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The Rise and Fall of Scottish Common

Sense Realism
The Rise and Fall

of Scottish Common
Sense Realism
Douglas McDermid
1
3
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For Michelle, Julia, and Andrea

Contents
Acknowledgements ix
Abbreviations xi
Introduction 1
1. Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 8
1.0 Introduction 8
1.1 Thomas Reid: Curriculum Vitae 10
1.2 Scepticism and Reid’s Principles of Common Sense 11
1.3 Why Philosophy Depends on Common Sense 16
1.4 ‘The Pride of Philosophy’ 21
1.5 ‘To Common Sense They Now Appeal’ 24
1.6 James Oswald: Primary Truths and Rational Perceptions 26
1.7 James Beattie: The Desolation of Philosophy 29
1.8 George Campbell: Miracles and Rhetoric 38
1.9 A Common Sense Credo 43
1.10 Descendants and Ancestors 47
2. Kames and the Argument from Perceptual Reliability 56
2.0 Introduction 56
2.1 The Primacy of Natural Feeling 57
2.2 The Argument from Perceptual Reliability 59
2.3 The Perceptual Reliability Thesis 59
2.4 The Immediate Object Thesis 64
2.5 The Incoherence of Idealism 67
2.6 A Diamond in the Rough 69
3. Reid and the Problem of the External World 72
3.0 Introduction 72
3.1 The Cartesian Reformation in Philosophy 74
3.2 The Argument from the All or None Thesis 79
3.3 The Cartesian Solution to the Problem of the External World 84
3.4 Scepticism and The Way of Ideas 94
3.5 Perception as Fact and Mystery 99
3.6 How to Be a Common Sense Realist 103
3.7 Reid and Kames 106
3.8 ‘A Scandal to Philosophy’ 107
4. Stewart and Hamilton: Defenders of the Faith 113
4.0 Introduction 113
4.1 Stewart and Common Sense Realism 114
4.2 Hamilton and the Relativity of Knowledge 120
4.3 Hamilton and Natural Realism 125
viii contents
4.4 Hamilton’s Critique of Hypothetical Realism 129

4.5 A Northern Ozymandias 132
5. Ferrier and the Myth of Scottish Common Sense Realism 137
5.1 ‘As helpless as a whale in a field of clover’ 138
5.2 Reid and Berkeley on Intuitive Perception 140
5.3 Metaphysicians or Psychologists? 143
5.4 Hypothetical Realism and its Discontents 146
5.5 The Common Sense Argument for Realism 149
5.6 Realism and the Inconceivability Principle 151
5.7 Five Morals 154
5.8 Solving the Problem of Perception 155
5.9 From Reid to Hamilton 158
5.10 What’s Past is Prologue 161
6. Ferrier and the Foundations of Idealism 165
6.1 Ferrier’s Master Argument for Idealism 166
6.2 The Law of All Knowledge Defended: Part I 170
6.3 The Law of All Knowledge Defended: Part II 173
6.4 The Law of All Knowledge Defended: Part III 177
6.5 From the Law of All Knowledge to the Law of All Ignorance 183
6.6 Against Things-in-Themselves: Beyond Kant and Hamilton 188
6.7 Where Did Reid Go Wrong? 190
6.8 Why Philosophy Does Not Depend on Common Sense 193
6.9 A Tradition Transcended from Within 197
7. ‘Scottish to the very core’ 203
Bibliography 211
Name Index 223
General Index 227
Acknowledgements
I would be remiss if I did not thank the following individuals, each of whom helped me
think better about the issues and authors dealt with in this book: Peter Baumann,
Michelle Boué, Justin Broackes, Alberto Corona, Cairns Craig, Phillip Ferreira, James
Foster, Giovanni Gellera, James Harris, Colin Heydt, Damian Ilodigwe, Ralph Jessop,
Jennifer Keefe, Arthur Kleinman, Esther Kroeker, Keith Lehrer, Bill Mander, Jorge
Ornelas, Stamatoula Panagakou, Carlos Pereda, Sabine Roeser, Nathan Sasser, Ernest
Sosa, Jan Swearingen, James Van Cleve, and Rory Watson. Special thanks go to Gordon
Graham for his enthusiasm for this project, and for organizing the superb series of
conferences on Scottish Philosophy at Princeton Theological Seminary. I am also
deeply indebted to Peter Momtchiloff at Oxford University Press for his patience
and editorial guidance, and to two anonymous readers for their instructive comments
on the manuscript. I also wish to thank Joanna North for her skilful and efficient
copy-editing.
Some of the early work on this book was done during my 2011–12 sabbatical,
which I spent as a visiting scholar at Harvard Divinity School. I wish to thank William
Graham, Karin Grundler-Whitacre, and David Lamberth, all of whom made my
stay at Harvard pleasant as well as possible. I also want to acknowledge the assistance
I received from the helpful staff at Widener Library, the Harvard Law School Library,
and the Andover-Harvard Theological Library. Finally, I thank my colleagues and
students at Trent University, my home institution, for their interest and support.
This book incorporates material from two previous publications of mine: “Ferrier
and the Myth of Scottish Common Sense Realism”, Journal of Scottish Philosophy 11
(2013): 87–107; and “Scottish Common Sense and American Pragmatism”, in A History
of Scottish Philosophy in the 19th and 20th Centuries, ed. Gordon Graham (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2015), 205–35. I thank the publishers for their permission to
reproduce that material here.
Finally, I dedicate this book with love to Michelle, Julia, and Andrea, all of whom
have more common sense than I do.
