis not reason, which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man needs ever despair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, who has art enough to represent it in any favourable colours. The victory is not gain’d by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the sword; but by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army.5

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In contrast to reason, the passionate appeals of rhetoric can be very persuasive. The problem that is highlighted by fanaticism, however, is that the persuasiveness of rhetoric is often little or not at all associated with the reasonableness of the arguments being put forth in the oration. Hume’s discussions of persuasion demonstrate why certain rhetorical strategies are more likely to succeed than others. Persuasive rhetoric appeals to the mind as a primary sense impression because it takes the place of experience. Therefore, Hume argues that elegance, clarity, simplicity, and ease are characteristics of effective rhetoric because they facilitate the mind’s natural processes for forming beliefs and for eliciting passions. However, these rhetorical strategies are equally available to practitioners of low and high rhetoric. It is for this reason that accurate and just reasoning must still play an important part in Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. The union of accurate and just reasoning with rhetoric achieves the union of profound inquiry with the easy and obvious manner ‘best fitted to please the imagination, and engage the affections’ that Hume describes in his union of the two species of philosophy, those of the painter and the anatomist.6 A very similar conception of rhetoric is elaborated in Cicero’s De oratore. Looking back on ancient rhetoric, Hume found much to admire. Though he was certainly no Aristotelian, he concurred with Aristotle’s views on the political nature of rhetoric and on the possibilities for using rhetoric for good or for ill. In Cicero’s works, Hume found a well-articulated conception of the relationship between philosophy and rhetoric. However, because he did not think Cicero to reason very accurately in his own orations, Hume looked elsewhere for a model orator. He found this model in an idealized fantasy of Demosthenes. Of all human productions, Hume considered the speeches of Demosthenes to be ‘the models, which approach the nearest to perfection.’7 Why, then, are Hume’s discussions of this strain of ancient eloquence not sufficient for differentiating high from low rhetoric? Why is high rhetoric not simply the union of the two species of philosophy? One of the problems confronting Hume was that the outlook of the eighteenthcentury British polite gentleman entailed a deep suspicion of rhetoric. Because the figures of passionate rhetoric were generally viewed as antithetical to the polite virtues of simplicity and moderation, Hume could not propose that the strain of ancient eloquence he so admired simply be resuscitated in eighteenth-century Britain. The rhetoric that Hume admired was of a different time and a very different social

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climate. In order to appeal to an eighteenth-century polite sentimentality, this strain of eloquence would have to be modernized. Modernizing this strain of eloquence meant somehow reconciling it with the eighteenth-century standards of politeness that would otherwise relegate it to the realm of the socially unacceptable. In conjunction with his philosophy of mind, Hume’s understanding of politeness – as the arts of conversation – makes this reconciliation possible. Not only are the two species of philosophy united, but so too are the learned and conversable worlds. The notion that rhetoric is inherently impolite rests on the possibility of cleanly divorcing passionate from reasonable persuasion. The assumption here is that we receive and understand reasoned and passionate appeals through different processes of the mind. The passionate appeals of rhetoric can then be dismissed as impolite because they do not appeal to the calm and deliberative faculty of reason. Once the distinction between passionate and reasoned appeals is shown to be specious – as it is in Hume’s philosophy of mind – the claim that arguments appealing to the passions are inherently impolite becomes untenable. Once it has been established that judgment involves a mutual assistance between reason and the passions, it becomes impossible to claim that rhetoric is inherently impolite. It remains possible, however, to claim that some forms of rhetoric are impolite. The challenge then becomes to define polite rhetoric. For Hume, polite rhetoric is imbued with the discursivity that defines his conception of politeness. Polite rhetoric is characterized by the manners, sociability, and connection with everyday life that contribute to discursivity. This conception of polite oratory and the notion of accurate and just reasoning mutually reinforce each other in Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. The groundedness and connection with everyday life of politeness are also to be found in Hume’s empiricism. The orator’s polite manners and sociability that facilitate conversation speak to the same notion of continual inquiry that is at the heart of Hume’s experimental method. We never arrive at absolute knowledge of the causal relations that determine our world. Through continual questioning and experimentation, we simply gain a greater and greater understanding of those relations. Dogma is equally the enemy of scientific method and of politeness. The polite orator eschews dogma. His arguments reflect the uncertainty that is an essential aspect of Hume’s conception of accurate reason. This uncertainty is an important contributor to the audience’s perception of an orator as being polite. Though involved in the asymmetric relationship inherent to an oratorical setting, the audience

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members will be made to feel as though the orator is engaging them in conversation because, rather than lecture and harangue them, the polite orator will engage and respect their judgment by raising questions and by speaking conversationally. The three components of Hume’s accurate, just, and polite rhetoric – accurate and just reasoning, the strain of ancient rhetoric that Hume admired, and eighteenth-century notions of politeness – mutually reinforce one another and are all required for Hume’s conception of a high form of rhetoric that could be used to counter the zealots and the fanatics by promoting common goods and a general improvement in morality. Not only does this conception of rhetoric join sound reasoning to a persuasive style, but it also ensures that speeches will be polite and, therefore, will appeal to the type of polite sentimentality that emerged in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century England and Scotland. Ultimately, as the account of Strafford’s speech in the History of England will show, Hume’s high rhetoric can prove even more persuasive than the rhetoric of the zealots and the fanatics. People are more inclined to believe a speaker they consider to be of good character. And while reason alone might not always be very persuasive, it will usually be more persuasive than manipulative lies when an orator of good character delivers it in a persuasive style. In addition to having the potential to exceed the persuasive power of fanatical rhetoric, Hume’s conception of rhetoric gives us important insights into the distinction between manipulative and nonmanipulative political oratory. Zealots and fanatics employ the power of rhetoric to convince their audiences of unsound ideas and to elicit the related passions that will motivate them to action. This type of manipulative oratory is characterized by the hypocrisy that Hume took to be a feature of most low rhetoric. Often, the unsound ideas promulgated by the fanatics lead to misrepresentations of the audience members’ interests. When the interested affection is accompanied by the manipulative ideas of the fanatics, people can be led to act against the good and the liberty of their country. They can be led to abandon their respect for law and for morality in favour of a new set of guidelines by which to judge of their actions. Usually, these guidelines will favour the interests of the faction and its leaders. Hume would most likely have suggested religiously infused political speeches as the prime example of this form of manipulative oratory. By hitching a political choice – be it to implement laws that would privilege or disadvantage a particular sect, to declare war against another

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country, or to change the constitutional balance of power – to religious principles, orators of this type could use the power of their rhetoric to persuade people that their interest lay in the particular choice favoured by the orator even if that choice would bring violence, disorder, famine, or any number of other results that would run counter to the people’s true interest – as defined by Hume – in order, prosperity, and good government. We can also think of other examples that would fall into this category of manipulative oratory. In place of religious principles, orators sometimes invoke powerful ideals such as democracy or liberty, ideals to which no one in a contemporary liberal democracy would declare themselves in opposition. By avoiding giving any philosophical content to these ideals, such orators convert the people’s belief in liberty or democracy – belief that often resembles religious belief very closely – into support for political policies whose effects run counter to the values of good government, prosperity, and order. Hume’s conception of high rhetoric also gives us insight into the nature of manipulation through the account of judgment that is at its core. Conceptions of judgment that are premised on the notion that reason and the passions can be cleanly separated from each other usually identify manipulation with appeals to the passions. Because reason is considered as a cool, deliberative faculty, in contrast to the impulsive and even animalistic passions, reasoned appeals are considered not to be manipulative. Once the notion of a battle between reason and the passions has been rejected, it becomes clear that the preceding account of judgment is of relatively little explanatory value when it comes to differentiating manipulative from non-manipulative rhetoric. Certainly, appeals to the passions can be manipulative. However, there is no necessary connection between the two. Correspondingly, because the same processes of association that account for sound, reasonable judgments can also lead people into error, reasoned appeals do not necessarily guard against manipulation. On Hume’s account, manipulative and non-manipulative rhetoric are differentiated, not in terms of how they appeal to the imagination, but rather in terms of the effects they have on our reason. In this sense, therefore, his account yields a more nuanced but ultimately more useful conception of manipulation. In the first type of manipulative oratory, the manipulation consists in the misrepresentation of causal relations and of their certainty. There is also a second form of manipulative oratory in which rhetorical figures artificially limit the range of ideas that the imagination can associate. Manipulative orators of this sort use

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figures that misrepresent the scale of their subject, thereby distilling complex moral or political questions down to simple choices among a limited range of options. This strategy is a favourite of both religious and political zealots, who will often manipulate their audiences by representing complex questions as simple choices between two options such as virtue and sin, liberty and slavery, good and evil, us and them. As opposed to pushing the imagination outside the bounds of reason, as is suggested by theories that portray reason as a calm and deliberative faculty, this second sort of manipulative rhetoric limits the reach of the audience members’ reason. On Hume’s account, the power of the imagination to associate ideas is boundless. When rhetorical figures do not match the scale of their subjects, they set artificial boundaries and limit the range of questions that can be asked and the range of associations that can be made. Hume openly acknowledges that the tendencies of our mind that account for our propensity toward credulity ‘can never be thoroughly extirpated from human nature.’8 Consequently, low rhetoric will always be part of our politics. Distinguishing manipulative from non-manipulative rhetoric is an important step toward countering the power of the fanatics. Hume’s account of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric points to a way in which great eloquence might be adapted for a modern political age in order to counter the rhetoric of political and religious zealots through the promotion of common goods and a general improvement in morals. Hume uses this conception of high rhetoric as a measure against which to assess the political speeches he discusses in the History of England. Political Rhetoric in The History of England Throughout his discussions of the Stuart kings in the fifth and sixth volumes of the History of England, Hume pays a great deal of attention to political speeches. In particular, he discusses speeches made in Parliament – by parliamentarians and by the king of the day – and speeches made by condemned political prisoners from the dock or from the scaffold. In this section, I focus on those speeches from which Hume quotes directly rather than those whose arguments he simply summarizes.9 Whether or not Hume’s reports of these speeches are fully accurate is not really important. Either way, his discussions of the speeches in the History of England provide real illustrations of his approach to rhetorical analysis. These discussions culminate in his treatment of the

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1st Earl of Strafford’s10 speech at his impeachment trial on charges of treason. Hume holds this speech up as a demonstration of how a modernized strain of ancient eloquence can exceed modern fanatical and factional eloquence in its persuasive power. Hume’s concern with identifying the effects of faction and fanaticism is particularly evident in the fifth and sixth volumes of the History of England. He writes that ‘the fervour of piety, and the rhetoric, however barbarous, of religious lectures and discourses’ became a foundation for distinction among men during the time period covered in these two volumes.11 Having surveyed his understanding of ancient rhetoric, we are now in a better position to understand his discussions of what he took to be the zealous and factional rhetoric of seventeenthcentury England. The speeches that Hume shows to exhibit zealotry are all devoid of politeness. These orations are also characterized by their lack of sound reasoning. The orators in question do not exhibit the Aristotelian respect for the audience’s judgment. Instead, they resort to lies and misrepresentations of causal relations in order to manipulate their audience members. In the History, Hume recounts how Charles I’s army laid siege to the town of Gloucester in August 1643. The Royalist army had made rapid progress toward London, and the Earl of Essex pressed the parliament to make peace with the king. The House of Lords proposed terms of accommodation, which were passed by the Commons. However, when the Commons voted to present the proposal for peace to the king, as Hume writes, ‘the zealots took the alarm . . . The pulpits thundered, and rumours were spread about twenty thousand Irish, who had landed, and were to cut the throat of every protestant. The majority was again turned to the other side.’12 One of Hume’s claims about the civil war is that the king and parliament could have worked out their differences had not religious enthusiasm been linked with the notion of political liberty. That mixture led the zealots to oppose peace with the king by any means, even by resorting to lies. The zealots employed the ‘thunder’ of the pulpits in order to convince the people of their lies. And, because the option for peace was not defended with rhetoric that could counter the zealots’ thunder, the option for peace lost out. One strategy that is evident in what Hume took to be zealous rhetoric is the use of symbolic language as shorthand for argument. The most glaring example of such a device was the fear of popery, which was actively cultivated by the various Protestant sects. Hume writes that throughout Charles I’s reign, ‘nothing had more fatal influence, in both

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kingdoms, than this groundless apprehension, which, with so much industry, was propagated, and with so much credulity, was embraced, by all ranks of men.’13 Even the Royalists occasionally appealed to this fear. In pointing to the absurdity of the peoples’ fear of popery, Hume recounts how Sir Edward Coke, James I’s chief justice, in the Trial of Mrs. Turner, told her, that she was guilty of the seven deadly sins: She was a whore, a bawd, a sorcerer, a witch, a papist, a felon, and a murderer. And what may more surprize us, Bacon, then attorney general, took care to observe, that poisoning was a popish trick. Such were the bigotted prejudices which prevailed: Poisoning was not, of itself, sufficiently odious, if it were not represented as a branch of popery.14

It was the Protestant sects that made the most use of the people’s fear of popery. Virtually anything that ran counter to their interests was denominated as such. The prejudice against popery was so violent, Hume writes, that ‘it was thought a sufficient reason for disqualifying any one from holding an office, that his wife, or relations, or companions, were papists, though he himself were a conformist.’15 Hume writes of a 1678 debate in parliament over a bill that denominated popery as idolatry and that excluded all parliamentarians who refused to take a test for popery from both houses of parliament. He recounts one speech as follows: ‘“I would not have,” said one peer, in the debate on this bill “so much as a popish man or a popish woman to remain here; not so much as a popish dog or a popish bitch; not so much as a popish cat to pur or mew about the king.” What is more extraordinary; this speech met with praise and approbation.’16 Why was the approbation for this speech so extraordinary? The speech contained no reasoning at all. It simply played on assumptions about the evils of popery without presenting any rationale for the proposed adoption of the test. Hume saw the active promotion of fear of popery as part of a pattern of hypocrisy though which zealots would claim to be defending common interests while, in fact, promoting only their own private interests or those of their faction. He identified this hypocrisy as a defining feature of the rhetoric of seventeenth-century English zealots. Hume writes that some persons, partial to the patriots of this age, have ventured to put them in a balance with the most illustrious characters of antiquity; and mention the names of Pym, Hambden, Vane, as a just parallel to those of Cato, Brutus, Cassius. Profound capacity, indeed, undaunted courage, extensive

Rhetoric and the Public Sphere 135 enterprise; in these particulars, perhaps, the Romans do not much surpass the English worthies: But what a difference, when the discourse, conduct, conversation, and private as well as public behaviour, of both are inspected! Compare only one circumstance, and consider its consequences. The leisure of those noble ancients was totally employed in the study of Grecian eloquence and philosophy; in the cultivation of polite letters and civilized society: The whole discourse and language of the moderns were polluted with mysterious jargon, and full of the lowest and most vulgar hypocrisy.17

Here, Hume presents the Ciceronian combination of rhetoric and philosophy as a contrast to the zealots’ hypocrisy. This is an opposition that he returns to time and again. Of John Hampden, who, as a deputy-lieutenant, commanded a regiment of cavalry for the parliamentary forces in 1643, Hume writes that his valour ‘shone out with a luster equal to that of the other accomplishments, by which he had ever been distinguished.’ Throughout his life, he demonstrated ‘affability in conversation; temper, art, and eloquence in debate.’ However, writes Hume, ‘we must only be cautious, notwithstanding his generous zeal for liberty, not hastily to ascribe to him the praises of a good citizen . . . [W]hether, in the pursuit of his violent enterprise, he was actuated by private ambition, or by honest prejudices, derived from the former exorbitant powers of royalty, it belongs not to an historian of this age . . . to determine.’18 It was the mixture of religious enthusiasm with politics, Hume thought, that had led to the Civil War. This mixture was in evidence as far back as 1629. In the parliamentary debate of that year over Charles I’s right to collect tonnage and poundage in order to raise revenue, Francis Rouse made the following address to parliament: ‘If a man meet a dog alone,’ he said, ‘the dog is fearful, though ever so fierce by nature: But, if the dog have his master with him, he will set upon that man, from whom he fled before. This shows, that lower natures, being backed by higher, encrease in courage and strength, and certainly man, being backed with Omnipotency, is a kind of omnipotent creature. All things are possible to him that believes; and where all things are possible, there is a kind of omnipotency. Wherefore, let it be the unanimous consent and resolution of us all to make a vow and covenant henceforth to hold fast our God and our religion; and then shall we henceforth expect with certainty happiness in this world.’19

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Hume writes of Rouse’s speech and the debate of which it was a part that ‘it is easy to discern so early some sparks of that enthusiastic fire, which afterwards set the whole nation in combustion.’20 The enthusiastic fire is evident in Rouse’s religious pronouncements. However, the fundamental failing of the speech, from a Humean perspective, is one of reasoning. The analogy between God and the dog’s owner is highly flawed because it assumes certain characteristics of God that cannot be verified through experience. Because we have no direct experience of God, Rouse’s reasoning is shown to be based in a species of unphilosophical probability and fails the test of Hume’s experimental method. Hume writes that ‘men of the greatest genius, when they relinquish by principle the use of their reason, are only enabled, by the vigour of mind, to work themselves the deeper into error and absurdity.’21 Without the grounding provided by the experimental method, orators cut their reasonings loose from experience and free themselves to endorse the sorts of actions that led to the Civil War. ‘Among the generality of men, educated in regular, civilized societies,’ Hume writes, ‘the sentiments of shame, duty, honour, have considerable authority, and serve to counterbalance and direct the motives, derived from private advantage.’ However, through the contagious dissemination of enthusiasm throughout England, ‘these salutary principles lost their credit, and were regarded as mere human inventions, yea moral institutions, fitter for heathens than for christians.’22 In the speeches that Hume holds up as exemplary of the zealous rhetoric of the age, morality is subjugated to private interests. Hume describes the ‘enthusiastic genius of young Vane’ (Sir Henry Vane the Younger) as ‘extravagant in the ends which he pursued, sagacious and profound in the means which he employed; incited by the appearances of religion, negligent of the duties of morality.’23 In the debates in which faction and fanaticism predominated, Hume writes, ‘the commons shewed a greater spirit of independence than any true judgment of national interest.’24 The result, he thought, was the Civil War. In addition to his discussions of rhetoric that he took to be zealous, Hume also recounts several speeches that he understood to be failed attempts to counter the torrents of fanatical rhetoric. These discussions demonstrate the importance of each of the three elements of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric. Unlike Aristotle, Hume did not believe that truthful argument would persuade above all other forms of rhetoric. Hume often appeals to James I as an example of a well-intentioned orator who was unsuccessful in persuading people to pursue public