Abbreviations
ACS James Oswald. (1766–72) An Appeal To Common Sense In Behalf of Religion,

ed. James Fieser. Bristol: Thoemmes, 2000.
AM James Burnett, Lord Monboddo. (1779–99) Antient Metaphysics: Or,
The Science of Universals. 6 volumes. London and New York: Garland
Publishing, 1977.
BAL Thomas Reid. (1774) “A Brief Account of Aristotle’s Logic”. In Thomas Reid:
Philosophical Works, With Notes and Supplementary Dissertations, ed.
Sir William Hamilton. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1967: 681–714.
DM George Campbell. (1762) A Dissertation on Miracles. In Early Responses to
Hume’s Writings on Religion. Volume 2, ed. James Fieser. Bristol: Thoemmes,
2001: 1–114.
DPL Sir William Hamilton. (1853) Discussions on Philosophy and Literature,
Education and University Reform. Edinburgh: MacLachlan and Stewart.
EAP Thomas Reid. (1788) Essays on the Active Powers of Man, ed. Baruch Brody.
Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1969.
EIP Thomas Reid. (1785) Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man, ed. Derek R.
Brookes. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2002.
EOT James Beattie. (1771) Essay on the Nature and Immutability of Truth in
Opposition to Sophistry and Scepticism. Hildesheim and New York: Georg
Olms Verlag, 1975.
EPM Henry Home, Lord Kames. (1751) Essays on the Principles of Morality and
Natural Religion. London and New York: Garland Publishing, 1976.
FW James Frederick Ferrier. (1864) Philosophical Works of James Frederick Ferrier.
3 volumes, ed. A. Grant and E. L. Lushington. Bristol: Thoemmes, 2001.
HSD William Hamilton. (1846) Dissertations, Historical, Critical, and
Supplementary. In Thomas Reid: Philosophical Works, With Notes and
Supplementary Dissertations, ed. Sir William Hamilton. Hildesheim: Georg
Olms Verlag, 1967: 741–987.
ICR John Calvin. (1559) Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Henry
Beveridge. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2009.
IHM Thomas Reid. (1764) An Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of
Common Sense, ed. Derek R. Brookes. University Park: Pennsylvania State
University Press, 1997.
xii Abbreviations
LML Sir William Hamilton. (1861) Lectures on Metaphysics and Logic. 4 volumes,
ed. H. L. Mansel and J. Veitch. Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons.
POR George Campbell. (1776) The Philosophy of Rhetoric, ed. Lloyd F. Bitzer.
Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1963.
RC Thomas Reid. (1764–92) Correspondence of Dr. Reid. In Thomas Reid:
Philosophical Works, With Notes and Supplementary Dissertations, ed.
Sir William Hamilton. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1967: 39–92.
SCG St Thomas Aquinas. Summa Contra Gentiles. Notre Dame: University of
Notre Dame Press, 1975.
SP James Frederick Ferrier. (1856) Scottish Philosophy: The Old and the New.
Edinburgh: Sutherland and Knox.
ST St Thomas Aquinas. Summa Theologiae. New York: Benziger Brothers, 1947.
SW Dugald Stewart. (1854–60) The Collected Works of Dugald Stewart. 11
volumes, ed. Sir William Hamilton. Edinburgh: Thomas Constable and
Company.
All passages from the Old and New Testaments are taken from The Bible: Authorized
King James Version, ed. Robert Carroll and Stephen Prickett. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1997.
It shows a lack of education not to know of what things we ought to seek proof
and of what we ought not. For it is altogether impossible for there to be proofs of
everything; if there were, one would go on to infinity, so that even so one would
end up without a proof; and if there are some things of which one should not seek
a proof, these people cannot name any first principle which has that characteristic
more than this.
—Aristotle, Metaphysics
If the fear of falling into error sets up a mistrust of Science, which in the absence
of such scruples gets on with the work itself, and actually cognizes something, it
is hard to see why we should not turn round and mistrust this very mistrust.
Should we not be concerned as to whether this fear of error is not just the
error itself? Indeed, this fear takes something—a great deal in fact—for granted,
supporting its scruples and inferences on what is itself in need of prior scrutiny to
see if it is true. To be specific, it takes for granted certain ideas about cognition as
an instrument and as a medium, and assumes that there is a difference between
ourselves and this cognition. Above all, it assumes that the Absolute stands on one
side and cognition on the other, independent yet separated from it, and yet is
something real; or in other words, it presupposes that cognition which, since it
is excluded from the Absolute, is surely outside the truth as well, is nevertheless
true, an assumption whereby what calls itself fear of error reveals itself rather as
fear of the truth.
—G. W. F. Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit
Introduction
About the very cradle of the Scot there goes a hum of metaphysical divinity . . .