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interests because his rhetoric was no match for the stirring speeches of the zealots. A prime example of this sort of speech is that made by James I after the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1604–5. Despite having been the primary target of the assassination attempt, James responded to the discovery of the plot by attempting, but ultimately failing, to mollify rather than stoke the people’s anger against the Catholics. According to Hume, the king, in his speech to the parliament, observed, that, though religion had engaged the conspirators in so criminal an attempt, yet ought we not to involve all the Roman catholics in the same guilt, or suppose them equally disposed to commit such enormous barbarities. Many holy men, he said, and our ancestors among the rest, had been seduced to concur with that church in her scholastic doctrines; who yet had never admitted her seditious principles, concerning the pope’s power of dethroning kings, or sanctifying assassination. The wrath of Heaven is denounced, against crimes, but innocent error may obtain its favour; and nothing can be more hateful than the uncharitableness of the puritans, who condemn alike to eternal torments, even the most inoffensive partizans of popery. For his part, he added, that conspiracy, however atrocious, should never alter, in the least, his plan of government: While with one hand he punished guilt; with the other, he would still support and protect innocence.25

Hume presents James’s speech as a very rational defence of innocent Catholics in the face of a storm of anger against all Catholics. James endorses a measured response to the Gunpowder Plot and draws on historical precedent in his reasoning. Despite this sound reasoning, however, James fails to quell the people’s anger. In fact, Hume writes, in striving to ‘abate the acrimony of his own subjects against the religion of their fathers,’ James ‘became himself the object of their dissidence and aversion.’26 Whether or not James had any hope of abating the fear and anger of his subjects is certainly up for debate. Hume’s conception of rhetoric suggests that in order to do so, James would have had to elicit strong enough passions to directly counter the people’s anger and fear. What is evident is that James’s speech did not succeed in eliciting these required passions. Hume thought his speech to be admirable for its sound reasoning. However, Hume’s account of reason shows just how weak this type of appeal can be in the face of violent passions. James’s rhetoric

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was simply not powerful enough to accomplish his objective of mollifying the people’s anger and fear. In a 1624 speech to parliament, James again proposed a middle ground in dealing with English Catholics. Hume writes that his response to an address that was ‘very disagreeable to the king, craving the severe execution of the laws against catholics,’ was ‘gracious and condescending.’27 In this speech, James used much more vivid language than he had in his response to the Gunpowder Plot. His opposition to the severe execution of the anti-Catholic laws was based, Hume recounts, in ‘the received maxim, That the blood of the martyrs was the seed of the church.’28 However, where the 1605 speech lacked vivacity and passion, James’ 1624 speech lacked sound reasoning. The ‘blood of the martyrs’ metaphor was certainly vivid. But James’s reasons for condemning the severe execution of the anti-Catholic laws and at the same time condemning the ‘entire indulgence of the catholics’ – what James termed ‘the most humane and most politic’ plan of action – were poorly explained. Hume writes that James deemed the distinction he drew between toleration and a temporary suspension of the penal laws against the Catholics to be ‘naturally explained.’29 His failure to convince the parliamentarians to adopt his plan demonstrates that it was not. James never quite succeeded in combining all of the elements of high rhetoric in a single speech. He was, according to Hume, possessed of ‘learning and eloquence.’30 However, combining the two showed itself to be a struggle. And when James did manage in this regard, Hume makes clear that he was unable to combine learning and eloquence in a polite manner. Of the speech that James gave at the opening of the parliament in 1604, Hume writes that ‘though few productions of the age surpass this performance either in style or matter; it wants that majestic brevity and reserve, which becomes a king in his addresses to the great council of the nation.’31 Once again, James’s rhetoric was not quite accurate, just, and polite. Another speech that Hume admired, though it was not fully accurate, just, and polite, is Elizabeth I’s famous 1588 speech to the troops at Tilbury who were waiting to defend against a possible invasion of the Spanish Armada.32 Though he does not quote directly from this speech, Hume’s account clearly conveys his admiration for Elizabeth’s powerful performance.33 The Queen, Hume writes, exhorted the soldiers to remember their duty to their country and their religion, and professed her intention, though a woman, to lead them

Rhetoric and the Public Sphere 139 herself into the field against the enemy, and rather to perish in battle than survive the ruin and slavery of her people. By this spirited behaviour she revived the tenderness and admiration of the soldiery: An attachment to her person became a kind of enthusiasm among them: And they asked one another, Whether it were possible, that Englishmen could abandon this glorious cause, could display les fortitude than appeared in the female sex, or could ever, by any dangers, be induced to relinquish the defense of their heroic princess?34

Undoubtedly, this speech demonstrates the persuasive power of passionate appeals. No calm, rational argument could possibly have roused the spirits of the soldiers to the extent that Elizabeth’s speech at Tilbury did. However, because the speech is purely emotional, it lacks the grounding that is necessary for Hume’s conception of high rhetoric. In this particular case, Elizabeth’s appeal to the passions was in furtherance of an end that Hume would surely have deemed good, namely, the defence of England against an invading force. But, apart from its objective, there is nothing in the speech to differentiate it from the powerful emotional appeals of the zealots. In fact, Hume notes that Elizabeth’s speech produced ‘an attachment to her person [that] became a kind of enthusiasm among’ the forces.35 Had Elizabeth been one of the factional leaders that Hume thought so dangerous, this enthusiasm would likely have seemed to him a symptom of her low rhetoric. Hume’s account of Elizabeth’s speech reminds us of the importance of maintaining the distinction between effective and good rhetoric. Elizabeth’s speech was certainly effective. However, it lacked the grounding that Hume thought necessary to distinguish good from simply effective rhetoric. In the History of England, Hume discusses one speech that he considered to be good and not simply effective. His account of Strafford’s speech at his impeachment trial is the best example he gives us of a speech that embodies his notion of high rhetoric. Thomas Wentworth, the 1st Earl of Strafford, was a close ally and confidant of Charles I. The English Parliament brought charges against him after the Second Bishop’s War in 1639. Ironically, the account of Strafford’s speech that most confirms it as an example of accurate, just, and polite rhetoric comes from Bulstrode Whitlocke, the chairman of the committee that conducted Strafford’s impeachment: ‘Certainly, says Whitlocke with his usual candor, ‘never any man acted such a part, on such a theatre, with more wisdom, constancy, and eloquence, with greater reason, judgment, and temper, and with a better grace in all his words and actions,

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than did this great and excellent person; and he moved the hearts of all his auditors, some few excepted, to remorse and pity.’36 The way Hume tells the story, Strafford was caught in the crossfire between the king and the parliament. The Commons’ attempt to impeach him, and his ultimate conviction and execution, were really part of the parliament’s attempt to undermine the powers of the king. Hume writes that ‘it appears from comparison, not only that [Strafford] was free from the crime of treason, of which there is not the least appearance, but that his conduct, making allowance for human infirmities, exposed to such severe scrutiny, was innocent, and even laudable.’37 Strafford was charged with having made ‘an endeavour to subvert the fundamental laws,’ a crime that was not listed in ‘the famous statute of Edward III [in which] all the kinds of treason are enumerated.’38 What is more, the Commons ‘invented a kind of accumulative or constructive evidence, by which many actions either totally innocent in themselves, or criminal in a much inferior degree, shall, when united, amount to treason.’39 Hume quotes at length from the conclusion of the speech that Strafford made in his own defence. This passage contains far and away the lengthiest quotation to be found anywhere in the fifth and sixth volumes of the History.40 Hume presents Strafford as a man standing alone against a parliament inflamed with fanaticism and bent upon his destruction. Strafford, Hume writes, ‘without assistance, mixing modesty and humility with firmness and vigour, made such a defense that the commons saw it impossible, by a legal prosecution, ever to obtain a sentence against him.’41 Eventually, the Commons did pass a Bill of Attainder and managed to execute Strafford through that means. But on this particular charge of treason, Strafford was not convicted. Hume shows how Strafford’s rhetoric won out over ‘the managers [who] divided the several articles among them, and attacked the prisoner with all the weight of authority, with all the vehemence of rhetoric, with all the accuracy of long preparation.’42 The fact that Strafford was ultimately executed does speak against the efficacy of his rhetoric. Ultimately, he failed to convince the Lords to vote for his acquittal. However, Hume is not holding Strafford up as his model orator. Strafford is important to Hume’s discussions of rhetoric for this particular speech that he gave to the Commons. And Hume goes to great lengths to ensure that his readers know that, on the occasion of this particular speech, Strafford’s rhetoric proved persuasive despite the odds that were stacked against him.

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The attention that Hume pays to this speech can be explained by the fact that it appeals to his conception of high rhetoric in four regards. First, it is directed at the public interest. Though he is arguing for his own acquittal and, ultimately, his own life, Strafford demonstrates how the precedent that his execution would set is counter to the national interest. Second, Strafford’s reasoning is grounded in the experimental method. It demonstrates how his conviction on the charge of treason would stand out as a historical anomaly. Strafford implores his accusers not to ignore the wisdom that has accumulated through the years. Third, Strafford’s reasoning is imbued with vivid imagery. The metaphors of the ship and anchor, and of the sleeping lions, convey the ideas in Strafford’s speech in much more vivid terms than would calm reason. Finally, Strafford is engaging his accusers in conversation. His manner is neither haughty nor pedantic. He engages his audience by posing questions for them to consider. Ultimately, Strafford shows respect for the judgment of his individual audience members. In these four respects, therefore, Strafford succeeds in resuscitating the strain of ancient eloquence that Hume admired and in imbuing it with the politeness necessary to make it persuasive to a modern audience. Strafford was clearly speaking to save his own life. But at the same time, his oration conveyed the need to moderate the dispute that pitted king against parliament. Hume, we will recall, urged his compatriots ‘to draw a lesson of moderation with regard to the parties, into which our country is at present divided; at the same time, that we allow not this moderation to abate the industry and passion, with which every individual is bound to pursue the good of his country.’43 This phrase, perhaps better than any other, encapsulates the normative imperative of Hume’s political theory. Strafford offers one example of how the balance between moderation with regard to parties and zeal for the public can be achieved in political oratory. Rhetoric and the Public Sphere By reading the accounts of political oratory in the History of England through the lens of Hume’s conception of high rhetoric, we gain a better understanding of the alternative view of the public sphere that lies behind his discussions of faction and fanaticism. Hume argues that there is an imperative to ‘maintain, with the utmost ZEAL, in every free state, those forms and institutions, by which liberty is secured, the public good consulted, and the avarice or ambition of particular men

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restrained and punished.’44 Hume’s ideal public sphere is marked by moderation in the public discourse with regard to the accusations and commendations that are directed at particular politicians as well as in those that are levelled at political institutions such as the constitution. However, it is marked by a public zeal, as Hume terms it, for the common good. Despite his interest in the common good, Hume was a pluralist in that he acknowledged that a plurality of interests would compete for space and influence in the public sphere. One of his primary political interests was to address the problems that arise from the Janus-faced character of that competition of interests. As we have seen, Hume saw it both as ‘the chief support of the BRITISH government’45 and as a dangerous feature of public life that often led to the rise of combative sects. In his essay ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,’ Hume outlines a form of government to which, he claims, he ‘cannot, in theory, discover any considerable objection.’46 In some respects, this essay is an anomaly in Hume’s corpus. Hume was, of course, a strong critic of political programs based in speculative ideals. He even begins this essay by arguing that to ‘try experiments merely on the credit of supposed argument and philosophy, can never be part of a wise magistrate.’47 So, it would be difficult to make the argument for reading the essay as an actual political program. What is more, Hume’s support for the British constitution problematises any reading of him as a strict republican. Still, there is good reason to believe that Hume intended the essay to offer insights that would have practical relevance to British politics. In particular, the essay demonstrates the importance of the opposition of interests to Hume’s conception of the public sphere. Jacob Levy argues that Hume broke with earlier republicans such as Rousseau and Montesquieu regarding the size of a workable republic. Levy writes, ‘Hume’s insight was that a republic – no longer a civic republic – might be more stable and durable in a large state than in a small, because the large state would have a plurality of interests that might balance each other.’48 Hume writes that ‘though it is more difficult to form a republican government in an extensive country than in a city; there is more facility, when once it is formed, of preserving it steady and uniform, without tumult and faction.’49 In ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,’ Hume describes a form of government that involves a wide dispersion of power and extensive checks against its consolidation. The commonwealth is divided into one hundred counties, each of which is in turn divided into one hundred

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parishes. Once a year, those eligible to vote gather in their parish to elect one representative.50 The one hundred representatives in each county then gather to elect one senator and ten magistrates from amongst their ranks. The executive power is granted to the senate, which is made up of one hundred senators. The legislative power is granted to the county representatives and can be wielded either by the eleven hundred magistrates (all senators are also magistrates) or by the full ten thousand county representatives divided into their one hundred councils of representatives. 51 The stability of the commonwealth depends in no small measure upon a balance created by the opposition of interests. However, the opposition of interests carries with it real dangers. Hume writes that ‘we know not to what length enthusiasm, or other extraordinary movements of the human mind, may transport men, to the neglect of all order and public good.’52 When people begin to neglect the public good, Hume writes, ‘whimsical and unaccountable factions often arise.’53 In Hume’s ideal commonwealth, the institutional structures maintain the opposition of interests by ensuring that none are silenced. A healthy opposition of interests mitigates against the development of factions and the consolidation of power by any one group. In Hume’s ideal commonwealth, the politicians ‘have no power of controlling the senate: They only have the power of accusing, and appealing to the people.’54 Here is the essential connection between Hume’s republican ideal and his conception of high rhetoric. In Hume’s model commonwealth, interests are opposed to one another through political rhetoric. Of course, Britain is not a republic. And its constitutional design is very different from that of Hume’s ideal commonwealth. So, the British constitution does not contain the institutional checks that, in Hume’s ideal, are meant to prevent the development of violent sects. However, just as political rhetoric plays an important role in Hume’s account of a perfect commonwealth, it is also essential in the British context as a primary mechanism through which competing interests can be articulated and opposed to one another. And in the account of Strafford’s speech in the History of England, in which Hume’s conception of high rhetoric serves to deflate factional bigotry, Hume reveals an alternative basis for combating the rise of violent sects. Hume’s conception of high rhetoric is, therefore, politically important both for the support it lends to the constitution as a key mechanism through which interests are opposed to one another, but also for its capacity, or at least for the promise it holds, to dampen the fires of faction and fanaticism and so combat the

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rise of the violent sects that Hume feared would arise as a result of the opposition of interests. The importance of Hume’s conception of rhetoric to his political theory draws our attention to significant connections between his political, historical, and philosophical writings. It connects his discussions of persuasion, reason, and politeness to his concerns with the real political and moral effects of faction and fanaticism. Hume’s discussions of belief and of the passions take on added political significance when they are understood as the bases of his conception of rhetoric. In particular, Hume’s treatment of rhetoric offers insights into the conception of opposing interests that he understood to be the foundation of the British constitution and of his ideal republican commonwealth. Not only does Hume’s account of the public sphere help us to understand the importance of his conception of rhetoric to his political philosophy, it also suggests the important contemporary relevance of Hume’s account of rhetoric. In modern democratic states, interests are continually opposed in the public sphere. In light of this feature of democratic politics, many contemporary liberal and democratic theorists are heavily engaged in developing normative models to improve the quality of democratic practices, particularly deliberation. Contemporary liberal and democratic theory has developed with little or no regard for Hume’s account of judgment or for his conception of rhetoric. In the final chapter of this book I will argue that contemporary theorists would gain valuable theoretical resources by looking back to Hume.

7 Toward a Politics of Eloquence

Many do not think themselves sufficiently compensated, for the losing of their dinners, by all the eloquence of our most celebrated speakers.1 Eloquence certainly springs up more naturally in popular governments.2

Hume sought his ‘Demosthenes’ to engage the battle against faction and fanaticism in his own day. As I have argued throughout this book, that battle was not only the focus for the development of Hume’s political thought, but also an important thread that connects his various writings – his historical, philosophical, and popular works – and that relates them to his lifelong project. The phenomena that Hume sought to understand in his study of faction and fanaticism and in his work to differentiate manipulative from non-manipulative political oratory remain prominent in our modern democratic politics. In particular, Isaiah Berlin’s value pluralism thesis – the thesis that values are irreducibly plural and often incommensurable – reveals a contemporary source of danger that faction will arise as a result of open discourse in the public sphere. Berlin’s account of values and value conflicts also reveals some of the problems with basing normative models of judgment and deliberation on rationalism alone. Consequently, Hume’s account of rhetoric and the sentiment-based conception of judgment that underlies it are highly relevant to contemporary theorists interested in improving the quality of democratic practices. In contemporary democratic societies, citizens routinely face difficult moral and political questions. The moral, religious, and cultural pluralism that defines their societies renders those questions even more

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complex. As there are no demonstratively true answers to any of these questions, persuasion and persuasive speech are permanent fixtures of democratic politics. And in this context, the dangers of low rhetoric that concerned Hume in the eighteenth century remain salient. Politicians, pundits, and activists can all be found exhorting citizens to support their particular or partisan positions. Often, those exhortations exhibit some or all of the characteristics that, according to Hume, define low fanatical rhetoric: using rhetorical devices to reduce complex questions to simple choices between only two options, unsound reasoning, and an impolite lack of respect for the audience’s judgment. Yet despite all of these factors that complicate or even hinder their efforts to make good moral and political judgments, democratic citizens must persist. Much contemporary liberal and democratic theory is taken up with developing normative accounts of judgment and deliberation in order to improve democratic practices. Hume’s conception of judgment, which is foundational to his understanding of political rhetoric, is a significant theoretical resource that has, as of yet, had relatively little impact on the development of contemporary liberal and democratic theory. To date, the most thorough account of Hume’s contemporary relevance has been developed by Sharon Krause in Civil Passions: Moral Sentiment and Democratic Deliberation. Krause’s account of the normative superiority of a Humean conception of democratic deliberation is her attempt to reorient the expectations of democratic theorists toward a more realistic account of political judgment than is offered by the neoKantian paradigm and to explain the importance of sentiments in sustaining political commitments in democratic regimes. While very persuasive in many respects, I believe that Krause’s normative argument for a Humean model of judgment could be strengthened by an explicit account of the ways that Hume’s conception of judgment offers a more useful response to the challenges posed by value pluralism than do the rationalist accounts of judgment that she critiques. The discussion of value pluralism is important because it offers us important insight into the insufficiency of rationalist accounts of judgment. It also suggests that the problem that concerned Hume – namely, the question of how to balance the necessity of having an open public discourse with the danger that the opposition of interests in the public sphere will give rise to combative sects – should also be of concern to contemporary theorists. As I have argued throughout this book, Hume’s conception of high rhetoric is one major component of his answer to this question. My account of Hume’s conception of rhetoric and its relationship to value pluralism bolsters Krause’s normative argument for a Humean

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model of judgment. However, it also challenges the privileged place of impartiality in her account of judgment. Though impartiality has been central to most contemporary conceptions of judgment and deliberation, Berlin’s value pluralist thesis, together with the importance of rhetoric in public discourse, both call for a more nuanced normative account of the place of impartiality in democratic politics. As I have argued, Hume’s account of rhetoric shows the importance of an orator’s sensitivity to the particular passions and contexts of the audience members. This sensitivity is all the more important in a value pluralist context in which different individuals will often hold conflicting and even incommensurable values. The argument for a more nuanced account of impartiality in a democratic public discourse has been powerfully developed in Bryan Garsten’s important recent study on rhetoric and democratic politics, Saving Persuasion. Garsten argues for the democratic importance of partiality, privacy, and respect for judgment, all three of which he closely associates with rhetoric and persuasion.3 I will conclude this chapter by arguing that Garsten’s case for the importance of rhetoric in contemporary democratic politics could be further strengthened by a closer engagement with Hume. In particular, I will argue that Hume directly addresses the concerns about individual judgment that motivated the antagonists in Garsten’s book in ways that Aristotle and Cicero, the models Garsten adopts, do not. In addition, Hume would be a valuable counterpart to James Madison in Garsten’s discussion of the relationship between rhetorical persuasion and institutional design. In the end, Hume has an important role to play in the development of a politics of eloquence. Democratic citizens routinely speak to one another about moral and political questions that are greatly complicated by the range of value commitments that exist among the citizenry. Hume’s accurate, just, and polite rhetoric provides an important account of how democratic citizens might engage in this type of discourse in the public sphere, and defend their own views forcefully and passionately in an effort to persuade others of their merits, without resorting to manipulation, without fomenting the factionalism and fanaticism that can be so destructive to a democratic society. Challenging the Dominant Paradigm in Contemporary Liberal and Democratic Theory Following Kant, contemporary liberal theories of judgment and deliberation have tended to draw a clear distinction between reason and

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the passions and to define no legitimate role for the latter in moral and political deliberation.4 In large part, this emphasis on reason can be accounted for by the concern among contemporary liberals with ensuring impartiality in moral and political matters. Like many of the polite thinkers of the eighteenth century, those who value impartiality often consider passions as sources of error and prejudice, and are consequently very suspicious of any role for the passions in deliberation and judgment. Reasonableness and impartiality are cast as necessary for any model of judgment or deliberation to produce just and legitimate outcomes in a pluralist society. However, though the motive behind this treatment of reason and the passions might be laudable, its effect has been the development of normative models of judgment and deliberation that do not accord very well with the empirical realities of judgment. Recently, a number of contemporary liberal theorists have sought to reconceptualize the relationship between reason and the passions. Rebecca Kingston and Leonard Ferry write that these recent attempts have four principal implications for contemporary liberal and democratic theory: ‘they can generate a rethinking of our traditional ways of distinguishing between private and public; they can lead us to seek greater clarity on the ways in which emotion continues to sustain current political commitments in liberal and democratic regimes; they can contribute to recognizing better outcomes in democratic practice including democratic deliberation; and finally, in general, they allow us to develop a more realistic set of political expectations.’5 By challenging the rationalist preconceptions that inhabit much contemporary liberal and democratic theory, and by demonstrating the importance of more nuanced accounts of impartiality and its place in democratic politics, the Humean accounts of judgment and rhetoric that I have laid out in this book can contribute in all four ways to the development of contemporary liberal and democratic thought. The Kantian route was not the only route open for the development of contemporary liberalism. Though the roots of the liberal tradition extend further back into the history of political thought, John Gray argues that ‘it is in the writings of the social philosophers and political economists of the Scottish Enlightenment that we find the first comprehensive statement in systematic form of the principles and foundations of liberalism.’6 But until very recently, the avenue of Humean sentiment-based philosophy has remained a road not taken by contemporary liberal thinkers. The primary reason to turn back to Hume is the simple fact that reflection upon the realities of politics in modern

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liberal democracies makes it increasingly difficult to claim that good judgments are purely, or even primarily, the products of reason. We need only think of some of the great political speeches of the recent past to see how passionate appeals to the people’s sense of justice, or civic-mindedness, or freedom have powerfully influenced political judgments and political debates. It has become increasingly apparent to many liberal thinkers that, like it or not, the passions are heavily implicated in our modes of judgment. As Bryan Garsten writes, ‘even if we hope to draw citizens into deliberating reasonably with one another, we cannot help but begin by appealing to them as we find them – opinionated, self-interested, sentimental, partial to their friends and family, and often unreasonable.’7 Of course, the fact that we find citizens of liberal democracies this way does not mean that, left to their own devices, they will necessarily make good judgments or that there is no room for normative theories of judgment and deliberation. But, as Andrew Sabl argues, it does suggest problems with Kantian and deliberative ideals of democracy that ‘argue as if a modern democracy were, or should be, a single rational conversation among the whole citizen body.’8 Quite simply, such ideals suffer from the problem of fitting a round peg into a square hole. No theory of judgment and deliberation, no matter how normatively appealing, can succeed in improving democratic politics if it requires citizens to act in ways that are contrary to their nature. Let us be clear, as Sharon Krause argues, to hold ‘affective concerns to be necessary conditions of judgment,’ we ‘dispute a central premise of the dominant neo-Kantian paradigm in moral and political theory today, which holds that reason as a faculty of the mind that transcends sentiment is perfectly capable, on its own, of motivating at least decisions, if not also actions.’9 The point of articulating this challenge to the dominant neo-Kantian paradigm is to persuade contemporary theorists that a closer engagement with Hume would yield insights into how his complex understanding of the relationship between reason and the passions might aid in a revision of our liberal understandings of political and moral judgment. In her book Civil Passions and elsewhere, Sharon Krause argues for the adoption of a Humean model of judgment and deliberation precisely because this model better accords with the ways in which citizens actually deliberate and make judgments. Krause writes that no sentiment-free form of practical judgment is available to us. In this sense, there is no real choice to be made between the sentiment-based model and the rationalist one because we cannot deliberate about practical ends

150 The Politics of Eloquence without affect. So to argue for a sentiment-based model of judgment and deliberation is not to recommend bringing more passions into politics, or to encourage people to be more emotional and less reflective in their judgments. It is rather to defend a clearer understanding of what is already happening (and what cannot help but happen) when we deliberate about what we ought to do.10

Krause’s case is even stronger when we consider how a Humean model of judgment can cope with the challenges of value pluralism. Humean Judgment and Value Pluralism Isaiah Berlin’s notion of value pluralism poses significant challenges for contemporary liberal attempts at developing normative models of judgment and deliberation. Berlin’s account of the nature of values and value conflicts, which I take to be, for the most part, correct, describes a moral universe in which values are irreducibly plural and often incommensurable. To the extent that it relies on a Kantian model of rationalism, contemporary liberal theory is ill-equipped to deal with a moral universe characterized by value pluralism. The value pluralism thesis suggests serious, and possibly fatal, problems with basing normative conceptions of moral judgment and moral deliberation on rationalism alone. By contrast, Hume’s sentiment-based conception of judgment is much better equipped to address the challenges of value pluralism. At this stage, I will simply suggest four concrete ways in which Hume’s account of judgment offers important advantages for dealing with the challenges of value pluralism. First, as Krause argues so persuasively, in defining a key role for the passions in moral judgment, Hume’s work better accounts for the empirical realities of judgment than does the Kantian tradition. Second, Hume provides a better basis for normative conceptions of judgment and deliberation because his account explains how it is that different individuals in different ages, cultures, or countries might share notions of virtue and vice while disagreeing on how to assess the morality of particular practices or traits. Third, and possibly most significantly, Hume’s conception of moral judgment provides an account of different types of value and explains why some are rationally defensible while others – those that are matters of taste – are not. It thus offers a useful corrective to Kantian-inspired models of judgment and deliberation by specifying the limited, but still very important role for reason in these processes. Finally, Hume

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provides a useful means of understanding the complexity of difficult moral choices and the moral loss that the value pluralism thesis predicts will attend many moral choices that are nonetheless considered to be good. To be clear, my claim is not that Hume offers us means of resolving all value conflicts. If we take the value pluralism thesis seriously, we must in fact relinquish any hope of resolving all conflicts of value, even in principle. My claim, therefore, is that Hume provides a better footing from which to understand value conflicts and upon which to construct normative models of judgment and deliberation. And in this sense, I believe, the discussion of value pluralism can only strengthen Krause’s already persuasive case for adopting a Humean model of judgment. However, the discussion of value pluralism also highlights the contemporary relevance of Hume’s concern with ensuring an open public sphere amidst the danger that the opposition of interests will breed faction. This aspect of the discussion suggests the contemporary relevance of Hume’s conception of rhetoric and simultaneously points us toward a critique of Krause’s emphasis on impartiality in judgment. Isaiah Berlin’s value pluralism thesis is not tantamount to moral relativism. On Berlin’s account, values are objective, meaning that they are ‘ends that men pursue for their own sakes, to which other things are means.’11 But they are also irreducibly plural. Genuine values cannot necessarily be harmonized or reconciled. In fact, many genuine values conflict with one another and, in some cases, are incommensurable with one another. As John Gray has written, there are three levels to Berlin’s doctrine of value pluralism. In the first place, the thesis suggests that ‘within any morality or code of conduct such as ours, there will arise conflicts among the ultimate values of that morality, which neither theoretical nor practical reasoning about them can resolve.’12 At a second level, Berlin’s thesis suggests that ‘each of these goods is internally complex and inherently pluralistic, containing conflicting elements, some of which are constitutive incommensurables.’13 Finally, ‘different cultural forms will generate different moralities and values, containing many overlapping features, no doubt, but also specifying different, and incommensurable, excellences, virtues and conceptions of the good.’14 What implications does the acknowledgment of value pluralism have for our discussion of political rhetoric and the public sphere? One notable implication, I believe, is that we must rethink contemporary liberal models of judgment and deliberation because the dominant strains

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of liberal theory that are rooted in Kantian rationalism are insufficiently sensitive to value pluralism.15 This insufficient sensitivity to value pluralism is evident in, for example, John Rawls’s Kantian-inspired conception of political liberalism. Rawls’s rearticulation of his notion of justice as fairness in Political Liberalism was designed to answer the challenges of pluralism. However, Rawls’s political liberalism fails to adequately respond to these challenges because it is so deeply rooted in a conception of reasonableness that is devoid of affect. Specifically, by excluding from his notion of public reason all reasons derived from comprehensive frameworks that are not shared, or at least accessible, by all citizens, Rawls ‘systematically (though sometimes unintentionally) rules out the kinds of claims that are central to many citizens’ cherished moral and religious doctrines.’16 According to Rawls, ‘a citizen engages in public reason, then, when he or she deliberates within a framework of what he or she sincerely regards as the most reasonable political conception of justice, a conception that expresses political values that others, as free and equal citizens, might reasonably be expected to reasonably endorse.’17 The notion of reciprocity that underlies Rawls’s claim is most certainly worthy of support in a liberal democratic culture. However Rawls’s means for satisfying the criterion of reciprocity is only one of several available options. Rawls ensures reciprocity through an appeal to his original position in which individuals are abstracted from their affective concerns and constrained in their deliberation by a highly rationalist conception of judgment. By contrast, Hume’s conception of rhetoric ensures reciprocity through the discursivity of politeness and a respect for individual judgment. As we have seen, his conception of politeness does not require a similar detachment from affective concerns. As a consequence of the reciprocal requirements of his notion of public reason, Rawls follows his acknowledgment of the fact of pluralism by bracketing and ruling out of bounds a whole realm of public discourse with which his theory is ill-equipped to deal.18 Rawls’s political liberalism shows itself to be insufficiently sensitive to value pluralism by its capacity to accommodate only a narrowly defined realm of moral and political discourse. It further demonstrates its insensitivity to value pluralism through its unquestioned valuation of liberal autonomy. As John Gray has argued, this notion of liberal individual autonomy, while uncontested by liberals such as Rawls, is in fact not a universally subscribed value.19 One need only think of cultures that value the wisdom of their elders to realize that liberal autonomy is not a universal

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value. Rawls’s unquestioning reliance on this notion further impairs the capacity of his political liberalism to respond to the challenges of value pluralism. As an alternative to the Kantian roots that underpin Rawls’s political liberalism as well as much contemporary liberal theory, Hume’s sentiment-based philosophy offers unique advantages for addressing the very difficult challenges presented by value pluralism. According to Hume, moral judgments are universal in the sense that they arise in every individual through the same processes. But Hume is no defender of a universal morality. Instead, his argument that there exists a certain realm of shared morality is very much in keeping with Berlin’s claim that, despite the irreducibly plural nature of values and the fact that many are incommensurable, there is a core set of shared values that make us human.20 Berlin tells us that ‘all men have a basic sense of good and evil.’21 And Hume seems to agree. In ‘Of the Standard of Taste,’ Hume cautions against overstating the universality of morals. He argues that some part of the seeming harmony in morals may be accounted for from the very nature of language. The word virtue, with its equivalent in every tongue, implies praise; as that of vice does blame: And no one, without the most obvious and grossest impropriety, could affix reproach to a term which in general acceptation is understood in a good sense; or bestow applause, where the idiom requires disapprobation.22

In other words, different people may not all share identical conceptions of good and evil, but Hume’s model of judgment explains why the notions of good and evil make sense to people who embody and espouse very different moral outlooks. As Kate Abramson has argued, Hume’s model of extensive sympathy ‘allows him to justify a complex and interestingly pluralist account of cultural conflicts of values.’23 In ‘A Dialogue,’ Hume argues that ‘the borders between cultures are relevant for determining the value of a given trait, practice, or set of practices.’24 He writes that ‘The RHINE flows north, the RHONE south; yet both spring from the same mountain, and are also actuated, in their opposite directions, by the same principle of gravity. The different inclinations of the ground, on which they run, cause all the differences in their course.’25 This argument is given further support in ‘Of the Standard of Taste,’ where Hume argues that the different humours of particular people and the particular manners

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and opinions of different ages and different countries give rise to very legitimate variations in taste. He writes that notwithstanding all our endeavours to fix a standard of taste, and reconcile the discordant apprehensions of men, there still remain two sources of variation, which are not sufficient indeed to confound all the boundaries of beauty and deformity, but will often serve to produce a difference in the degrees of our approbation or blame. The one is the different humours of particular men; the other, the particular manners and opinions of our age and country. The general principles of taste are uniform in human nature: Where men vary in their judgments, some defect or perversion of the faculties may commonly be remarked; proceeding either from prejudice, from want of practice, or want of delicacy; and there is just reason for approving one taste, and condemning another. But where there is such a diversity in the internal frame or external situation as is entirely blameless on both sides, and leaves no room to give on the preference above the other; in that case a certain degree of diversity in judgment is unavoidable, and we seek in vain for a standard by which we can reconcile the contrary sentiments.26

Hume’s model of extensive sympathy stipulates that ‘we must restrict ourselves to the ‘general point of view,’ restricting our purview to only those who have ‘commerce’ with the agent in forming our ideas of a trait’s typical effects.’27 It therefore brings to light the relevance of cultural borders to moral judgment. Hume does not help us fully overcome the problem of lacking legitimate grounds for criticizing some cultural practices that deeply offend our own values. In some cases, we will be required to set aside our own feelings about given cultural practices in favour of those of the individuals who are regularly affected by them. However, because extensive sympathy gives us access to the deep value commitments that inform moral claims, it also opens the possibility of discovering common ground that might not be readily apparent. As Abramson argues, Hume shows us that ‘some identifiable cases in which there is an apparent cultural conflict of values are not, after all, genuine conflicts of values.’28 Instead, such cases arise from differing applications or interpretations of the same values. But, although his account of judgment is evidently pluralist in some respects, Hume is no moral relativist. He also gives an account of how ‘some identifiable cases of cultural conflicts of value are products of mistaken judgments about the effects of a given trait or practice.’29 To

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understand this claim, we must turn to Hume’s pluralist understanding of value itself, perhaps the most important respect in which his conception of judgment equips us to respond to the challenges of value pluralism. According to Hume, ‘we reap a pleasure from the view of a character, which is naturally fitted to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is agreeable to others, or to the person himself.’30 By distinguishing two distinct types of value – the useful and the agreeable – Hume helps us understand why, contra neo-Kantian conceptions of judgment and deliberation, moral and political deliberation in the moral universe defined by value pluralism cannot be solely grounded in a singular conception of reasonableness. He also helps us define the role of reason in moral judgment and deliberation. To ascribe value on the basis of usefulness is to make a causal claim. A character trait – for example, courage – is useful for the effects it is expected to produce. On the other hand, there is not necessarily a causal claim underlying value that is ascribed on the basis of agreeableness. Take, for example, generosity. Hume’s claim is that we identify generosity as a virtue through a feeling of approbation. Imagine a scene in which a young child at a fair drops his ice cream cone and begins to cry. His sister immediately offers her cone to her brother. The boy’s face lights up with pleasure and we, as the observers, feel that same warm feeling of pleasure well up in us. Certainly, one effect of the sister’s generosity is that the boy now has another ice cream cone to eat. And so, in one sense, we can claim that, like those virtues that we value on the basis of their usefulness, we value generosity as a cause of some effect that produces pleasure. Through extensive sympathy, we have reason to approve of this virtue when generalized to the societal level and so can claim that it would be useful if everyone were generous. However, on a different level, the Humean claim is that, in cases of virtues such as generosity, we find the generous act itself to be agreeable. That warm sense of approval that arises in us is a response to the generosity of the act itself, not necessarily to the outcome of the act. In this case, the feeling of approbation and the feeling of agreeableness are essentially one. This case marks a stark contrast with the case of the virtue that is strictly useful. In that case, the sense of approbation which attends the character trait is quite distinct from the sense of pleasure which attends the effect of that trait. Hume’s distinction between the agreeable and the useful shows us that the role of reason is circumscribed in moral judgment and deliberation. As he writes in the Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals,