—Robert Louis Stevenson
This book tells the lively and little-known story of common sense realism’s rise and fall
in Scotland. The plot revolves around the contributions of five philosophers, each of
whom enjoyed a generous measure of renown during his lifetime:
I. Henry Home, Lord Kames (1696–1782)
II. Thomas Reid (1710–96)
III. Dugald Stewart (1753–1828)
IV. Sir William Hamilton (1788–1856)
V. James Frederick Ferrier (1808–64)
It goes without saying that Thomas Reid, the canny apostle of common sense, is far
and away the most famous of the five. Nevertheless, the other four authors on our list
are also worth reading; and if you are seriously interested in understanding what any
one of the five has to say about the central questions of epistemology and metaphysics,
you would do well to study the works of the rest. Why? Simple: Kames, Reid, Stewart,
Hamilton, and Ferrier are members of a rich and underappreciated tradition, and they
routinely develop and define their positions by reference to the contributions of their
predecessors. Such, at any rate, is the first of this book’s principal contentions, and
I shall support it by carefully analysing what Kames, Reid, Stewart, Hamilton, and
Ferrier had to say about a major issue which lies at the intersection of epistemology
and metaphysics—namely, the thesis of realism about ordinary physical objects, or
what J. L. Austin called “moderate-sized specimens of dry goods” (Austin 1962: 8). To
be more specific, this book shall follow the career of a position known as ‘common
sense realism’ through four main developmental stages in Scotland: its humble begin-
nings (Kames), its definitive formulation (Reid), its elevation to the status of academic
orthodoxy (Stewart and Hamilton), and, finally, its dramatic repudiation and over-
coming (Ferrier).1
This brings us to the book’s thematic, as opposed to its historical, focus. In what fol-
lows, I explore the different ways in which Kames, Reid, Stewart, Hamilton, and Ferrier
tackled a problem which has haunted Western philosophy ever since Descartes: that of
2 Introduction
determining whether any form of perceptual realism is defensible, or whether the very
idea of a material world existing independently of perception and thought is more
trouble than it is worth.2 As we shall see, this century-long conversation about the
relation between mind and world led our five Scots to think uncommonly hard about
a host of challenging issues in epistemology, metaphysics, philosophy of mind, and
meta-philosophy:
• Is the very idea of ‘things existing without the mind’ hopelessly confused or
incoherent? Is a mind-independent world even a possible object of thought or
conception? What, for that matter, are the limits of thought and conception, and
what is supposed to determine or fix them?
• If a mind-independent world exists, is there good reason to suppose that we
can have knowledge of it? Can we refute or disprove the thesis of external
world scepticism, according to which we can never have knowledge of a mind-
independent world? And if there isn’t any way to refute this thesis, does that
mean it is reasonable for philosophers to endorse it?
• If we reject external world scepticism, what (if anything) can we learn from our
encounter with it? Must we regard external world sceptics as wholly mistaken, or
can we credit them with some significant philosophical discoveries or fresh
insights?
• What are the objects of sense-perception? Does perception yield immediate epi-
stemic access to anything beyond one’s mental states or representations (i.e.—our
‘ideas’ or ‘impressions’, in the parlance of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century
philosophy)? If so, how? If not, does this mean that external world scepticism is
unavoidable?
• Can we prove that our faculties of sense-perception are fundamentally reliable or
trustworthy? If we cannot prove this, does it follow that doubting the veracity of
their deliverances is a reasonable thing to do?
• Is our knowledge of the physical world inescapably conditioned by subject-
derived forms of thought or sensibility? Can we know objects only as they appear
to us, or can we know things as they are ‘in themselves’?
• Should philosophers begin their inquiries with radical and all-devouring doubt
à la Descartes? Is such doubt even coherent, or is it ultimately self-defeating?
Moreover, what are the proper starting-points for philosophical reflection, and
in virtue of what feature(s) do they qualify as such?
• Can we refute a philosophical thesis by showing that it contradicts some plain
dictate(s) of ‘common sense’? If we can, then what gives common sense its
authority? How are its authentic dictates identified? And—finally—what does
the primacy of common sense reveal about human nature and our place in the
scheme of things?
That the Scots’ reflections on all these topics repay close study, that their works are
chock-full of bold thoughts and nice distinctions, that their thinking has the power to
introduction 3
deepen our understanding of the questions they addressed—that is this book’s second
principal contention, and I shall defend it by offering perspicuous and detailed recon-
structions of their main arguments and theses. In order to present each philosopher’s
views in a fair and reasonably charitable light, I have tried to identify the main prob-
lems he was attempting to solve, to relate his work to that of his predecessors where
possible, to describe the mistakes (real or perceived) he was particularly anxious to
correct, to explain the internal logic of his position, and to discuss some of the main
objections which he anticipated and tried to rebut. My hope is that even seasoned stu-
dents of the realism controversy may learn something new and valuable from this
exercise, if only because I have chosen to focus not on the usual suspects—Descartes,
Locke, Berkeley, Hume, and Kant—but on a fresh and undervalued cast of characters.
The third aim of this book is to re-contextualize some of the achievements of
Thomas Reid, who has frequently been treated as little more than a pedestrian footnote
to David Hume. According to those who take this interpretive line, Reid was a mere
Nay-sayer or negative thinker, a philosophical reactionary profoundly suspicious of
modern thought, a dull and unimaginative critic who naïvely believed that he could
refute Hume by pointing out that the ordinary person—the sober man or woman of
‘common sense’—finds Humean scepticism unspeakably silly and utterly incredible.
This interpretation is a crude caricature of Reid’s procedure, to be sure, and no one
who has studied Reid’s writings with a modicum of care will be tempted to take it too
seriously. Nevertheless, the shadow cast by this reductive reading leaves us with an
obvious and pressing question: if Reid should not be viewed as a mere footnote to
Hume, what should we say about his place in the history of modern philosophy? My
impulse is to divide this question into two sub-questions. Question 1: Can we construct
a narrative about Reidian common-sensism which deepens our understanding of its
historical significance without taking Hume’s assumptions or conclusions as its sole or
primary point of reference?3 Question 2: Can we find a way of thinking about the con-
nections between Reid’s thought and the work of later philosophers which does not lift
Reid out of his historical and cultural context by presenting him as the precursor of
some current school or movement?4
We can accomplish both of these things, I hope to show, provided we change our
perspective and see Reid’s common sense philosophy as an integral part of the Kames-
to-Ferrier sequence. When we relate Reid’s philosophical outlook to that of Kames, for
instance, we get a much better sense of the ways in which Reid’s common sense realism
was truly original, as well as a better sense of the ways in which it wasn’t; for once we
become aware of his intellectual debts to Kames, we can see how Reid transformed
what he received, both by adding to it and by subtracting from it. Similarly, our overall
understanding of Reid’s common sense realism—our perception of its strengths and
its weakness, its presuppositions and its ramifications—is enriched when we reflect on
the ways in which Reid’s philosophy was received by leading nineteenth-century
Scottish philosophers, who chose either to refine and systematize its contents (as in the case
of Dugald Stewart), to synthesize it with doctrines derived from Kant (as in the case of
4 Introduction
Sir William Hamilton), or to reject it altogether in order to start from scratch, buoyed
by the noble hope of creating a system that would be free of all the supposedly crude
and embarrassing blunders committed by Reid and his Scottish epigoni (as in the case
of James Frederick Ferrier).
The fourth and final aim of this book is to win a wider audience for the neglected
work of James Frederick Ferrier, a thinker of rare daring and originality who was argu-
ably the first academic philosopher in nineteenth-century Britain to offer a sophisti-
cated defence of idealism.5 Once a name to conjure with, Ferrier is now a largely
forgotten figure; and the three volumes of his Philosophical Works, written with ferocity
and finesse, gather dust on the shelves of research libraries or antiquarian bookshops in
old university towns. To be sure, many is the mighty name whose lustre has faded, and
time has made phantoms of more than one philosopher reckoned immortal by adoring
contemporaries. But is Ferrier’s pathetic fate fair or fitting? Does he deserve to become a
dumb shade, known only (if at all) for coining the term ‘epistemology’?6
The answer, I submit, is a firm and emphatic No. To be more specific, I believe that
there are at least two reasons why Ferrier’s oeuvre deserves careful study. In the first
place, Ferrier was that rarity among Anglophone philosophers: an honest-to-goodness
speculative system-builder in the venerable rationalist tradition of Spinoza. With its
self-conscious commitment to rigour and its proofs ad more geometrico, the format of
Ferrier’s magnum opus, the Institutes of Metaphysic: The Theory of Knowing and Being
(1854), reminds us much more of the Ethics than it does of any previous work of note
in English-language philosophy. Beginning with a single proposition set up as an
undeniable first principle or irrefragable axiom, Ferrier advances a total of forty-one
propositions, the vast majority of which are presented as unavoidable logical conse-
quences of propositions established at some earlier stage of the Institutes. The result,
which John Stuart Mill called ‘the romance of logic’, is an impressive synthesis of
rationalism and idealism which is remarkable for its breadth, coherence, and intellec-
tual beauty.7 In the second place—and this is closely related to our first point—Ferrier
was an extremely aggressive and skilful dialectician, a metaphysical Hannibal whose
wars were waged with the well-honed weapons of pure reason. As anyone who peruses
the Institutes soon realizes, Ferrier’s book is one long and audacious campaign of argu-
ment from beginning to end; and this campaign’s creator, like a seasoned military
commander, has devised an ingenious and far-sighted strategy, the purpose of which is
to ensure the downfall of his realist and common-sensist enemies by attacking them
directly and repeatedly, and by cutting off their logical lines of retreat with platoons of
necessary truths and regiments of razor-sharp syllogisms. In short, the Institutes of
Metaphysic is a beautifully plotted book, and its fine structure mirrors the subtle yet
far-seeing mind of its maker.
Very little needs to be said about the plot or structure of this book, because its plan
is largely self-explanatory. After introducing the Scottish common sense school of
philosophy led by Thomas Reid (Chapter 1), we delve into its prehistory by examining
introduction 5
the powerful but little-known defence of perceptual realism mounted by the redoubtable
Lord Kames (Chapter 2). This sets the stage for an extended discussion of Reid’s
insightful treatment of external world scepticism and his influential plea for common
sense realism (Chapter 3). After describing how Reidian realism was appropriated and
re-stated by Dugald Stewart and Sir William Hamilton in the early nineteenth century
(Chapter 4), we take a close look at James Frederick Ferrier’s two great contributions to
the realism debate in Scotland: his no-holds-barred critique of Reid’s position
(Chapter 5) and his little-known argument for a form of idealism which is both neo-
Berkeleyan and post-Kantian (Chapter 6). We conclude with some reflections about
the direction Scottish philosophy took in the years following Ferrier’s death in 1864
(Chapter 7).
Although it is tedious as well as un-Parmenidean to talk about what a book is
not, I would like to make it perfectly clear at the outset that this is not a history
of Scottish common sense philosophy.8 It cannot possibly be that, since common
sense realism is only one part of common sense philosophy—a rather important
part, as I think, but a comparatively small one, all things considered. If you are
inclined to doubt the latter claim, consider two points. (1) There is much more to
Scottish common sense philosophy than epistemology. As students of the primary
and secondary literature know very well, common sense philosophers explored a
wide range of topics—in metaphysics, philosophy of mind, moral philosophy (pure
and applied), aesthetics (including rhetoric and criticism), and philosophy of
religion—many of which had little or nothing to do with the issues we shall discuss
in this book. (2) Moreover, external world scepticism is only one of many epistemo-
logical problems addressed by Scottish common-sensists. To be sure, Reid and
company were deeply interested in questions raised by sense perception; but they
were also deeply interested in corresponding questions about memory, reason,
introspection, conscience, and testimony. The conclusion supported by (1) and (2)
may be expressed metaphorically: if common sense philosophy were a country,
common sense realism would be a provincial capital whose reputation and charm
once made it a mandatory stop on the Grand Tour. This book tells a story about that
famous city’s rise and fall: about how and when it was built, who lived there, what
they did, and how its once-firm foundations were shaken.