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‘one principal foundation of moral praise being supposed to lie in the usefulness of any quality or action; it is evident, that reason must enter for a considerable share in all decisions of this kind; since nothing but that faculty can instruct us in the tendency of qualities and actions, and point out their beneficial consequences to society and to their possessor.’31 However, reason cannot guide us in judgments of the agreeable, as these are matters of taste. As we have already seen, though Hume does argue for a standard of taste, he allows for variability in taste on the basis of grounds – the different humours of particular people and the particular manners and opinions of different ages and different countries – that accord with the account of value pluralism that Berlin draws from Herder. Herder, Berlin argues, ‘maintained that every activity, situation, historical period or civilization possessed a unique character of its own; so that the attempt to reduce such phenomena to combinations of uniform elements, and to describe or analyse them in terms of universal rules, tended to obliterate precisely those crucial differences which constituted the specific quality of the object under study, whether in nature or in history.’32 Herder’s claim about the uniqueness of culture supports the thesis that ‘cultures are comparable but not commensurable; each is what it is, of literally inestimable value in its own society, and consequently to humanity as a whole.’33 The nature of belief itself presents significant challenges for the development of critical intercultural dialogues or dialogues on questions relating to value. Hume’s account explains how and why some people remain fervently committed to beliefs that others consider to be entirely unreasonable. On Hume’s account, such conflicts do not oppose beliefs that were generated by different faculties of the mind. Rather, as I have argued, both sides base their arguments on beliefs that were generated through the same processes of mind. This realization about the relationship between reasonable and unreasonable beliefs was central to Hume’s analysis of faction. Hume’s focus on the dangers of faction is relevant here; because if, as Berlin suggests, pluralist societies encompass different moral frameworks that, on account of the lack of any overarching moral standard, cannot be rank ordered or even rationally compared, then there will be a tendency for citizens to divide along factional lines where public discourse reveals no common ground. Dogmatic adherence to abstract principles is a likely result when citizens feel strongly about their views but lack both a middle ground with their opponents and the means to rationally demonstrate the error of their opponents’ views. The mixture of

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dogmatism and passionate belief in the importance and rightness of one’s views is a dangerous one that can often induce individuals to resort to any means of persuasion available, even manipulative oratory. Therefore, Hume’s concerns with balancing the need for an open public sphere in which interests can be opposed with the danger that the opposition of interests will breed faction has significant contemporary relevance. In two important respects, Hume’s account of judgment offers a more nuanced and, therefore, more satisfactory understanding of public discourse under conditions of value pluralism than does Rawls’s account of public reason. First, as I have discussed, Hume shows how the same processes of mind that lead us to make sound judgments can also lead us into error or superstition. This model leaves open the possibility for bridging certain value conflicts that Rawls, because he viewed the distinction between the reasonable and the unreasonable as clear-cut, did not allow. Hume’s account helps explain why those who hold to superstitious or erroneous beliefs often fail to recognize the unreasonableness of their position. Though it does not necessarily offer means of fully resolving value conflicts of this sort, Hume’s account provides a better understanding of the nature of the conflicts and so offers a better starting point for deliberation than can be found in accounts of judgment that present the rational and the irrational as emanating from different faculties of the mind and, therefore, as categorically different from each other. What is more, Hume’s model of extensive sympathy offers further tools for bridging, or at least better understanding, seemingly intractable value conflicts because it offers access to a realm of shared values that might escape the notice of those whose conception of judgment produces a strict distinction between rational and irrational beliefs. Second, however, Hume’s account shows us that some value conflicts – namely, those based in values conceived as agreeable rather than useful – are not open to rational calculation. In such cases, the choice between competing values is a radical choice. What we must bear in mind, however, is that often, a single individual will cherish conflicting and incommensurable values. Therefore, as the value pluralism thesis predicts, moral choice between incommensurable values will necessarily entail moral loss, a loss that may be felt by individuals on both sides of a particular dispute. Hume’s sentiment-based philosophy leaves room for the acknowledgment of that moral loss in ways that rationalist accounts of judgment cannot. From a rationalist perspective, a

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moral choice cannot be simultaneously rational and irrational. However, we know from experience that moral choices and moral judgments can be attended with feelings of blame and approbation simultaneously. We have all experienced the bittersweet feeling that accompanies a moral choice that at one level is a good choice, but that we know to be nonetheless attended with moral loss. Hume’s sentiment-based philosophy provides a more adequate basis for understanding the complexity of this sort of moral choice than does the rationalist tradition that is so dominant in contemporary liberal theory. Again, although Hume does not give us clear means for resolving all such value conflicts, he offers us a much surer basis for addressing them than can be generated on the basis of a rationalist model that is out of step with the empirical realities of judgment. Partiality, Judgment, and Rhetoric Krause’s case for incorporating a Humean account of judgment into contemporary liberal theory rests on the argument that rationalist accounts of judgment simply cannot account for the ways in which real people actually deliberate and make judgments about what they ought to do. The discussion of value pluralism adds a further layer to her critique of the dominant strains of contemporary liberal and democratic thought. But Krause argues that contemporary liberals need not relinquish their claims to impartiality in judgment and deliberation in order to adopt the Humean account that she defends. In fact, Krause agrees with the contemporary liberal rationalists on the importance of impartiality. She writes that ‘no theory that forsakes impartiality can hope to guide legitimate public deliberation . . . for in liberal democracies legitimacy and impartiality rightly go hand in hand.’34 Krause, therefore, grounds the normative weight of her argument in the claim that ‘passions can contribute in a positive way to the impartial standpoint that makes public decisions legitimate.’35 As I discussed in chapter 2, however, Hume’s account of rhetorical persuasion requires sensitivity on the part of the orator to the individual passions and situations of the audience members. The orator does not appeal to a universal condition, but rather to the particular conditions of the audience members. These conditions are defined by the partial rather than the impartial. Krause’s case for the importance of impartiality rests on her claim that ‘unless public deliberation achieves impartiality, our decision making will be hostage to prejudice and the

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vagaries of power, with the result that those who have less (less status, less power, fewer resources) will get less (less freedom, less equality).’36 And in this sense, she is of course right. Legitimate democratic decisions cannot simply be reflections of the interests of the most powerful or the wealthiest citizens. However, while Hume’s general perspective does, as Krause argues, provide an important mechanism for correcting our moral sentiments and for ensuring a type of impartiality in moral and political deliberations, his account of rhetoric speaks to the importance of partiality in those same deliberations. The discursivity of polite rhetoric requires that an orator show a partial concern for the audience. We can see, therefore, that the discussion of impartiality in the public sphere requires a more nuanced treatment. In Saving Persuasion, Bryan Garsten eloquently defends a conception of democratic politics in which individual judgment is prized and rhetoric plays a central role. Garsten argues that ‘persuasion is one of the characteristic activities of democratic politics.’37 He writes: A politics of persuasion – in which people try to change one another’s minds by appealing not only to reason but also to passions and sometimes even to prejudices – is a mode of politics that is worth defending. Persuasion is worthwhile because it requires us to pay attention to our fellow citizens and to display a certain respect for their points of view and their judgments. The effort to persuade requires us to engage with others wherever they stand and to begin our argument there, as opposed to simply asserting that they would adopt our opinion if they were more reasonable.38

Beginning our argument where others stand requires of us that we rethink the priorities espoused by the dominant strands of contemporary liberal and democratic political theory. As Garsten writes, a politics of persuasion ‘would not emphasize impartiality, publicity, and respect for autonomy. Instead, it would value deliberative partiality, privacy, and respect for judgment and opinion.’39 The novelty of Garsten’s case lies in his treatment of public reason. Through discussions of Hobbes, Rousseau, and Kant, Garsten tells ‘an intellectual top-down story, in which the notion of public reason is invented by political philosophers seeking to quell religious political controversy by subjecting debate to an authoritative standard.’40 Garsten describes the development of public reason as ‘a well-thought-out early modern program of political thought, a program that explicitly aimed

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to quell controversy by having us alienate our capacity for private judgment.’41 He argues that we see this trend in Hobbes’s treatment of the sovereign, in Rousseau’s conception of the General Will, and in Kant’s conception of public reason. The suspicion of private judgment that Garsten identifies as the catalyst for the development of public reason continues, he argues, to underlie contemporary theories of deliberative democracy. He writes that to adopt a Habermasian criterion of deliberativeness and reasonability is to adopt another version of the deep suspicion of individual’s ordinary private judgments and opinions that we have noticed in Hobbes, Rousseau, and Kant. Discourse theory follows these theorists in asking citizens to substitute for private judgments ones that emerge from one authoritative public point of view – a sovereign set of procedures. Theorists of deliberative democracy who follow Habermas on this point thus remain within the grip of the campaign against controversy and the art of controversy. In spite of their interest in disagreement, they often find themselves opposing rhetorical deliberation and the politics of persuasion.42

As a consequence, theories of deliberative democracy tend to focus on justification rather than persuasion.43 The purpose of Garsten’s retelling of the story of public reason is, therefore, to shift the focus of contemporary liberal and democratic theory from justification to persuasion and to defend the importance of rhetoric in democratic politics. This project involves some delicate manoeuvring. He writes that the practice of persuasion can be easily corrupted and that ‘in trying to persuade, democratic politicians may end up manipulating their audiences, or they may end up pandering to them.’44 Consequently, the theorist advocating a central role for rhetoric in democratic politics must tread a fine line. Garsten writes that, ‘if we want to avoid alienating our judgment to a sovereign ruler or reasoner, if we want to find a way to bring the insights of citizens’ practical judgment to bear on political decisions . . . we must show, contra Hobbes, that political rhetoric can be turned into something other than a tool for manipulation and demagoguery.’45 Garsten turns primarily to Aristotle and to Cicero to make this case. I would argue that Hume provides an important but overlooked perspective that could greatly bolster Garsten’s case. Turning to Hume here would be very instructive because, unlike Aristotle and Cicero, he developed his conception of rhetoric to address

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precisely the same concerns that motivated the development of public reason in the story Garsten tells. As I argued in chapter 1, Hume developed his conception of rhetoric as part of a larger political project aimed at combating the forces of faction and fanaticism. Hume was concerned that the forces of faction and fanaticism would impede meaningful public discourse and even jeopardize the capacity of individuals to make good moral and political judgments by dividing groups so completely that they would lose the sense of their resemblance to one another. This sense of resemblance is essential for the proper functioning of sympathy and, by extension, moral judgment. Hume offers us a developed account of why reasoned arguments will usually fail to persuade those individuals whose passions are inflamed by faction and fanaticism. His conception of rhetoric also provides an account of why this fact should not lead us to despair of individual judgment. Hume shows us how, through passionate appeals, we might harness the power of rhetoric and turn it toward the positive goals of persuading individuals, through the exercise of their own personal judgment, to change their minds on significant moral and political questions. The factions that concerned Hume are still present in modern democracies. As Donald Livingston argues, Hume singled out parties from principle as the worst sort of factions because, being based on speculative principles, their ‘politics is informed by a corrupt philosophical consciousness which distorts, constricts, and alienates people from political reality.’46 Livingston argues that modern ideologies have taken the place of Hume’s parties from principle. He writes, When the philosopher surveys forms of human life, he typically and impiously makes ‘no account of that vast variety, which nature has so much affected in all operations,’ but instead reduces these to failed approximations of one form of human flourishing by ‘the most violent and absurd reasoning’ (E, 159–60). This error appears in modern philosophical ideologies – whether of the liberal or Marxist sort – which, in teaching doctrines of universal egalitarianism and human emancipation, have played their role in legitimating empire and the consolidated modern state, with the consequent destruction of traditional societies.47

Hume’s account of ‘vast variety’ is commensurate with the pluralism that defines our modern democracies. It helps explain that pluralism and the factionalism that can develop when different groups hold different or conflicting conceptions of human flourishing. As Livingston

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indicates, parties from principle often develop when groups struggle to accept, acknowledge, or accommodate that pluralism. As I have argued, the lack of any common ground between opposing sides of an argument, combined with the lack of any means to rationally demonstrate the truth of one’s position or the error of an opponent’s position, provides a perfect breeding ground for dogmatic adherence to abstract principles that can quickly give rise to faction and fanaticism. The more heated the democratic debate gets and the more absurd that one’s political opponents’ positions come to seem, the greater the temptation to limit political debate will become. We become suspicious of others’ capacity for judgment when they appear to consistently exercise it poorly. The fanatical orators that Hume warned against attempt to end debate through manipulation. As Garsten argues, defenders of public reason seek the alienation of individual judgment to a sovereign and universal conception of reason. A defender of rhetoric in democratic politics must take the more difficult route by encouraging more debate, not less. The defender of rhetoric must also defend the importance of individual judgment, even when his or her fellow citizens appear to make such poor use of their own. As we have seen, Hume took this latter route. He was acutely aware of the need to maintain an open public sphere and a vibrant opposition of interests. At the same time, however, Hume was aware of the danger that this opposition of interests would give rise to factions. In Saving Persuasion, Garsten holds James Madison up as his example of a thinker who sought to balance the importance of an open public discourse with the dangers of faction through institutional design. Garsten writes of Madison, ‘the greatest innovation, which he introduced as his own, was the thought that the variety of interests in a large republic would make it difficult for ‘the influence of factious leaders’ to spread very far or for very long and thus prevent the accumulation of power in any one faction or leader for any significant length of time.’48 Of course, as we have seen, the concern with warding off this threat was precisely the impetus behind the institutional design of Hume’s perfect commonwealth. Hume would provide a valuable counterpart to Madison in Garsten’s argument for a politics of persuasion. In addition to providing a different account of the relationship between institutional design and the need to balance the opposition of interests against the danger of faction, Hume’s account of political rhetoric is buttressed by an account of persuasion and judgment that Madison does not offer. Therefore, Hume’s account offers both a theoretical account of rhetoric and an

Toward a Politics of Eloquence 163

understanding of the relationship between institutional design and public discourse. It thus offers a rich resource for improving the quality of democratic practices – most notably public discourse – in a modern pluralist democratic context. Conclusion The politics of eloquence suggested by Hume’s account of political oratory holds out the promise that demagogues and zealots can be effectively countered through powerful political speech. History does hold numerous examples of orators who employed their rhetorical talents toward antisocial and immoral ends. However, Hume shows us that political and religious extremism are dangers of fanaticism, not rhetoric. Though often denigrated throughout history, rhetoric has very constructive roles to play in democratic politics. Hume’s defence of rhetoric puts into question stark dichotomies between the rational persuasion of deliberation and the irrational manipulations of rhetoric. His understanding of the mutual relationship between reason and the passions captures the realities of political and moral judgment more accurately than do theories of judgment that rely on a strict separation of reason and the passions. Hume’s conception of rhetoric, therefore, speaks to important political and moral questions about the nature of judgment and the communication of interests in democratic politics. In the context of his own writings, Hume’s conception of rhetoric offers us an important means of understanding the relationships among many of the political, philosophical, and moral questions that defined his literary career. In the context of the liberal tradition, it offers us important insights into the complexities of the relationship between reason and the passions as well as a valuable analytical tool for understanding different types of political speech. In the context of our own democratic politics, Hume’s conception of rhetoric offers us an account of how we might act on the public stage in expressing our views and seeking to persuade others without resorting to manipulation. In order to be relevant to contemporary democratic politics, however, Hume’s account of political oratory must be stripped of two elements that, though present in his thought, are unnecessary to his account of high rhetoric. As I have discussed, Hume’s account of rhetoric is both gendered and classist. Hume thought of political orators almost exclusively as men, and he contrasted high rhetoric with a conception of

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low rhetoric that he strongly associated with the lower social classes. However, we are warranted in breaking with Hume in these two particulars. Neither is necessary for generating the insights that Hume offers into the distinction between manipulative and non-manipulative political oratory. In particular, Hume’s account of politeness as a standard of behaviour, as opposed to a characteristic of social class, shows it to have more universal application than he might have intended. The three markers of polite oratory – manners and decorum, sociability, and a generalist approach to learning – are neither gendered nor class specific. Therefore, the relevance of Hume’s account of political oratory to contemporary democratic politics should not be understood in relation to either class or gender. Rhetoric is a powerful political tool that can be grossly misused. In contemporary democratic politics, in which public discourse is often noisy and nasty, practitioners of low rhetoric abound. They seek to manipulate people by reducing complex questions to simple dichotomous choices. They are impolite and often resort to lies and unsound reasoning. Sometimes they even induce a type of madness in their audience by employing the power of rhetoric to render every chimera of the brain ‘as vivid and intense as any of those inferences, which we formerly dignify’d with the name of conclusions concerning matters of fact, and sometimes as the present impressions of the senses.’49 Whether we like it or not, the types of political speech that Hume denoted low rhetoric will, invariably, find their way into the public discourse of a pluralist democratic society. Hume’s accounts of judgment and persuasion show us that responding to such rhetoric through rational argument will rarely prove persuasive. We need a more powerful means of expressing our disagreement if we actually hope to change people’s minds or to adopt our own views. One option is to follow the lead of the fanatics, to employ the power of rhetoric manipulatively, and to encourage rather than oppose the factionalism they often foment. There is another option. Hume’s conception of high rhetoric is an account of powerful and persuasive political oratory. It eschews the manipulative strategies of low rhetoric in favour of strategies based on Hume’s account of the associational processes of mind that produce belief and persuasion. Hume’s conception of high rhetoric is based in his fundamental insight that the power of oratory lies in its capacity to mimic the sense expressions of experience that provide the usual bases for belief. Its most distinctive feature is the notion of politeness that Hume introduced in order to modernize the ancient eloquence that he

Toward a Politics of Eloquence 165

so admired so as to render it agreeable and persuasive to an eighteenthcentury audience. That same notion of politeness – understood as the arts of conversation – brings important insights to students and citizens of contemporary democracies. Most notably, it reveals that people are usually more persuaded by an orator who respects their individual judgment and whose argument demonstrates a genuine interest in sustaining conversation than they are by an orator who harangues them and who, through the adoption of manipulative oratorical strategies, demonstrates a lack of respect for their capacity for judgment. The notion of discursivity that is at the heart of Hume’s conception of politeness offers an important alternative basis for respect and reciprocity in democratic discourse. His conception of rhetoric holds out the promise of a form of democratic politics in which individuals might forcefully and passionately defend their views without promoting faction or extremism and without resorting to manipulative forms of speech. The first steps toward such a politics of eloquence are steps back to a fork in the road. They lead to a rediscovery of Hume’s sentiment-based philosophy: the road not taken in the development of liberal theory.

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Notes

Throughout the book, ‘short’ references will take the following forms: References to the Treatise take the form of T followed by the book, part, section, and paragraph from which the passage is taken from A Treatise of Human Nature, ed. David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), followed by a page reference in A Treatise of Human Nature, ed. L.A. SelbyBigge, rev. ed. P.H. Nidditch (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978). References to the Essays list the essay title followed by a page reference in Essays Moral, Political, and Literary, ed. Eugene F. Miller (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1987). References to the Enquiries take the form of EHU or EPM followed by the relevant section, part, and paragraph numbers from An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, ed. Tom L. Beauchamp (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) and An Enquiry Concerning The Principles of Morals, ed. Tom L. Beauchamp (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998) respectively, followed by a page reference in Enquiries Concerning Human Understanding and Concerning the Principles of Morals, 1777 edition, reprint, 3rd Edition, ed. L.A. Selby-Bigge, rev. ed. P.H. Nidditch (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975). References to the History of England list the volume and page number in The History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution in 1688, 1778 edition, reprint, 6 vols., foreword by William B. Todd (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1983). References to the Natural History of Religion give a page reference in The Natural History of Religion, ed. H.E. Root (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1957).

168 Notes to pages 3–13 References to Letters list the volume followed by the page number in The Letters of David Hume, ed. J.Y.T. Greig, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1932). References to New Letters list the page number in New Letters of David Hume, ed. Raymond Klibansky and Ernest C. Mossner (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954). Introduction 1 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ p. 104. 2 J.G.A. Pocock, Virtue, Commerce, and History: Essays on Political Thought and History, Chiefly in the Eighteenth Century (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 131–2. 3 Hume writes that ‘men’s happiness consists not so much in an abundance of [the commodities and enjoyments of life], as in the peace and security with which they possess them.’ These ‘blessings,’ he argues, ‘can only be derived from good government.’ In addition, he argues that ‘general virtue and good morals in a state, which are so requisite for happiness . . . must proceed entirely from the virtuous education of youth, the effect of wise laws and institutions’ (Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 54–5). Good government, therefore, is one way of summarizing Hume’s conception of the common good. 4 Jennifer A. Herdt, Religion and Faction in Hume’s Moral Philosophy (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 205. 5 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 98. 6 Ibid., 104. 7 Ibid., 109. 8 Hume writes, ‘the altercation of discourse, the controversies of the pen, but, above all, the declamations of the pulpit, indisposed the minds of men towards each other, and propagated the blind rage of party’ (History of England, vol. 5, 401). 1. Hume’s Political Project 1 History of England, vol. 6, 113. 2 Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 55. 3 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xli. 4 History of England. 5 Essays, ‘Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion,’ 3–8. 6 Essays, ‘Of Taxes,’ 342–8. 7 Essays, ‘Of Public Credit,’ 349–65.

Notes to pages 13–15 169  8 Essays, ‘Of National Characters,’ 197–215.  9 Essays, ‘Of Love and Marriage,’ 557–62. 10 Essays, ‘Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations,’ 377–464. 11 A Treatise of Human Nature: Being an Attempt to Introduce the Experimental Method of Reasoning into Moral Subjects. 12 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xl. 13 Hume was most concerned with the immoderate unphilosophical beliefs of fanatics, enthusiasts, bigots, and zealots. In most cases, he uses these four terms interchangeably to refer generally to those who zealously hold unphilosophical beliefs and who act on those beliefs in the public sphere, in most cases by opposing, sometimes violently, those who do not share the same beliefs. But Hume also uses the terms enthusiasm and enthusiast in their conventional eighteenth century senses to refer specifically to the Protestant sects such as the evangelical Scottish Presbyterians, the various Puritan sects, the Anabaptists, the Antinomians, the Fifth Monarchy Men, and the Independents. The other important term in Hume’s discussions of faction and fanaticism is superstition. Again, he uses the term in two different senses. Sometimes, he uses it to refer generally to unphilosophical beliefs. At other times, he uses superstition to refer to the teachings of the Roman Catholic and Anglican churches, in particular, to beliefs surrounding their ceremonies and other ‘superstitious’ acts. For the purposes of this book, I will follow Hume’s own loose usage of terms. Unless otherwise specified, I will use the terms fanatic, enthusiast, bigot, and zealot interchangeably. And I will use the term superstition to denote unphilosophical belief generally. As I am concerned with Hume’s treatment of both religious and political factions and zealots, I will not here enter into a discussion of the differences between the general and specific usages of any of these terms. 14 David Miller, Philosophy and Ideology in Hume’s Political Thought (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981), 37. 15 Frederick G. Whelan, Order and Artifice in Hume’s Political Philosophy (Princeton,: Princeton University Press, 1985), 6. 16 Ernest Campbell Mossner, The Life of David Hume (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 140. 17 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 9. 18 Ibid., 14. 19 Miller, Philosophy and Ideology, 37. 20 For an account of the irreligious aims of the Treatise, see Paul Russell, The Riddle of Hume’s Treatise: Skepticism, Naturalism, and Irreligion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). 21 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xxxiv.

170 Notes to pages 15–16 22 Don Garrett, Cognition and Commitment in Hume’s Philosophy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 7. 23 For Hume, factional conflicts and legitimate oppositions of interests are distinguished from one another by the fact that the opposition of legitimate interests contributes to the stability of a republic while factions ‘subvert government, render laws impotent, and beget the fiercest animosities among men of the same nation’ (Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 55). Hume was most concerned with what he termed factions from principle. Specifically, he was concerned with parties based upon ‘abstract speculative’ principles (Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 60). Hume argues that a conflict of abstract speculative principles – such as would be at stake in a difference of opinion over religious principles – does not actually require people to change their way of life. People should easily be able to coexist while believing in different religious principles, for example. However, Hume argues, human nature is such that people are shocked by opinions that differ from theirs and feel a need to challenge those opinions and to defend their own. They, therefore, ‘form a system of speculative opinions; to divide, with some accuracy, their articles of faith; and to explain, comment, confute, and defend with all the subtility of argument and science’ (Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 62). Factions develop around these different principles and the members of the various factions set about defending and promoting their sets of principles by challenging and opposing those of the other factions. These disputes, Hume argues, quickly become heated because the members of the various factions come to see their own interests as being bound up with those of their particular faction and lose sight of the common good. Because the differences of opinion at the root of these conflicts revolve around abstract speculative principles that are not rationally defensible, there is no possibility that these disputes will lead to any productive discourse. Rather, Hume believed, they usually lead to violence and beget ‘a mutual hatred and antipathy’ among the ‘deluded followers’ of the various factions (Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 63). 24 Essays, ‘Of Superstition and Enthusiasm,’ 74–5. 25 Garrett, Cognition and Commitment, 6. 26 John Passmore, ‘Enthusiasm, Fanaticism, and David Hume,’ in The Science of Man in the Scottish Enlightenment: Hume, Reid, and Their Contemporaries, ed. Peter Jones (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1989), 85–107 at 91–2. 27 Hume began by publishing the volumes of his History treating with the Stuart kings. He then published volumes on the Tudors, followed by the history of England from the invasion of Julius Caesar to the Tudor monarchs. 28 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xxxvi.

Notes to pages 16–17 171 29 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 14. 30 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xli. 31 Anthony Flew, David Hume: Writings on Religion (Chicago: Open Court, 1992), viii. 32 Mossner, The Life of David Hume, 228. 33 See, for example, Alexander Broadie, The Scottish Enlightenment (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2001); R.H. Campbell and Andrew S. Skinner, eds., The Origins and Nature of the Scottish Enlightenment (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1982); David Hume, The History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution in 1688, 1778 edition, reprint, 6 vols., foreword by William B. Todd (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1983); J.R. Jones, The First Whigs: The Politics of the Exclusion Crisis, 1678–1683 (London: Oxford University Press, 1961); Stephen Miller, Three Deaths and Enlightenment Thought (London: Associated University Presses, 2001); J.G.A. Pocock, Three British Revolutions, 1641, 1688, 1776 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980); Conrad Russel, The Causes of the English Civil War: The Ford Lectures Delivered in the University of Oxford, 1987–88 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990); Richard B. Sher, Church and University in the Scottish Enlightenment: The Moderate Literati of Edinburgh (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985). 34 Natural History of Religion, 59. 35 Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 59. 36 Ibid., 60. 37 T 2.3.4.1; SBN 419. 38 T 1.4.7.7; SBN 268. 39 David Miller writes that ‘the fascination of Hume’s political thought lies in seeing how a revolutionary philosophy is combined with an establishment ideology to yield what is probably the best example we have of a secular and sceptical conservative political theory’ (Miller, Philosophy and Ideology, 2). According to Miller, Hume developed a particular brand of conservatism. His was ‘a cautious and moderate approach to politics (which does not exclude progressive change, provided that it is gradual), backed up by a sceptical attitude towards all grandiose schemes for social or political reconstruction erected on rationalist foundations’ (ibid., 15). In the end, however, Miller acknowledges that ‘if we try to interpret Hume’s political thought using [liberalism and conservatism] as points of reference, we find that it contains elements that appear to be liberal and others that appear to be conservative’ (ibid., 195). John B. Stewart challenges the view that Hume was a conservative, arguing that he should instead be considered as a liberal who advocated major reforms to late-eighteenth-century Britain (John B. Stewart, Opinion and

172 Notes to pages 17–19 Reform in Hume’s Political Philosophy [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992], 6). Stewart writes that Hume’s advocacy of reform was part of his larger project of advancing moral subjects. In particular, he reads Hume as seeking to encourage two major advances in thought that were prerequisites for the advancement of moral subjects. The first is an acknowledgment that ‘reasoning has to do not with the good (ends), but with the true (knowledge of causes, both permanent and temporary).’ The second is an acknowledgment that the ‘correct method of achieving knowledge in moral subjects’ is the experimental method that Hume first introduced in his Treatise (ibid., 7). Stewart understands Hume as a political thinker because he views him as a ‘bold new combatant in an old war,’ setting out to base ‘principles of civil society on natural rather than supernatural foundation’ (ibid., 5). John Gray has also argued that Hume’s politics contain undoubtedly liberal elements, despite the fact that Hume wrote before the term liberal came into popular usage. Gray argues that reflection upon the history of political thought demonstrates that it was ‘in the writings of the social philosophers and political economists of the Scottish Enlightenment that we find the first comprehensive statement in systematic form of the principles and foundations of liberalism’ (John Gray, Liberalism [Minneapolis, Minnesota University Press, 1986], 24). And it ‘is in Hume, indeed, despite his reputation as a conservative theorist, that we find the most powerful defense of the liberal system of limited government’ (ibid., 24). 40 Donald W. Livingston, ‘On Hume’s Conservatism,’ Hume Studies 21, no. 2 (November 1995): 151–64 at 151. 41 It should be noted that though he does, ultimately, label Hume as a conservative, Miller also acknowledges some of the problems with using the language of liberalism and conservatism to describe eighteenth-century political thought (Miller, Philosophy and Ideology, 194–6). 42 A True Account of the Behaviour and Conduct of Archibald Stewart, Esq; Late Lord Provost of Edinburgh. Reprinted in John Valdimir Price, The Ironic Hume (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1965), 171. 43 Livingston, ‘On Hume’s Conservatism,’ 151–2. 44 Mossner, The Life of David Hume, 32. 45 Miller, Philosophy and Ideology, 171. 46 For example, see Essays, ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,’ 525. 47 Essays, ‘Of Public Credit,’ 349–65. 48 Whelan, Order and Artifice, 7. 49 Letters, I:264. 50 A True Account, 171–2.

Notes to pages 19–24 173 51 J.G.A. Pocock, Virtue, Commerce, and History: Essays on Political Thought and History, Chiefly in the Eighteenth century (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 136. 52 This was the political movement that rallied around the cry of ‘Wilkes and Liberty.’ The movement brought demonstrations and even riots to the streets in support of John Wilkes, the radical politician who was convicted of seditious libel for publishing The North Briton, a newspaper that disseminated scandalous rumours about members of George III’s government, especially the prime minister, Bute, whom Wilkes targeted for being Scottish and for supposedly being a Jacobite. Ultimately, Wilkes used The North Briton as a vehicle to target the king himself. The ‘Wilkes and Liberty’ movement is associated with radical politics, including some more democratic impulses such as opposition to the use of general warrants. 53 Livingston, ‘On Hume’s Conservatism,’ 161. 54 Miller, Three Deaths and Enlightenment Thought, 71. 55 Nicholas Phillipson, Hume (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1989), 17–18. 56 Miller, Philosophy and Ideology, 170. 57 Pocock, Virtue, Commerce, 136. 58 Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 60. 59 Natural History of Religion, 23. 60 Ibid., 26. 61 Ibid., 27. 62 Ibid. 63 Ibid., 28. 64 Ibid., 29. 65 Ibid., 30. 66 These causes are unknowable, according to Hume, because of his contention that ‘we cannot go beyond experience’ (T. Introduction.8: SBN xvii). I will deal in much greater detail with Hume’s epistemology in chapter 2. 67 Ibid., 28. 68 Ibid., 40. 69 Ibid., 43. 70 Ibid., 49. 71 Pocock, Virtue, Commerce, 136. 72 Essays, ‘Of the Independency of Parliament,’ 43. 73 Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 55. 74 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 216. 75 Essays, ‘Of Parties in General,’ 62. 76 Ibid., 59.

174 Notes to pages 24–9  77 Natural History of Religion, 49.  78 History of England, vol. 5, 130.  79 Ibid., 164.  80 In a letter to Adam Smith (1774) regarding Benjamin Franklin’s rejection of the position of Deputy Postmaster-General for the colonies. Quoted in Mossner, The Life of David Hume, 573.  81 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 205.  82 Ibid., 4.  83 History of England, vol. 5, 343.  84 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 206.  85 Annette C. Baier, A Progress of Sentiments: Reflections on Hume’s Treatise (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991), 191.  86 Ibid., 219.  87 Hume considered the Protestant sects, such as the evangelical Scottish Presbyterians, the various Puritan sects, the Anabaptists, the Antinomians, the Fifth Monarchy Men, and the Independents, to be enthusiasts.  88 Essays, ‘Of Superstition and Enthusiasm,’ 76.  89 Ibid., 77.  90 History of England, vol. 5, 212.  91 Ibid., 487.  92 EHU 8.1.7; SBN 83.  93 History of England, vol. 5, 67.  94 Ibid., 253.  95 Ibid., 527 (in reference to Charles and Parliament at Newport in 1648).  96 History of England, vol. 5, 455.  97 History of England, vol. 6, 4.  98 Essays, ‘Of the Study of History,’ 567.  99 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 193. 100 Ibid., 206. 101 Garrett, Cognition and Commitment, 161. 102 T 1.3.2.9–13; SBN 76–7. 103 T 1.3.7.7; SBN 629. 104 Essays, ‘Whether the British Government Inclines More to Absolute Monarchy, or to a Republic,’ 51. 105 T 1.4.7.2; SBN 264. 106 David Owen, Hume’s Reason (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 205. 107 Ibid., 212. 108 Garrett, Cognition and Commitment, 6. 109 Ibid., 10. 110 T. Introduction.4; SBN xvi.

Notes to pages 29–36 175 111 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 181. 112 Mossner, The Life of David Hume, 77. 113 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xxxiv. 114 Baier, Progress of Sentiments, 27. 115 Mossner, The Life of David Hume, 113. 116 Baier, Progress of Sentiments, 281. 117 Herdt, Religion and Faction, 221. 118 Mossner, The Life of David Hume, 3. 119 Quoted in ibid., 112. 120 Essays, ‘That Politics May be Reduced to a Science,’ 27. 121 Mossner, The Life of David Hume, 139. 2. Hume on Rhetoric and Persuasion   1 T Intro.2; SBN xviii.   2 T 2.3.6.7; SBN 426–7.   3 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 105–6.   4 T 1.2.2.6; SBN 32.   5 Lloyd Frank Bitzer, The Lively Idea: A Study of Hume’s Influence on George Campbell’s Philosophy of Belief, PhD diss., State University of Iowa, 1962, 9.   6 Ibid., 202.   7 See the rules for causal reasoning that Hume details in T 1.3.15.   8 Thomas M. Conley, ‘Rhetoric,’ in Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, ed. Alan Kors (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 458.   9 Bitzer, The Lively Idea, 46.  10 Conley, ‘Rhetoric,’ 458.  11 Adam Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence in the Age of Hume (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), 4.  12 M.A. Box, The Suasive Art of David Hume (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 24.  13 Essays, ‘Of Simplicity and refinement in Writing,’ 191.  14 John Richetti, Philosophical Writing: Locke, Berkeley, Hume (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 188.  15 History of England, vol. 5, 401.  16 Ibid., 438.  17 Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence, 2.  18 T 1.1.1.1; SBN 1.  19 T 1.3.10.3; SBN 119.  20 T 1.3.7.5; SBN 96.  21 See, for example, T 1.3.7.1; SBN 94.

176 Notes to pages 36–43 22 T 1.3.7.7; SBN 629. 23 Ibid. 24 T 1.3.13.20; SBN 155. 25 T 1.3.8.12; SBN 103. 26 T 1.3.13.11; SBN 149. 27 T 1.3.13.1; SBN 143. 28 T 1.3.13.2; SBN 143–4. 29 T 1.3.13.3; SBN 144. 30 T 1.3.13.8; SBN 147. 31 Ibid. 32 T 1.3.13.11; SBN 149. 33 T 1.3.13.12; SBN 150. 34 T 1.4.2.22; SBN 198. 35 T 1.3.7.7; SBN 629. 36 T 1.4.1.5; SBN 182. 37 T 1.3.8.10; SBN 102. 38 T 1.3.10.8; SBN 123. 39 T 2.3.6.7; SBN 426–7. 40 T 1.3.10.7; SBN 122. 41 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 105–6. 42 T 3.1.1.10; SBN 458. 43 T 3.1.1.9; SBN 458. 44 Essays, ‘Of Tragedy,’ 219. 45 T 3.1.1.1; SBN 455. 46 Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence, p. 29. 47 Ibid., 73. 48 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 105–6. 49 History of England, vol. 5, 285. 50 T 1.3.9.12; SBN 113. 51 T 1.3.9.12; SBN 112. 52 T 1.3.9.12; SBN 113. 53 EHU 10.2.18; SBN 118. 54 History of England, vol. 6, 3. 55 Essays, ‘Of Superstition and Enthusiasm,’ 74. 56 History of England, vol. 6, 31. 57 Natural History of Religion, 54. 58 T 1.3.10.10; SBN 631. 59 T 1.3.10.11; SBN 631. 60 EHU 10.1.3; SBN 110. 61 Ibid.