Another thing this book does not do is trace the emergence or evolution of the con-
cept of ‘Scottish common sense philosophy’. That is to say, I shall not focus on how or
when this category was first constructed, what interests and purposes it served, whose
interests and purposes it served, why it survived and spread, or how it was related to
extra-philosophical developments inside or outside of Scotland. As readers will see in
Chapter 1, however, I firmly believe that there was what might be called a ‘school’ of
common sense philosophy; but I acknowledge that there are some scholars of the
Scottish Enlightenment who are sceptical about this old-fashioned judgment, and
whose reservations flow from their account of that judgment’s genesis or historical
6 Introduction
origins. In the interests of fairness, and for the benefit of readers who are keen to
explore the history of the concept of ‘common sense’ on their own, I have included
numerous references to the work of these scholars in the notes.
One word more before we begin. There are many signs that scholarly interest in
the Scottish philosophical tradition as a whole has increased dramatically in recent
years: the creation of the Journal of Scottish Philosophy,9 the establishment of the
Center for the Study of Scottish Philosophy at Princeton Theological Seminary
(which grew out of The Reid Project based at the University of Aberdeen), the cre-
ation of the International Association for Scottish Philosophy, the republication of
classic texts in the Library of Scottish Philosophy undertaken by Imprint Academic,
the publication of much-needed critical editions of the works of Thomas Reid
by Edinburgh University Press, the multi-volume history of Scottish philosophy
published by Oxford University Press, and the publication of excellent scholarly
monographs devoted to understanding various aspects of the Scottish philosophical
tradition. I very much hope that this encouraging trend will continue; and if what
I have written about the career of common sense realism in Scotland leads readers
to take a closer look at the work of any of the figures I discuss, this book will have
served its primary purpose.
Notes
1. Readers who cannot wait to find out what is meant by ‘common sense realism’ may consult
Section 3.6 now. The present book, I hasten to add, does not purport to be an exhaustive or
comprehensive history of common sense realism in Scotland.
2. According to Schopenhauer, this problem “is the axis on which the whole of modern
philosophy turns” (Schopenhauer 1851 I: 15; cf. 3, 20).
3. Of course, I do not deny that Hume was a very important influence on Reid and the first
wave of common sense philosophers. For more on this point, see Sections 1.2, 1.5–1.8.
4. According to some recent students of Reid’s work, Reid can be read as an externalist and a
reliabilist avant la lettre, or as anticipating certain themes in the ‘Reformed epistemology’
associated with Alvin Plantinga and Nicholas Wolterstorff (1983). I have absolutely no desire to
argue against such interpretations; my interest here is in relating Reid’s work to pre-twentieth-
century philosophy in Scotland.
5. In his magisterial study, British Idealism: A History (2011), W. J. Mander writes: “Although
the idealist movement proper did not begin until the 1860s, there were a few philosophers
before then who may be thought of as forerunners, figures who began to sense the possibil-
ity of new lines of thought and who freed up the ground for others to go further. The first
such person to consider is James Frederick Ferrier, a Scot, who was educated in the
Universities of Edinburgh, Oxford, and Heidelberg, before finally he became Professor of
Moral Philosophy at St Andrews” (Mander 2011: 27; cf. 28). As Mander points out, Ferrier
was also seen as a forerunner by early twentieth-century commentators like James Seth
(1912: 332), W. R. Sorley (1920: 284), and J. H. Muirhead (1931: 162–4). See also Rudolf
Metz (1938: 247–8) and Bernard Mayo (1969/2007: 159).
introduction 7
6. “It is a curious, if minor, irony that where none of the books Ferrier wrote remains
on a university syllabus, a mere word he coined does: the word ‘epistemology’ ” (Mayo
1969/2007: 161).
7. “His fabric of speculation is so effectively constructed, and imposing, that it almost ranks as a
work of art. It is the romance of logic” (Mill, quoted in Seth 1912: 332).
8. See Grave (1960) for a book-length treatment of Scottish common sense philosophy.
9. Formerly known as Reid Studies, the journal’s name was changed in 2003 to reflect its broad-
ened focus.
1
Reid and the Foundations
of Scottish Common Sense
I’ve sent you here by Johnie Simson,

Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling,
An’ Reid, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought an’ wrangled,
An’ meikle Greek an’ Latin mangled,
Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d,
An’ in the depth of Science mir’d,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives an’ wabsters see an’ feel!
—Robert Burns
1.0 Introduction
What was Scottish common sense philosophy? To answer this question, we shall
examine the works of four authors affiliated with the so-called ‘Scottish common
sense school’: Thomas Reid (1710–96), James Oswald (1703–93), James Beattie
(1735–1803), and George Campbell (1719–96). As Reid is by far the best-known and
most accomplished member of this group, we shall place him at the centre of our
account, treating his system as the sun by whose light three less brilliant bodies of
work can be seen and measured.