Notes to pages 44–9 177 62 Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence, 73. 63 Essays, ‘Of the Middle Station of Life,’ 551. 64 Harvey Chisick, ‘David Hume and the Common People,’ in The Science of Man in the Scottish Enlightenment: Hume, Reid, and Their Contemporaries, ed. Peter Jones (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1989), 5–32 at 16. 65 T Abstract. Preface. 3; SBN 644. 66 Essays, ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth.’ 525. 67 Ibid., 517. 68 There are ten thousand such representatives in Hume’s ideal commonwealth. They are all individuals of some wealth. In order to be elected as a representative, indeed to vote for the representatives, one must either be a freeholder of £20 per year if living in the country or a householder worth at least £500 if living in one of the town parishes (ibid., 516). 69 Again, we must note that, for Hume, the ‘people’ is in fact a very narrow segment of the total population. 70 T Abstract. Preface. 3; SBN 644. 71 T 1.3.10.8; SBN 122. 72 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 107. 73 Hume’s conception of rhetoric was gendered. When he wrote about orators, he was referring to men. And, as is obvious from the word but will become even clearer in the discussion of politeness and gallantry that will follow, his notion of gentlemanliness was also highly gendered. In defining Hume’s conception of rhetoric, I will remain true to his usage of language and refer to orators with the male pronoun. However, in a contemporary setting, there is nothing about Hume’s notion of politeness that requires us to understand it in gender-specific terms. When I argue that Hume’s conception of high rhetoric is relevant for contemporary orators, I do so regardless of the gender of those orators. 74 T 3.3.1.23; SBN 586. 75 T 2.3.4.1; SBN 419. 76 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 101. 77 T 3.1.2.9; SBN 474. 78 Essays, ‘Of Simplicity and refinement in Writing,’ 191. 79 T 2.3.9.16; SBN 442. 80 T 2.3.3.6; SBN 416. 81 History of England, vol. 5, 11. 82 Essays, ‘Of Simplicity and Refinement in Writing,’ 192. 83 I will be discussing politeness at much greater length in chapters 3 and 4. 84 T 1.3.9.13; SBN 114. 85 T 3.3.1.22; SBN 586.

178 Notes to pages 49–56  86 History of England, vol. 5, 149.  87 History of England, vol. 6, 71–2.  88 History of England, vol. 5, 149.  89 T 1.4.1.10; SBN 185.  90 T 1.3.13.17; SBN 153.  91 Ibid.  92 T 2.3.4.8; SBN 422.  93 EHU 1.1.10; SBN 11.  94 T 1.4.1.7; SBN 183.  95 Natural History of Religion, 30.  96 T 2.3.4.3; SBN 420.  97 Hume’s critiques of Cromwell are not, however, consistent. No sooner has Hume criticized Cromwell for his poor elocution than he turns around and argues that ‘the great defect in Oliver’s speeches consists not in his want of elocution, but in his want of ideas.’ In fact, Hume writes, ‘the sagacity of his actions, and the absurdity of his discourse, form the most prodigious contrast that ever was known’ (History of England, vol. 6, 96 note d).  98 History of England, vol. 6, 95–6.  99 T 3.3.4.14; SBN 613. 100 Ibid. 101 History of England, vol. 6, 150. 102 Ibid. 103 EHU 10.2.20; SBN 119. 104 EHU 10.1.8; SBN 113. 105 EHU 10.2.16; SBN 117. 106 T 3.2.7.8; SBN 538. 107 T 1.3.10.8; SBN 122. 108 History of England, vol. 6, 3. 109 History of England, vol. 5, 295. 110 History of England, vol. 5, 150. 111 Ibid. 112 Essays, ‘Of Simplicity and Refinement in Writing,’ 192. 113 EHU 10.1.7; SBN 112. 3. Hume’s Conception of Politeness   1 T 1.4.7.14; SBN 272.   2 T 2.2.1.4; SBN 330.   3 The Church of Scotland.

Notes to pages 56–9 179  4 Richard B. Sher, Church and University in the Scottish Enlightenment: The Moderate Literati of Edinburgh (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 35.  5 Richard Sher writes of the Highflyers’ campaign that ‘Bonar and his associates were seeking revenge against the men deemed responsible for deposing Thomas Gillespie in 1752 and blocking his reinstatement the following year. In this sense the primary targets of the infidelity campaign of 1755–1756 were not Hume and Kames but their best friends among the Presbyterian clergy – the Moderate literati of Edinburgh’ (ibid., 67).  6 Ibid., 167–8.  7 Ibid., 324.  8 Ibid., 262.  9 Some authors make a distinction between gentlemanliness and politeness. The essence of the distinction is that gentlemanliness refers to social status, while politeness refers to proper behaviour. Following Hume’s usage of these two terms, I will treat them as synonymous. As is evidenced in the opening quotation of this chapter, Hume does not use the term ‘gentleman’ exclusively as a denominator of social status. Gentlemanliness, for Hume, is also a marker of proper behaviour. 10 Ibid., 57. 11 Essays, ‘Letter from Adam Smith, LL.D. to William Strahan, Esq.,’ xlviii–xlix. 12 Ibid., xlix. 13 Sher, Church and University, 60. 14 The world of conversation refers to discursive environments that Hume found in the clubs of Edinburgh and in the salons of France. These environments were, of course, only egalitarian for those who had been invited into the parlour. Others, for example, the servants, were obviously not accorded an equal place in this realm. But all those who were part of the conversation stood on an equal footing with one another. The egalitarianism of the conversational realm differs from the stratified dynamic of the rhetorical realm. In the case of oratory, participants are hierarchically defined as speakers or listeners. In the conversational realm, interlocutors fulfil both roles. 15 M.A. Box, The Suasive Art of David Hume ( Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 13–14. 16 Annette C. Baier, A Progress of Sentiments: Reflections on Hume’s Treatise (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991), 24. 17 T 1.4.7.14; SBN 272. 18 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 127. 19 Joseph Addison, Spectator, No. 10 (12 March 1711), in Select Essays of Addison Together with Macaulay’s Essay on Addison’s Life and Writings, ed. Samuel Thurber (New York: Allyn and Bacon, 1946), 80–4 at 81.

180 Notes to pages 59–62 20 Essays, ‘Of Essay Writing,’ 535. 21 Lawrence E. Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness: Moral Discourse and Cultural Politics in Early Eighteenth-Century England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 8. 22 Third Earl of Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper, Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times, 3 vols. (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2001), II:101–247. 23 Ibid., 103–4. 24 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 36. 25 Ibid., 210. 26 Ibid., 119. 27 Ibid., 3–4. 28 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 127 29 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, ed. Richard H. Popkin (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1980), 4. 30 Ibid., 92. 31 Ibid., 5. 32 Ibid., 106. 33 Ibid., 5. 34 Ibid., 123. 35 Adam Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence in the Age of Hume (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), 86. 36 T 1.4.7.14; SBN 272. 37 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 3. 38 By the middle station of life, Hume was referring to ‘well-off farmers, comfortable artisans and merchants, members of the liberal professions, rentiers . . .  established or successful intellectuals (university professors, clerics with good livings or benefices, popular authors), but certainly not all, or even most, intellectuals’ (Harvey Chisick, ‘David Hume and the Common People,’ 7). This social class represented a small segment of the population, numerically far smaller than the lower classes. However, Hume’s account of politeness as a marker of proper behaviour, rather than simply a characteristic of class, diminishes, though it certainly does not eliminate the class bias that is evident in his account of rhetoric. His conception of politeness as not necessarily tied to any particular social class is necessary for Hume’s conception of rhetoric to be made relevant to contemporary democratic politics. 39 Essays, ‘Of the Middle Station of Life,’ 546. 40 Ibid. 41 Ibid., 547. 42 Box, The Suasive Art, 10.

Notes to pages 62–70 181 43 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 37. 44 Ibid., 4. 45 Essays, ‘Of the Middle Station of Life,’ 547. 46 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, 108. 47 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xl. 48 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 4–5. 49 Ibid., 4. 50 Susan M. Purviance, ‘Intersubjectivity and Social Relations in the Philosophy of Francis Hutcheson,’ in Sociability and Society in Eighteenth-Century Scotland, ed. John Dwyer and Richard B. Sher (Edinburgh: Mercat, 1993), 23–38 at 26. 51 Essays, ‘Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion,’ 4–5. 52 History of England, vol. 5, 11. 53 Essays, ‘My Own Life,’ xxxvi. 54 Ibid., xxxvii. 55 When Reid sent a copy of his book Common Sense to Hume for his opinion, Hume refused to make any substantive comments on the work, opting instead to correct Reid’s grammar (Letters, I:376). 56 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 126. 57 T 3.3.2.8; SBN 596–7. 58 T 3.3.2.10; SBN 597. 59 T 3.3.2.11; SBN 598. 60 Ibid. 61 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 4. 62 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 131. 63 Ibid. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid., 132. 66 Essays, ‘Of National Characters,’ 215. 67 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 133. 68 Ibid. 69 Ibid., 133–4. 70 Box, The Suasive Art, 17. 71 Ibid. 72 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 6. 73 Ibid., 5–6. 74 EHU 1.1.5; SBN 8. 75 Essays, ‘Of Civil Liberty,’ 91. 76 Box, The Suasive Art, 9. 77 Sher, Church and University, 29. 78 Box, The Suasive Art, 11.

182 Notes to pages 70–7  79 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 130–1.  80 Essays, ‘Of Simplicity and Refinement in Writing,’ 194.  81 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 110.  82 Ibid.  83 T 2.3.4.8; SBN 422.  84 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 8.  85 Ibid., 7.  86 Ibid., 8.  87 Sher, Church and University, 57.  88 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 8.  89 Ibid., 10.  90 See Sher, Church and University.  91 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 21.  92 Ibid., 11–12.  93 Sher, Church and University, 57.  94 Ibid., 154.  95 Ibid., 159.  96 Essays, ‘Of the Parties of Great Britain,’ 65–6.  97 See Hume’s April 1764 letter to Colonel James Edmonstoune in which he advises that Mr Vivian retain his position as a clergyman, even though he has lost his faith. Hume writes, ‘it is putting too great a respect on the vulgar, and on their superstitions, to pique one’s self on sincerity with regard to them. Did ever one make it a point of honour to speak truth to children or madmen? . . . the ecclesiastical profession only adds a little more to an innocent dissimulation, or rather simulation, without which it is impossible to pass through the world’ (Letters, I.439, letter 238).  98 History of England, vol. 4, 119.  99 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 183. 100 Daniel Javitch, Poetry and Courtliness in Renaissance England (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 38. 101 Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence, 1. 102 Ibid., 4. 103 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 104. 104 Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence, 99. 105 History of England, vol. 5, 149. 106 Ibid., 149–50. 107 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 127. 108 Ibid., 128. (Reference is to Tuscan Disputations 5.5.12.) 109 Potkay, The Fate of Eloquence, 72. 110 Ibid., 87.

Notes to pages 77–83 183 111 Of course, the Wilkes crisis was precipitated not by political oratory but by articles that Wilkes wrote in the North Briton. The point here is simply that Wilkes and Liberty reinforced Hume’s concerns with religious faction and contributed to their extension to political faction. Nowhere does Hume indicate that this crisis led him to rethink the relationship between rhetoric (oratory) and fanaticism. However, Hume’s response to the Wilkes crisis suggests that it would be useful to inquire into the relevance of his conception of rhetoric to the political pamphlets of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and by extension to the written word more generally. This is a project that I plan to undertake. 112 Stephen Miller, Three Deaths and Enlightenment Thought (London: Associated University Presses, 2001), 55. 113 Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness, 46. 114 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 127. 115 Ibid., 126. 116 Ibid. 4. Polite in His Own Way (Hume and the Scots)   1 LRBL, i.69. [All references to Adam Smith’s Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres take the form LRBL followed by the standard paragraph reference in Adam Smith, Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, ed. J.C. Bryce (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1993).]   2 Arthur E. Walzer, George Campbell: Rhetoric in the Age of Enlightenment (Albany: SUNY Press, 2003), 12.   3 Trenchard, of course, was not Scottish. I am using his writing here to supplement the position of Adam Smith. In most important respects, Trenchard’s position was extremely similar to Smith’s, which was very influential in the development of Scottish theories of rhetoric.   4 Ian Simpson Ross, The Life of Adam Smith (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 83.   5 Letters, I:135.   6 Ross, The Life of Adam Smith, xix.   7 See J.C. Bryce’s introduction to the LRBL; see also Ross, The Life of Adam Smith.   8 LRBL, i.152.   9 LRBL, i.v.57.  10 LRBL, i.103.  11 LRBL, i.103.  12 LRBL, i.144–5.

184 Notes to pages 83–8 13 LRBL, i.104. 14 Ross, The Life of Adam Smith, 85. 15 LRBL, i.135. 16 LRBL, i.133. 17 LRBL, i.149–50. 18 At ibid., ii.13, Smith argues that ‘the end of every discourse is either to narrate some fact or prove some proposition. When the design is to set the case in the clearest light; to give every argument its due force, and by this means persuade us no farther than our unbiased judgement is Convinced; this is not to make use of the Rhetoricall Stile. But when we propose to persuade at all events, and for this purpose adduce those arguments that make for the side we have espoused, and magnify these to the utmost of our power; and on the other hand make light of and extenuate all those which may be brought on the other side, then we make use of the Rhetoricall Stile.’ 19 History of England, vol. 6, 3. 20 LRBL, ii.13. 21 LRBL, i.80. 22 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 104. 23 LRBL, i.v.56. 24 T 2.1.11.1; SBN 316. 25 T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317. 26 Resemblance performs two roles in this process. In the first, what might be called generic resemblance, we infer the existence of others’ sentiments because we recognize that all people have the same kinds of sentiments. In the second role, resemblance operates as a means of transmission of vivacity. 27 T 2.1.11.6; SBN 318. 28 TMS I.i.1.5 [References to Adam Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments take the form TMS followed by the part, section, chapter, and paragraph numbers in Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, ed. D.D. Raphael and A.L. Macfie (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1982).] 29 TMS I.i.4.5. 30 T 2.1.11.3; SBN 317. 31 T 2.2.9.14; SBN 386. 32 TMS I.i.3.4. 33 TMS I.i.1.10. 34 TMS I.i.1.10. 35 TMS II.i.2.5. 36 TMS II.i.2.3. 37 Charles L. Griswold Jr, Adam Smith and the Virtues of Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 139.

Notes to pages 88–92 185 38 In a 1759 letter to Smith, Hume argues that the ‘hinge’ of Smith’s conception of sympathy, and also the point that fundamentally differentiates it from Hume’s, is Smith’s view that ‘all kinds of Sympathy are necessarily Agreeable’ (Letters, I:313). Hume is, of course, correct that Smith’s view on the necessary agreeableness of sympathy differs from his own view. However, as I have already shown, this is not the sole difference between Hume’s and Smith’s respective conceptions of sympathy. 39 T 2.1.11.8; SBN 319. 40 T 1.3.13.8; SBN 147. 41 LRBL, i.13. 42 LRBL, i.66–i.v.68. 43 TMS IV.I.10; WN IV.2.9. [References to Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations take the form WN followed by the book, chapter, and paragraph numbers in Adam Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, ed. R.H. Campbell and A.S. Skinner, textual editor W.B. Todd, 2 vols. (Indianapolis: Liberty Classics, 1981).] 44 LRBL, i.v.56. 45 LRBL, i.74–5. 46 LRBL, i.76. 47 LRBL, ii.245. 48 Essays, ‘Of Simplicity and Refinement in Writing,’ 192. 49 New Letters, 13. 50 John Trenchard and Thomas Gordon, Cato’s Letters: Or, Liberty, Civil and Religious, and Other Important Subjects, ed. Ronald Hamowy (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1995). 51 For example, Trenchard and Gordon describe sympathy in terms remarkably similar to those employed by Hume in the Treatise. In ‘Of Eloquence, Considered Philosophically,’ Trenchard describes the process through which we come to sympathize with a beggar: ‘the human sympathy in our souls raises a party for him within us, and our fancy immediately represents us to ourselves in the same doleful circumstances; and, for that time, we feel all that the beggar feels, probably much more; for he is used to it, and can bear it better’ (Cato’s Letters, No. 104, 738). 52 Ibid., No. 103, 732–3. 53 Ibid., No. 104, 735. 54 LRBL, ii.14. 55 T 1.3.10.8; SBN 122. 56 T 3.2.2.14; SBN 493. 57 LRBL, ii.60. 58 T 1.3.9.12; SBN 112.

186 Notes to pages 93–104 59 T 1.3.9.12; SBN 113. 60 LRBL, i.158. 61 T 1.3.6.5; SBN 89. 62 EHU 10.2.18; SBN 118. 63 T 1.3.9.13; SBN 114. 64 New Letters, 14. 65 Ibid. 66 Ibid. 67 Trenchard and Gordon, Cato’s Letters, No. 104, 735. 68 T 1.3.11.2; SBN 124. 69 T 1.3.11.3; SBN 124–5. 70 T 1.3.11.7; SBN 126. 71 T 1.3.12.5; SBN 132. 72 T 1.3.12.14; SBN 135. 73 Trenchard and Gordon, Cato’s Letters, No. 103, 732–3. 74 LRBL, ii.250. 75 Ibid. 76 LRBL, ii.251. 77 T 2.3.6.7; SBN 426–7. 78 LRBL, i.76. 79 TMS I.iii.2.5. 80 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 127. 81 TMS I.i.4.7. 82 LRBL, i.135. 83 TMS I.i.4.7. 84 LRBL, ii.179. 85 T 2.3.4.1; SBN 418–19. 86 T 1.3.10.9; SBN 123. 87 Walzer, George Campbell, 23. 88 Ibid., 26. 89 Letters, I:376n4. 90 EHU 10.1.13; SBN 115–16. 91 Letters, I:376. 92 George Campbell, The Philosophy of Rhetoric (New York: Harper, and Brothers, 1868), 40. 93 Ibid., 40. 94 Ibid., 1. 95 Ibid., 34. 96 Ibid., 48. 97 Ibid., 49.

Notes to pages 104–10 187  98 Walzer, George Campbell, 31.  99 Lloyd Frank Bitzer, The Lively Idea: A Study of Hume’s Influence on George Campbell’s Philosophy of Belief, PhD diss., State University of Iowa, 1962, 200. 100 Campbell, The Philosophy of Rhetoric, 81. 101 Ibid., 73. 102 Walzer, George Campbell, 70. 103 Ibid., 71. 104 Don Garrett, Cognition and Commitment in Hume’s Philosophy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 27. 105 Campbell, Philosophy of Rhetoric, 77. 106 T 3.1.1.12; SBN 459. 5. Resuscitating the Passionate Eloquence of the Ancients   1 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 102.   2 Ibid., 108.   3 Aristotle does argue that reasoned arguments are in general the most persuasive. However, he also demonstrates a sensitivity to the contexts in which speeches are given, and in particular to the character and intellectual level of the audience. For example, he argues that ‘we ought in fairness to fight our case with no help beyond the bare facts; nothing, therefore, should matter except the proof of those facts. Still, as has already been said, other things affect the result considerably, owing to the defects of our hearers’ (1404a5–9). Nevertheless, Aristotle’s faith in the persuasive power of truth and reason, even if not absolute, stands in marked contrast to Hume’s conception of persuasion. [All references to The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985).]   4 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1356a25–6.   5 Hume’s only significant mention of Aristotle’s Rhetoric appears in a footnote in The History of England, vol. 5, 149n1.   6 See note 508.   7 Peter Jones, Hume’s Sentiments: Their Ciceronian and French Context (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1982), 11.   8 Aristophanes, Clouds, 112–18, in Plato and Aristophanes: Four Texts on Socrates, trans. Thomas G. West and Grace Starry West (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984).   9 Plato, Gorgias, 502a6–c12, in Plato: Gorgias and Phaedrus, trans. James H. Nichols (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998).  10 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1355b27–8.

188 Notes to pages 110–13 11 Ibid., 1355a11. 12 In addition to focusing much of his discussion on deliberative oratory, Aristotle also argues that it is ‘a nobler business’ (1354b24) than forensic rhetoric because ‘in a political debate the man who is forming a judgement is making a decision about his own vital interests. There is no need, therefore, to prove anything except that the facts are what the supporter of a measure maintains they are. In forensic oratory this is not enough; to conciliate the listener is what pays here’ (1354b29–33). 13 Amélie Oksenberg Rorty, ‘Structuring Rhetoric,’ in Essays on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, ed. Amélie Oksenberg Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 1–33 at 23. 14 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1.8 (1365b22–1366a23). 15 Rorty, ‘Structuring Rhetoric,’ 23. 16 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 106. 17 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1354a1. 18 A classic example of a syllogism is: All As are B. All Bs are C. Therefore, All As are C. 19 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1357a16–7. 20 M.F. Burnyeat, ‘Enthymeme: Aristotle on the Rationality of Rhetoric,’ in Essays on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, ed. Amélie Oksenberg Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 88–115 at 99. 21 Ibid., 99–100. 22 Ibid., 100. 23 Rorty, ‘Structuring Rhetoric,’ 16. 24 David Owen, Hume’s Reason (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 59. 25 This is not to suggest that Hume thought Protestant beliefs about popery to be irrelevant to politics. He was perfectly aware that political debates in Britain often broke down along religious lines. Hume himself favoured the Protestant succession and approved of the Glorious Revolution that brought about the overthrow of the Catholic James II. He also opposed Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobite rebellion of 1745. Furthermore, Hume was certainly aware that Protestants and Catholics had many times resorted to violence against each other, examples being the killing of Protestants in Ireland and the retaliatory killings of Catholics by Cromwell and then the Orangemen. Hume’s point here is not that the Protestants had nothing to fear from Catholics. Rather, he is arguing that the religious disagreements that divided Catholics from Protestants were utterly groundless. 26 History of England, vol. 6, 31. 27 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1355a22–3. 28 Ibid., 1355a15–6.

Notes to pages 113–16 189 29 T 1.3.9.12; SBN 112. 30 T 1.3.7; SBN 629. 31 Robert Wardy, ‘Mighty Is the Truth and It Shall Prevail?’ in Essays on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, ed. Amélie Oksenberg Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 56–87 at 66. 32 Ibid., 69. (Aristotle’s presentation of the persuasiveness of truth does contain several ambiguities, as Wardy goes on to argue. However, these ambiguities do not significantly alter the comparison with Hume’s explicit statements on the prevalence of credulity.) 33 History of England, vol. 5, 285. 34 T 3.2.7.8; SBN 538. 35 EHU 10.2.19; SBN 119. 36 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1354a15. 37 Ibid., 1377b21–5. 38 Martha Craven Nussbaum, ‘Aristotle on Emotions and Rational Persuasion,’ in Essays on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, ed. Amélie Okenberg Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 303–23 at 304. 39 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1378a24–8. 40 Nussbaum, ‘Aristotle on Emotions and Rational Persuasion,’ 319. 41 Wardy, ‘Mighty Is the Truth and It Shall Prevail?’ 63. 42 Ibid. 43 T 2.3.3.6; SBN 416. 44 T 2.3.3.6; SBN 416. 45 T 2.3.3.6; SBN 416. 46 Rorty, ‘Structuring Rhetoric,’ 20. 47 Ibid., 21. 48 Ibid. 49 Anger, calm, friendship and enmity, fear and confidence, shame, favour, pity, indignation, envy, and jealousy. 50 Hume’s double relation of impressions and ideas explains how the indirect passions of pride, humility, love, and hatred arise. These, for Hume, are the passions associated with moral judgments. In Hume’s words, the double relation of impressions and ideas is explained as follows: ‘When an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is connected with an idea, related to the first idea, these two impressions must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be unattended with the other. ’Tis after this manner, that the particular causes of pride and humility are determin’d. The quality, which operates on the passion, produces separately an impression resembling it; the subject, to which the quality adheres, is related to self, the object of the passion’ (T 2.1.5.10; SBN 289). In simpler

190 Notes to pages 116–20 language, Hume is arguing that an indirect passion such as pride can only arise when two relations exist: the first is between a quality of the subject – for example, the generosity of a character – and either pain or pleasure; the second is between the subject and either myself or another. In the case of my generous character, the generosity is associated with pleasure. The generous character is associated with me. Through this double relation, I feel pride in my generous character. Were the generous character someone else’s, the association of generosity and pleasure would combine with the association between the generous character and that person, to produce in me a love for that person on account of their generous character. Pride and love are associated with pleasure. Humility and hatred are associated with pain. Pride and humility are associated with oneself. Love and hatred are associated with another. From the initial two relations – that between the quality of the subject and either pain or pleasure, and between the subject and either myself or another – one of the four indirect passions arises naturally in my mind through its association of impressions and ideas. 51 T 2.3.9.8; SBN 439. 52 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1378a9. 53 Owen, Hume’s Reason, 212. 54 T 2.1.11.9; SBN 320–1. 55 EHU 10.1.7; SBN 112. 56 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1354a15. 57 T 3.1.1.6; SBN 457. 58 In particular, see Jones, Hume’s Sentiments. 59 Letters, I:34. 60 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 105–6. 61 Ibid., 98. 62 We know that Hume read Plutarch from a March 1734 letter that he wrote to Dr George Cheyne (Letters I:14). 63 Plutarch, Selected Lives: From the Parallel Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, trans. John Dryden (Franklin Center: Franklin Library, 1982), 459. 64 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 127. 65 Plutarch, Selected Lives, 459. 66 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 108. 67 As an ideal, Hume’s Demosthenes is a bit of an empty shell. He simply represents the greatest of the Greek orators. My objective in defining Hume’s Demosthenes as an ideal is not to point to important differences between the actual historical Demosthenes and Hume’s ideal, but rather to emphasize that a historical study of the actual Demosthenes would be unlikely to yield further insights into Hume’s account of the model orator.

Notes to pages 120–7 191 68 Cicero, De oratore, 3.73. [All references to De oratore are to Cicero: On the Ideal Orator, trans. James M. May and Jakob Wise (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). References take the form of Cicero, De oratore, followed by the book and paragraph number from which the passage is taken.] 69 Cicero, De oratore, 3.121–2. 70 Ibid., 1.20. 71 EHU 1.1.1; SBN 5. 72 EHU 1.1.2; SBN 6. 73 T 3.3.6.6; SBN 620–1. 74 EHU 1.1.17; SBN 16. Hume’s reference to Hutcheson as a painter is clearly meant to be deprecating. He was very critical of all philosophical systems that lacked the accuracy that he attributed to his own. Therefore, Hume’s discussion of uniting the two species of philosophy should not be taken as an expression of praise for ‘painters.’ Rather, I read it as an expression of hope for a new type of philosophy that would harness the ‘painter’s’ passionate praise of virtue to an accurate (according to Hume) understanding of human nature. 75 Cicero, De oratore, 1.87. 76 Ibid., 3.142–3. 77 Ibid., 3.55. 78 T 1.3.10.8; SBN 123. 79 Cicero, De oratore, 3.55. 80 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 105–6. 81 New Letters, 7. 82 Ibid., 8. 83 Ibid. 84 Ibid. 85 Ibid., 9. 86 History of England, vol. 5, 150. 87 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 101. 88 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 127. 6. Rhetoric and the Public Sphere  1 Essays, ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,’ 525.  2 Jennifer A. Herdt, Religion and Faction in Hume’s Moral Philosophy (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 14.  3 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 106.  4 T 1.3.12.14; SBN 135.  5 T Intro.2; SBN xviii.

192 Notes to pages 128–38  6 EHU 1.1.1; SBN 5.  7 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 105–6.  8 EHU 10.2.20; SBN 119.  9 Methodologically, this selection criterion could be problematic. It could be that Hume’s decisions on whether or not to quote directly from particular speeches had more to do with the availability of those transcripts than with any conscious decision on his part to focus attention on that particular speech. However, I will proceed on the basis of this selection criterion because these discussions are the only ones that give us insight into Hume’s analyses of rhetoric. His discussions of speeches in which he summarizes the arguments but does not quote directly from the orator do not. 10 Thomas Wentworth. 11 History of England, vol. 5, 251. 12 Ibid., 414. 13 Ibid., 252. 14 Ibid., 62. 15 Ibid., 172. 16 Ibid., 349. 17 Ibid., 304. 18 Ibid., 407. 19 Ibid., 213–14. 20 Ibid., 213. 21 History of England, vol. 6, 181. 22 History of England, vol. 5, 493. 23 Ibid., 294. 24 Ibid., 21. 25 Ibid., 31–2. 26 Ibid., 32. 27 Ibid., 115. 28 Ibid., 115. 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid., 13. 31 Ibid. 32 ‘ . . . therefore I am come amongst you, as you see, at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all; to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and my people, my honour and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade

Notes to pages 138–40 193 the borders of my realm . . . ’ http://www.britannia.com/history/monarchs/ mon45.html, accessed 29 July 2011. 33 Hume’s admiration for Elizabeth’s rhetoric marks a break from his usually gendered account of political oratory. It suggests that he wrote of political orators as men, not so much on account of his understanding of the capabilities of women, but more because he simply was not used to seeing women engage in political oratory. 34 History of England, vol. 4, 266. 35 Ibid. 36 History of England, vol. 5, 317. 37 Ibid., 312. 38 Ibid., 315. 39 Ibid., 315. 40 ‘Where has this species of guilt lain so long concealed?’ said Strafford in conclusion: ‘Where has the fire been so long buried, during so many centuries, that no smoke should appear, till it burst out at once, to consume me and my children? Better it were to live under no law at all, and by the maxims of cautious prudence, to conform ourselves the best we can, to the arbitrary will of a master; than fancy we have a law on which we can rely, and find at last, that this law shall inflict a punishment precedent to the promulgation, and try us by maxims unheard of till the very moment of the prosecution. If I sail on the Thames, and split my vessel on an anchor; in case there be no buoy to give warning, the party shall pay me damages; But, if the anchor be marked out, then is the striking on it at my own peril. Where is the mark set upon this crime? Where the token by which I should discover it? It has lain concealed, under water; and no human prudence, no human innocence, could save me from the destruction, with which I am at present threatened. ‘It is now full two hundred and forty years since treasons were defined; and so long has it been, since any man was touched to this extent, upon this crime, before myself. We have lived, my lords, happily to ourselves at home: We have lived gloriously abroad to the world: Let us be content with what our fathers have left us: Let not our ambition carry us to be more learned than they were, in these killing and destructive arts. Great wisdom it will be in your lordships, and just providence, for yourselves, for your posterities, for the whole kingdom, to cast from you, into the fire, these bloody and mysterious volumes of arbitrary and constructive treasons, as the primitive Christians did their books of curious arts, and betake yourselves to the plain letter of the statute, which tells you where the crime is, and points out to you the path by which you may avoid it.

194 Notes to pages 140–2 ‘Let us not, to our own destruction, awake those sleeping lions, by rattling up a company of old records, which have lain for so many ages, by the wall, forgotten and neglected. To all my afflictions, add not this, my lords, the most severe of any; that I, for my other sins, not for my treasons, be the means of introducing a precedent, so pernicious to the laws and liberties of my native country. ‘However these gentlemen at the bar say they speak for the commonwealth; and they believe so: Yet, under favour, it is I who, in this particular, speak for the commonwealth. Precedents, like those which are endeavoured to be established against me, must draw along such inconveniencies and miseries, that, in a few years, the kingdom will be in the condition expressed in a statute of Henry IV.; and no man shall know by what rule to govern his words and actions. ‘Impose not, my lords, difficulties insurmountable upon ministers of state, nor disable them from serving with chearfulness their king and country. If you examine them, and under such severe penalties, by every grain, by every little weight; the scrutiny will be intolerable. The public affairs of the kingdom must be left waste; and no wise man, who has any honour or fortune to lose, will ever engage himself in such dreadful, such unknown perils. ‘My lords, I have now troubled your lordships a great deal longer than I should have done. Were it not for the interest of these pledges, which a saint in heaven, left me, I should be loth’ – Here he pointed to his children, and his weeping stopped him. –‘What I forfeit for myself, it is nothing: But I confess, that my indiscretion should forfeit for them, it wounds me very deeply. You will be pleased to pardon my infirmity: Something I should have said; but I see I shall not be able, and therefore I shall leave it. ‘And now, my lords, I thank God, I have been, by his blessing, sufficiently instructed in the extreme vanity of all temporary enjoyments, compared to the importance of our eternal duration. And so, my lords, even so, with all humility, and with all tranquility of mind, I submit, clearly and freely, to your judgments: And whether that righteous doom shall be to life or death, I shall repose myself, full of gratitude and confidence, in the arms of the great Author of my existence’ (History of England, vol. 5, 316–17). 41 Ibid., 318. 42 Ibid. 43 Essays, ‘That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science,’ 27. 44 Ibid., 26. 45 Essays, ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,’ 529. 46 Ibid., 516.

Notes to pages 142–51 195 47 Ibid., 512. 48 Jacob T. Levy, ‘Beyond Publius: Montesquieu, Liberal Republicanism, and the Small-Republic Thesis,’ History of Political Thought, 2006. Available at SSRN: http://ssrn.com/abstract=739447, 11. 49 Essays, ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth.’ 527. 50 In Hume’s ideal commonwealth, the right to vote is limited to freeholders of twenty pounds per year in the country and householders worth five hundred pounds in the town parishes (Essays, ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,’ 516). 51 Ibid., 516–17. 52 Ibid., 529. 53 Ibid. 54 Ibid., 525. 7. Toward a Politics of Eloquence  1 Essays, ‘Of Eloquence,’ 100.  2 Essays, ‘Of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Sciences,’ 119.  3 Bryan Garsten, Saving Persuasion: A Defense of Rhetoric and Judgment (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 176.  4 See, for example, John Rawls, Political Liberalism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005); Jürgen Habermas, Between Facts and Norms: Contributions to a Discourse Theory of Law and Democracy (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999); Seyla Benhabib, ed., Democracy and Difference: Contesting the Boundaries of the Political (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996).  5 Rebecca Kingston and Leonard Ferry, ‘Introduction,’ in Bringing the Passions Back In: The Emotions in Political Philosophy, ed. Leonard Ferry and Rebecca Kingston (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2008), 3–18 at 11.  6 John Gray, Liberalism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 24.  7 Garsten, Saving Persuasion, 4–5.  8 Andrew Sabl, Ruling Passions: Political Offices and Democratic Ethics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 16.  9 Sharon Krause, Civil Passions: Moral Sentiment and Democratic Deliberation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 9. 10 Ibid., 140–1. 11 Isaiah Berlin, ‘Pursuit of the Ideal,’ in The Crooked Timber of Humanity: Chapters in the History of Ideas, ed. Henry Hardy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 1–19 at 11. 12 John Gray, Isaiah Berlin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 43.

196 Notes to pages 151–9 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 The same holds true for utilitarianism. In positing happiness or utility as the single end for which all human beings strive, utilitarianism is quite evidently incompatible with the Berlinian model, in which values are irreducibly plural. 16 Krause, Civil Passions, 156. 17 John Rawls, Political Liberalism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 450. 18 Peter Jones makes the useful distinction between the ‘fact of pluralism’ and ‘value-pluralism’ in ‘Toleration, Value-Pluralism, and the Fact of Pluralism,’ Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 9, no. 2 (June 2006): 189–210. 19 John Gray, ‘Pluralism and Toleration in Contemporary Political Philosophy,’ Political Studies 48 (2000): 323–33. 20 Berlin, ‘Pursuit of the Ideal.’ 11. 21 Ibid., 14. 22 Essays, ‘Of the Standard of Taste,’ 228. 23 Kate Abramson, ‘Hume on Cultural Conflicts of Values,’ Philosophical Studies: An International Journal in the Analytic Tradition 94, no. 1/2, Selected Papers Presented at the American Philosophical Association Pacific Division Meeting 1998 (May 1999): 173–87 at 183. 24 Kate Abramson, ‘Hume on Cultural Conflicts of Values,’ Philosophical Studies: An International Journal in the Analytic Tradition 94, nos. 1–2 (May 1999): 173–87 at 183. 25 EPM ‘A Dialogue,’ 192; SBN 333. 26 Essays, ‘Of the Standard of Taste,’ 243. 27 Abramson, ‘Hume on Cultural Conflicts of Values,’ 174. 28 Ibid., 183. 29 Ibid. 30 T 3.3.1.30; SBN 591. 31 EPM Appx.1.2; SBN 285. 32 Isaiah Berlin, ‘Herder and the Enlightenment,’ in Three Critics of the Enlightenment: Vico, Hamann, Herder, ed. Henry Hardy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 168–242 at 168. 33 Ibid., 206–7. 34 Krause, Civil Passions, 17. 35 Ibid., 1. 36 Ibid., 25. 37 Garsten, Saving Persuasion, 2.