First, however, an indiscreet and potentially subversive query is in order. Isn’t the
very idea of common sense philosophy an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms? Robert
Burns (1759–96), for one, seemed to think that it was; and so did Immanuel Kant
(1724–1804). Indeed, in the Preface to his Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics
(1783), Kant famously complained that common sense is the last refuge of the cynical
and ambitious littérateur who, lacking any real aptitude for speculative thought, seeks
to win over the public by consecrating their inherited prejudices and unexamined
beliefs. Any half-educated scribbler or unscrupulous dilettante, Kant suggests, can now
make an author of genius look like a fool or a knave in the eyes of non-philosophers; all
she needs to do is insist that whoever contradicts the entrenched convictions of the
Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 9
mob must be mischievous or mad. The problem with this approach, Kant thinks, is
obvious: the judgments of common sense, while worth a great deal outside of philosophy,
are virtually worthless within it. Common sense is an intellectual opiate, a curiosity-
killing drug which sedates human reason and keeps philosophy in a deep dogmatic
slumber; and in that sleep of reason we know what dreams may come—dreams of a
world where sceptical doubts are unknown, metaphysical perplexity is unheard of, and
naïveté is the beginning of wisdom as well as its end:
But fate, ever ill-disposed toward metaphysics, would have it that Hume was understood by
no one. One cannot, without feeling a certain pain, behold how utterly and completely his
opponents, Reid, Oswald, Beattie, and finally Priestley, missed the point of his problem, and
misjudged his hints for improvement—constantly taking for granted just what he doubted,
and, conversely, proving with vehemence and, more often than not, with great insolence exactly
what it had never entered his mind to doubt—so that everything remained in its old condition,
as if nothing had happened . . .
In order to do justice to the problem, however, the opponents of this celebrated man would
have had to penetrate very deeply into the nature of reason so far as it is occupied solely with
pure thought, something that did not suit them. They therefore found a more expedient means
to be obstinate without any insight, namely, the appeal to ordinary common sense. It is in fact
a great gift from heaven to possess right (or, as it has recently been called, plain) common
sense. But it must be proven through deeds, by the considered and reasonable things one thinks
and says, and not by appealing to it as an oracle when one knows of nothing clever to advance
in one’s defense. To appeal to ordinary common sense when insight and science run short, and
not before, is one of the subtle discoveries of recent times, whereby the dullest windbag can
confidently take on the most profound thinker and hold his own with him. So long as a small
residue of insight remains, however, one would do well to avoid resorting to this emergency
help. And seen in the light of day, this appeal is nothing other than a call to the judgment of the
multitude; applause at which the philosopher blushes, but at which the popular wag becomes
triumphant and defiant. (Kant 1783: 8–9)
A curious passage, this.1 Note that Kant appears to treat Thomas Reid, James
Oswald, and James Beattie as equals, that he does not mention George Campbell,
the fourth horseman of Scottish common sense, and that he writes as if the
Englishman Joseph Priestley (1733–1804) were an ally of the Scottish philosophers
instead of being one of their earliest and most caustic critics. Note, too, that Kant’s
main objection is not so much that Reid, Oswald, and Beattie did not answer David
Hume correctly; it is that they did not answer him at all. Ill-equipped to deal with
an intelligence as penetrating and powerful as Hume’s, they thought it best to avoid
a direct confrontation with him; unable to respond to reason with reason, they
took the liberty of consulting an ‘oracle’ (ein Orakel)—that is to say, an inspired
source of knowledge whose authority is hallowed and mysterious, ancient and
unquestioned—whose revelations are presented in the form of our ordinary
beliefs. Unfortunately for the Scots, says Kant, this entire line of thought is a little
more than a desperate and execrable argumentum ad populum. Instead of being
10 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense
a species of philosophy, the Scottish appeal to common sense is an act of treason

against reason itself.2
What is wrong with Kant’s interpretation of Scottish common sense philosophy?
Where and why does it miss the mark? To answer this question, we must become
better acquainted with the work of the school’s representatives, beginning with
Thomas Reid.
1.1 Thomas Reid: Curriculum Vitae

The bare facts of Reid’s life and academic career are easily summarized. A son of the
manse, Reid was born in 1710 in Strachan, Kincardineshire, and received his early
education there, followed by several years at a nearby school.3 After graduating in 1726
from Aberdeen’s Marischal College, where one of his teachers was the Berkeleyan
philosopher George Turnbull (1698–1748),4 Reid devoted himself to the study of
divinity in preparation for a career as a minister in the Church of Scotland. Ordination
duly followed in 1731, and in 1737 Reid became the parish minister of New Machar in
Aberdeenshire. During his tenure there, he continued to cultivate his life-long interests
not only in philosophy, but also in mathematics and the natural sciences.5
In 1751, Reid took up his first academic post: that of Regent at King’s College in
Aberdeen, whose Philosophical Society (or “Wise Club”, as some witty locals christened
it) Reid co-founded in 1758. During the late 1750s and early 1760s, he presented several
papers to this Society, whose members served as a sounding-board for his novel ideas
about perception—ideas which were to figure prominently in his first book, An Inquiry
into the Human Mind on the Principles of Common Sense (1764).6 In that book’s
Dedication, addressed to the Earl of Findlater and Seafield, Reid acknowledges his
intellectual debt to the Wise Club, which he refers to as “a private philosophical society,
of which I have the honour to be a member”:
My thoughts upon this subject were, a good many years ago, put together in another form, for the
use of my pupils; and afterwards were submitted to the judgment of a private philosophical society,
of which I have the honour to be a member. A great part of this inquiry was honoured even by your
Lordship’s perusal. And the encouragement which you, my Lord, and others, whose friendship
is my boast, and whose judgment I reverence, were pleased to give me, counterbalanced my
timidity and diffidence, and determined me to offer it to the public.