Notes to pages 159–64 197 38 Ibid., 3. 39 Ibid., 176. 40 Ibid., 177. 41 Ibid., 179. 42 Ibid., 191. 43 Ibid., 189. 44 Ibid., 2. 45 Ibid., 116–17. 46 Donald W. Livingston, Philosophical Melancholy and Delirium: Hume’s Pathology of Philosophy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 259–60. 47 Ibid., 395. 48 Garsten, Saving Persuasion, 206. 49 T 1.3.10.9; SBN 123.

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Index

Aberdeen, Philosophical Society of, 102 Abramson, Kate, 153, 154 Addison, Joseph, 34; on literary style, 47, 49, 68; on Ovid, 93; on philosophy, 59, 68–9; on politeness, 62 anatomists, Hume’s view of, 121, 128 Antonius, Marcus, 91 Aristophanes, 110 Aristotle, 10; on character, 117; in Edinburgh’s curriculum, 110; on emotions, 114–15, 118; Garsten on, 147, 160–1; Hume and, 109–19, 136; on judgment, 108; on persuasion, 111, 114, 118, 187n3, 189n32; on rhetoric, 10, 40, 48, 108–19, 123; rhetorical categories of, 83, 110–11, 188n12 autonomy, 36, 60, 71, 152–3, 159 Bacon, Francis, 134 Baier, Annette C., 25, 29, 58 Beattie, James, 102 belief, 3–4, 35–40, 57, 114; causal, 27– 8, 36; and faith, 106, 182n97; and imagination, 46, 49–53, 100; and

philosophy of mind, 33, 38–41, 125–7; superstitious, 6, 15, 27–9, 33, 113, 157, 182n97; unreasonable, 9–10, 40, 115–16, 156–7 Berlin, Isaiah, 145, 147, 150, 151, 153, 156 bigotry, 16, 26, 73, 126, 134, 143, 169n13 Bitzer, Lloyd Frank, 33, 104–5 Blair, Hugh, 57, 82 Box, M.A., 34, 58, 62, 68–70 Burnyeat, M.F., 112 Campbell, George, 10, 102; Dissertation on Miracles, 103; Philosophy of Rhetoric, 33, 34, 81–2, 101–7 Carlyle, Alexander, 57 Cato, Marcus Porcius, 90–1, 134–5 causality, 27–9, 36–8, 127, 155; judgments of, 88–9. See also experimental method; probability character, 27, 155; Aristotle on, 114, 117–18; gentlemanly, 54–5, 58–71, 74–9, 98, 117, 177n73, 179n9; persuasiveness of, 130 Charles I (king of Great Britain), 18, 25–6, 41, 133–6, 139

212 Index Chisick, Harvey, 44, 180n38 Cicero, 76, 81; and Demosthenes, 119–23; in Edinburgh’s curriculum, 110; Garsten on, 147, 160–1; Hume on, 10–11, 108–9; Plutarch on, 119–20; Trenchard on, 90–1; works of, 120–3, 128 Civil Passions (Krause), 146–51, 158–9 Civil War, English, 9, 19–20, 26, 35, 41, 133–6 civility, 65, 76–8. See also politeness class, 60–3, 65, 98, 164, 179n9. See also gentlemanliness cognitive psychology, 81, 101, 102, 105, 189n50. See also sense impressions Coke, Edward, 134 Common Sense philosophy, 102–7, 181n55 commonwealth, 168n3; ideal, 45, 125, 142–4, 177n68 communication, 104; of interests, 163; of passions, 85–9, 91–2, 101. See also sympathy constitution, British, 18–20, 23, 125, 142–4 conversation, arts of, 58–61, 63–70, 77–9, 98, 129, 165 Cooper, Anthony Ashley. See Shaftesbury, 3rd Earl of courage, 155 credulity, 6, 26; and human nature, 41–2, 113, 132–4; Smith on, 92–3 Cromwell, Oliver, 18, 49, 178n97 De oratore (Cicero), 120–2, 128 deliberative rhetoric, 88, 111, 188n12 Demosthenes, 7, 32, 41, 119–23, 145; as Hume’s model orator, 11, 109, 111, 120, 122, 126, 190n67; Plutarch on, 109, 119–20

dialectic, 5, 109, 111–13 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (Hume), 60–3 didactic oratory, 84, 90, 91, 96 Edmonstoune, James, 182n97 Edward III (king of England), 140 Elizabeth I (queen of England), 138–9, 192n32, 193n33 eloquence, 7, 39–42, 77, 100–1, 123, 126, 145; classical, 75–7, 81, 108–23; defining of, 34–5; and politeness, 129, 133, 141; politics of, 11–12, 145–65; Potkay on, 75; and reason, 32–4, 42, 127; Smith on, 89; Trenchard on, 91. See also politeness empiricism, 6, 58–9, 79, 129; Campbell on, 107; and judgment, 148, 150, 158; Reid on, 103. See also experimental method Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (Hume), 8, 27–8; and Cicero’s philosophy, 120–1; on eloquence, 42; Garrett on, 15; on miracles, 103, 104; on politeness, 69 Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (Hume), 8, 155–6 enthusiasm. See fanaticism enthymeme, 111–12, 114 epideictic rhetoric, 83, 110 epistemology, 77–9, 80, 105; and ethics, 15; and oratory, 102; sceptical, 10, 59–60, 82, 103, 171n39 Essex, Earl of, 133 ethics, 61–2, 109; and epistemology, 15; and factionalism, 22–5, 30; and value pluralism, 150–1. See also moral judgment etiquette. See politeness

Index 213 Evangelical Party, 56–7 experimental method, 29–30, 59, 113, 127–9, 141, 172n39; and probability, 78–9, 94–6, 136. See also causality; empiricism factionalism, 9; bigotry of, 16, 24, 126, 134; and fanaticism, 6, 13–17, 22–31, 124–8, 145; and legitimate opposition, 48, 64, 124, 170n23; Madison on, 162; and moral judgments, 22–7, 64, 78; political, 19, 31, 168n8; and value pluralism, 151 faith, 106, 182n97 fanaticism, 9, 100–1; constitutional government against, 19–20; and factionalism, 6, 13–17, 22–31, 124–8, 145; Hume’s challenge to, 26–30; low rhetoric of, 42–3; and madness, 100–1; natural tendency toward, 20–2, 30; religious, 18–24, 48, 77, 137–8; synonyms of, 169n13 Ferguson, Adam, 57 Ferry, Leonard, 148 figures of speech. See rhetorical figures Flew, Anthony, 16 forensic rhetoric, 83, 110–11, 188n12 Franklin, Benjamin, 174n80 gallantry, 66–70, 74, 98, 177n73. See also politeness Garrett, Don, 15, 27–9 Garsten, Bryan, 147, 149, 159–62 gender, Hume’s view of, 57, 67, 164, 177n73, 193n33 generosity, 61, 66–7, 155, 190n50 gentlemanliness, 54–5, 58–71, 74–9, 98, 117, 177n73, 179n9. See also class; politeness

Gerard, Alexander, 102 Gillespie, Thomas, 179n5 Glorious Revolution (1688), 18, 188n25 Gordon, Thomas, 90–4, 185n51 Gray, John, 148, 151, 152, 172n39 Griswold, Charles L., Jr, 87–8 Gunpowder Plot (1605), 137–8 Habermas, Jürgen, 160 Hampden, John, 135 Hanover dynasty, 18, 82, 98 happiness, 25, 62, 168n3 Harrington, James, 45 Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 156 Herdt, Jennifer, 15, 16, 23; on factional prejudices, 27; on moral approbation, 30; on religious sects, 24–5, 29, 126 ‘Highflyers.’ See Popular Party History of England (Hume), 8, 11, 64, 76; on constitutional government, 19–20; political rhetoric in, 124–5, 130–41, 143; structure of, 16, 52; success of, 14; on superstitions, 52–3, 113 Hobbes, Thomas, 159–60 Home, Henry. See Kames, Lord Home, John, 57 Hoskin, John, 83 humoural medicine, 46, 91, 100, 153–4, 156 Hurd, Richard, 64 Hutcheson, Francis, 119, 191n74 ‘Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth’ (Hume), 45, 125, 142–4 ideologies, of political parties, 161 imagination, 105, 128; and belief, 46, 49–53, 100; and judgment, 36–8, 88–9, 91, 96–7; and sympathy, 87

214 Index impartiality, 147, 151, 158–63 Irish insurrection (1641), 24 Jacobitism, 16, 19, 52, 125, 188 James I (king of Great Britain), 48, 64, 134, 136–8 Javitch, Daniel, 74 Jones, Peter, 110, 196n18 judgment, 11, 145–8, 150–8; Aristotle on, 108, 114; and imagination, 36–8, 88–9, 91, 96–7; impartial, 147, 151, 158–63; Kant on, 155; and religious zeal, 22–5, 48; unsound, 37–8, 41, 47–8, 51, 93–4, 101, 127. See also moral judgment Kames, Lord, 30–1, 122, 179n5 Kant, Immanuel, 5, 159–60; modern theories based on, 146–52, 155 King, Martin Luther, Jr, 4 Kingston, Rebecca, 148 Klein, Lawrence, 59–63, 66, 68, 71–4, 77 Knox, John, 57 Krause, Sharon, 146–51, 158–9 Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres (Smith), 80, 82–5, 89, 96–9 Levy, Jacob T., 142 liberal theory, 5, 11, 17–18, 148–50, 165; Garsten on, 159–62; Krause on, 158–9; Livingston on, 161; Rawls on, 152–3; and sceptical conservatism, 171n39 literary style, 64, 68–71, 83, 163; rhetorical figures in, 48–9, 75–7, 89–101 Livingston, Donald, 17–18, 161–2 logos, 115. See also reason Madison, James, 147, 162–3 madness, 17, 100–1, 164

manipulative rhetoric, 51, 80–5, 90, 96–101, 107, 130–2, 157 Metamorphoses (Ovid), 93 Miller, David, 14, 15, 19–20, 171n39 Miller, Stephen, 19 miracles, 52–3, 103, 104. See also superstitions Moderate Party, 56–8, 72–5, 77 moderation, 63–4, 70, 97–101, 141, 142 Montesquieu, 142 moral judgment, 79–80, 85–7, 149–58, 163, 189n50; and conversation, 63–4; and factionalism, 22–7, 64, 78, 126; and sympathy, 86; universality of, 153. See also ethics; judgment Mossner, Ernest Campbell, 14–15, 29, 30 Mure, William, 89–90, 94 Natural History of Religion (Hume), 20–2, 40–1, 43, 51, 64 Nussbaum, Martha, 114 Obama, Barack, 4 obscurity, 50–1, 89 opposition of interests, 18–19, 131, 142–3, 146, 162 Ovid, 93 Owen, David, 28 painters, Hume’s view of, 120–1, 128, 191n74 ‘Party-Rage,’ 31, 161, 168n8. See also factionalism passion, 31–2, 46–8, 105–6; communicating of, 85–9, 91–2, 101; indirect, 189n50; moderation of, 63–4, 71, 97–101; philosophical, 19; and prejudice, 15; and reason, 102, 106–7, 115–16, 127–9, 149–50, 163; and sublimity, 108; and sympathy, 86–8

Index 215 Passmore, John, 15–16 pathé, 115 patronage, 18, 56–7, 73, 74 Peacham, Henry, 83 persuasion, 3–7, 46–53, 90, 146, 162–3; Aristotle on, 111, 114, 118, 187n3, 189n32; Campbell on, 33; by character, 130; Garsten on, 147; and instruction, 84–5, 91–3, 100, 106; justification versus, 160; passionate versus rational, 32, 81, 85–9, 91–2, 99, 101; and politeness, 77 Philippics (Cicero), 123 Philosophical Society of Aberdeen, 102 philosophy of mind, 10, 31, 46, 52; Aristotle’s, 115; and belief, 33, 38– 41, 126–7; Campbell’s, 33, 104; and politeness, 6, 129; Trenchard’s, 91 Philosophy of Rhetoric (Campbell), 33, 34, 81–2, 101–7 Plato, 5, 110, 119 pluralism, 145–8, 150–8, 163, 196n18 Plutarch, 190n62; on Cicero, 119–20; on Demosthenes, 109, 119–20 Pocock, J.G.A., 19, 22 politeness, 56–79; and class, 60–3, 65; definition of, 98; and eloquence, 129, 133, 141; French, 69; and gallantry, 66–70, 74, 98, 177n73; Lawrence Klein on, 49–63, 66, 68, 72–3, 77; religious implications of, 72–4; and rhetoric, 75–7, 97–101, 118, 129; Scottish notions of, 72–3; and simplicity, 34–5, 49–50, 70–2; Smith on, 97–8; virtue of, 54–5, 70, 75, 98, 117, 153. See also gentlemanliness political discourse, 3–7, 30–1, 80, 111; eloquence of, 145–65; in History of England, 124–5, 130–41, 143; rhetorical figures in, 76–7, 90–7

Pope, Alexander, 34 Popular Party, 56–7, 73, 179n5 Potkay, Adam, 35, 40–1, 61, 75–7 prejudice. See bigotry Presbyterianism, 56–7, 72–4, 169n13, 179n5 Priestley, Joseph, 77 probability, 78–9, 94–6, 127; unphilosophical, 27, 37–8, 136. See also causality public sphere, 31, 45, 78, 124–5, 141–4; Garsten on, 159–62; interlocutors of, 179n14; people’s true interest in, 131, 136–7; Rawls on, 157; and value pluralism, 151–3 Puritans, 18, 19, 169n13 Purviance, Susan, 63 Quintilian, 81 Ramus, Petrus, 110 rationalism, 14, 32–3, 87–8, 145; of emotions, 114; neo-Kantian model of, 146–52, 155; and value conflicts, 157–8 Rawls, John, 152–3, 157 reason, 10, 62, 156, 160; and chance, 95; demonstrative, 29; and eloquence, 32, 42; Hume’s view of, 93–5, 105, 108, 110; and passion, 102, 106–7, 115–16, 127–9, 149–50, 163; and rhetoric, 5, 76–7, 110, 127; Smith’s view of, 87–8; and syllogisms, 111–13; and sympathy, 85–90; and truth, 17, 39–40 Reid, Thomas, 64, 102–3, 181n55 relativism, cultural, 97–8, 151, 153–5 republicanism, 45, 142–4 rhetoric: Aristotle on, 40, 48, 108–19, 123; and belief, 35–40; categories of, 83, 110–11, 188n12; classical, 75–7,

216 Index 81, 108–23; definitions of, 34–5, 104; versus dialectic, 5; didactic oratory versus, 84, 91; high versus low, 8–11, 42–3, 53–5, 77–8, 85, 124–8, 131, 139–41; manipulative, 51, 80–5, 90, 96–101, 107, 130–2, 157; and the people, 43–6; persuasion by, 46–53, 90; and philosophy, 120–2; and politeness, 75–7, 97–101, 118, 129; power of, 5–6. See also eloquence rhetorical figures, 76–7, 97–101; critique of, 48–9, 89–97. See also literary style Richetti, John, 34–5 Robertson, William, 57 Rorty, Amélie Oskenberg, 111, 112, 116–17 Ross, Ian Simpson, 82, 84 Rouse, Francis, 135–6 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 142, 159–60 Royal Society, 84 Sabl, Andrew, 149 Saving Persuasion (Garsten), 159–62 scepticism, 10, 59–60, 82, 103, 171n39 Scholasticism, 43, 110, 137 scientific method. See experimental method Scots language, 82, 103 sects. See factionalism sense impressions, 6; and ‘lively ideas,’ 9, 36, 38, 98; and madness, 100–1; Walzer on, 104, 105. See also cognitive psychology Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper, 3rd Earl of, 59–62, 66; literary style of, 68, 83–4; Whig sympathies of, 73, 74 Shakespeare, William, 89 Sher, Richard B., 57, 72, 73

simplicity, 54, 75–8, 112, 128; in classical writers, 54; and politeness, 34–5, 49–50, 70–2 Smith, Adam, 10, 24, 106–7; on Hume’s death, 58; on ‘invisible hand,’ 89; on Ovid, 93; on politeness, 97–8; on Swift, 83–4; on sympathy, 85–9, 98, 185n38; Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, 80, 82–5, 89, 96–9; Theory of Moral Sentiments, 82, 98; Wealth of Nations, 82 sociability, 58–60, 72, 78, 129, 164; among classical orators, 77; enhancement of, 66; excesses of, 63; and sympathy, 86–7; ‘undisciplined,’ 19, 22 Socrates, 59, 68–9, 120 Spanish Armada, 138–9 Sprat, Thomas, 84 Stewart, John B., 171n39 Strafford, Thomas Wentworth, 1st Earl of, 11, 18, 124–5, 130, 139–41, 143, 193n40 Strahan, William, 58 Stuart dynasty. See Jacobitism style. See literary style superstitions, 73, 113, 121; belief in, 6, 10, 27–9, 33, 157, 182n97; definition of, 169n13; and prejudice, 15; religious, 27, 52–3 Swift, Jonathan, 34, 83–4 syllogism, 111–13 sympathy, 24–5, 154; Smith on, 85–9, 98, 185n38; Trenchard on, 185n51; and virtue, 155 taste, standards of, 19, 34, 63–4, 72, 108, 150, 153–6 techné, 112 Theory of Moral Sentiments (Smith), 82 Thucydides, 90–1

Index 217 Tories, 18–19, 57, 73, 125 treason, 140 Treatise on Human Nature (Hume), 8, 26–33, 94; moral philosophy in, 126; reception of, 14, 15, 29; sympathy in, 86 Trenchard, John, 10, 81–2, 96, 101, 106–7; Cato’s Letters, 90–4; on sympathy, 185n51 unphilosophical probability, 27, 37–8, 136 unsound judgment, 37–8, 41, 47–8, 51, 93–4, 101, 127 utilitarianism, 196n15 value pluralism, 145–8, 150–8, 163, 196n18 Vane, Henry, 136

Verrines (Cicero), 122 virtue, 155; of politeness, 54–5, 70, 75, 98, 117, 153 Walzer, Arthur A., 80, 81, 102; on sense impressions, 104, 105 Warburton, William, 64 Wardy, Robert, 113–15 Wentworth, Thomas. See Strafford, 1st Earl of Whelan, Frederick, 14, 15, 18 Whigs, 18–19, 57, 73, 125 Whitlocke, Bulstrode, 139–40 Wilkes and Liberty movement, 19, 77, 173n52, 183n111 Xenophon, 90–1 zealots. See fanaticism