(IHM Dedication, 5; emphasis mine)7
Reid remained at King’s College until 1764, when the Inquiry into the Human Mind
was published. The very same year, his younger contemporary Adam Smith (1723–90),
whose Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759) had appeared only a few years before Reid’s
Inquiry, unexpectedly retired from the Chair of Moral Philosophy at the University
of Glasgow.8 The vacancy created by Smith’s sudden departure was filled by Reid,
whose professional duties in Glasgow differed in kind from his old ones in Aberdeen.
As Regent at King’s College, Reid had been required to teach a remarkably diverse
assortment of subjects, including mathematics and science;9 as Professor of Moral

Philosophy, his assignment was predictably more specialized, though still far from
narrow. Epistemology, metaphysics, philosophy of mind, ethics (both theoretical and
practical), aesthetics, and natural theology: these were the subfields of philosophy
to which Reid returned time and again during his years in Glasgow. In addition to
preparing lectures on these topics, he found time to compose other works, such as
“A Brief Account of Aristotle’s Logic With Remarks”,10 “A Statistical Account of the
University of Glasgow”, and several papers on Priestley and materialism.11
Although Reid held the Chair of Moral Philosophy at Glasgow until his death in
1796, he stopped teaching in 1780 and let his assistant, Archibald Arthur (1744–97),
lecture in his stead.12 Determined to set down his philosophical thoughts in a final and
integrated form, Reid spent several years converting decades’ worth of manuscripts
and lecture material into two major books: Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man
(1785) and Essays on the Active Powers of Man (1788).13 It is ultimately upon these
two works, along with his earlier Inquiry into the Human Mind, that his philosophical
reputation rests.
An important part of that reputation, of course, is the idea that Reid was ‘a philosopher
of common sense’. This epithet is in some ways a singularly unfortunate one, however,
because it may conjure up images of a mad-dog dogmatist—one who boldly barks
‘I refute you thus!’ as his buckled shoes ring against reassuringly solid rocks.14 Although
Reid was certainly interested in overcoming scepticism, this pedestrian and comically
inept way of confronting it has virtually nothing in common with his approach, and it
is high time that we explained why.
1.2 Scepticism and Reid’s Principles of Common Sense

One fruitful way of understanding Reid’s common-sensism is to see it as a reply, not to
a single form of scepticism, but to no fewer than four: epistemological scepticism,
metaphysical scepticism, moral scepticism, and religious scepticism.15 Epistemological
sceptics directly target our faith in the basic reliability of our cognitive faculties (per-
ception, memory, reason, and introspection), cast aspersions on our conviction that
we can have knowledge of other minds, scout our belief in nature’s uniformity, or urge
that the weight we naturally give to testimony is excessive. Metaphysical sceptics, taking
a rather different tack, complain that our ordinary conceptual scheme is hopelessly
confused or fundamentally inadequate. According to this class of doubting Thomases,
certain categories which we are accustomed to take for granted in our thinking
about the world—categories such as substance, selfhood, personal identity, causation,
and libertarian free will—can no longer be employed with a clean philosophical con-
science, because there is nothing in reality to which they correspond. Moral sceptics,
for their part, contend that we cannot act altruistically, doubt whether the distinction
between virtue and vice is rooted in the nature of things, argue that practical reason is
the slave of the passions, deny the possibility of moral knowledge, or assert that
what pass for moral judgments are actually mere expressions of sentiment. Finally,
religious sceptics plead that none of the chief articles of Christian orthodoxy or natural
religion are defensible. As they see it, cosmological and teleological arguments for the
existence of God are vitiated by their reliance on dubious metaphysical principles;
belief in a future state seems a fond hope without any foundation; and testimony in
support of miracles can never be reckoned credible, since nothing could be more
improbable than a violation of the laws of nature.
To combat this four-pronged sceptical menace—a menace memorably incarnated
for many in the person of David Hume (1711–76)—Reid invokes what he calls ‘the
principles of common sense’. For anyone seeking clarification of this phrase,16 the
following passage from Reid’s Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of
Common Sense (1764) is an excellent place to start:
If there are certain principles, as I think there are, which the constitution of our nature leads
us to believe, and which we are under a necessity to take for granted in the common concerns of
life, without being able to give a reason for them; these are what we call the principles of common
sense; and what is manifestly contrary to them, is what we call absurd. (IHM 2.6, 33)
Direct yet dense, this sentence tells us a good deal about the principles of common
sense.17 In the first place, such principles are propositions ‘which the constitution
of our nature leads us to believe’. Assent to them, we are thus given to understand,
is rooted in human nature itself, as opposed to being derived from the vagaries of
experience, the association of ideas, the influence of custom, or the force of habit; and
this carries with it the implication that nothing will qualify as a principle of common
sense unless assent to it is now and always has been virtually universal. In the second
place, we are not ‘able to give a reason for them’: principles of common sense are first
principles, not the secondary products of inference or argument, and their epistemic
status is that of basic or foundational premises which do not admit of any direct proof
or demonstration. Third, ‘we are under a necessity to take [them] for granted in the
common concerns of life’: principles of common sense are practically indispensable,
and anyone who actually succeeded in doubting them—something Reid thinks can’t
be done by a sane individual, because belief in them is normally irresistible—would
soon meet with a rather nasty end, or need to be locked up for his own protection.
Fourth, ‘what is manifestly contrary to them, is what we call absurd’: the denial of a
principle of common sense strikes us not merely as false or improbable, but as downright
outlandish, preposterous, or ridiculous.
But why should we suppose that there are first principles? Reid’s reply is at least as
old as Aristotle: unless we allow that there is such a thing as non-inferential justification
or self-evident judgments, we must confess that no judgments are evident or justified
for us. For if all judgments were “grounded on argument” or “got by reasoning” (EIP
6.4, 452, 454), an infinite justificatory regress would ensue: judgment A would derive
its justification from judgment B, B from C, C from D, and so on, without end.18 Since
“we cannot go back in this track to infinity” (EIP 6.4, 455), we must stop at some
point—but where? Reid’s answer could not be clearer: we are entitled to stop “only
when we come to propositions, which support all that are built upon them, but are
themselves supported by none, that is, to self-evident propositions” (EIP 6.4, 455).
Using a different metaphor, he says that such judgments possess “the light of truth”
in themselves and do not “borrow it from another” (EIP 4.6, 452). They are intrinsic-
ally credible or self-evident, and without them nothing else could be known: “[A]ll
knowledge got by reasoning must be built upon first principles” (EIP 6.4, 454).
Since nothing is more basic or foundational than such principles, it is clear that they
cannot be demonstrated or established by proof: “Their evidence is not demonstra-
tive, but intuitive. They require not proof, but to be placed in a proper point of view”
(EIP 1.2, 41).
When we survey the lists of ‘first principles’ or ‘principles of common sense’ in
Essays on the Intellectual Powers and Essays on the Active Powers,19 we discover that
many of the principles which Reid has included under this heading are propositions
which have been targeted by epistemological, metaphysical, or moral sceptics. Here
are a few of Reid’s epistemological first principles—principles, that is, which deal with
the reliability of our cognitive faculties or with the status of certain assumptions
underpinning our ordinary belief-forming practices.20
First, then, I hold, as a first principle, the existence of everything of which I am conscious.
(EIP 6.5, 470)
Another first principle I take to be, That those things did really happen which I distinctly
remember. (EIP 6.5, 474)
Another first principle is, That those things do really exist which we distinctly perceive by our
senses, and are what we perceive them to be. (EIP 6.5, 476)
Another first principle is, That the natural faculties, by which we distinguish truth from error,
are not fallacious. (EIP 6.5, 480)
Another first principle relating to existence is, That there is life and intelligence in our fellow-men
with whom we converse. (EIP 6.5, 482)
Another first principle I take to be, That certain features of the countenance, sounds of the voice,
and gestures of the body, indicate certain thoughts and dispositions of mind. (EIP 6.5, 484)
Another first principle appears to me to be, That there is a certain regard due to human testimony
in matters of fact, and even to human authority in matters of opinion. (EIP 6.5, 487)
The last principle of contingent truths I mention, is, That, in the phænomena of nature, what is
to be, will probably be like to what has been in similar circumstances. (EIP 6.5, 489)
As any philosophically-minded reader will immediately perceive, these principles

can be used to rebut various kinds of epistemological scepticism, including scepticism
about our natural cognitive faculties, scepticism about other minds, scepticism about
testimony, and scepticism about induction. Reid’s message is consequently a deeply
affirmative one: our natural trust in the aforementioned principles is neither arbitrary
nor misplaced, and anyone who argues that human knowledge is a dream should not
expect to be believed. In short, philosophy can never show that human beings cannot
know anything about mathematics and science, about the present and the past, about
their own minds or the minds of their neighbours.
Another batch of Reid’s first principles affirms the fundamental soundness of
our common sense metaphysical outlook, with its commitments to a substantial
self or mind, personal identity, incompatibilist free will, material substance, and
universal causation:
Another first principle, I think, is, That the thoughts of which I am conscious, are the thoughts
of a being which I call myself, my mind, my person. (EIP 6.5, 472)
Another first principle is our own personal identity and continued existence, as far back as we
remember anything distinctly. (EIP 6.5, 476)
Another first principle, I think, is, That we have some degree of power over our actions, and the
determinations of our will. (EIP 6.5, 478)
That the qualities which we perceive by our senses must have a subject, which we call body, and
that the thoughts we are conscious of must have a subject, which we call mind. (EIP 6.6, 495)
[T]hat whatever begins to exist, must have a cause which produced it. (EIP 6.6, 497)
That design, and intelligence in the cause, may be inferred, with certainty, from marks or signs
of it in the effect. (EIP 6.6, 503)
Once these propositions about the nature of reality are recognized as self-evident,
we can dismiss the suggestion that our shared worldview is nothing but a farrago of
ancient nonsense. That the categories implicit in our ordinary ways of thinking and
talking should not be despised, that we should not listen to critics who want to
replace our natural conceptual scheme with a model manufactured in the Thinkery,
that we should be descriptive metaphysicians like Aristotle and not revisionary
metaphysicians like Plato—these slogans sum up the drift of Reid’s response to
metaphysical scepticism.21
In addition to first principles in the fields of epistemology and metaphysics, “[t]here
are also first principles in morals” (EIP 6.6, 494): unassailable moral axioms whose
truth is self-evident to any mature and normally constituted human being.22 According
to Reid, the Golden Rule—“That we ought not to do to others what we would think
unjust or unfair to be done to us in like circumstances” (EIP 6.6, 494)—is an excellent
example of a first principle in morals, for it is “self-evident to every man who hath a
conscience” (EAP 5.1, 366):
In every case, we ought to act that part towards another, which we would judge to be right in
him to act toward us, if we were in his circumstances and he in ours; or, more generally, what
we approve in others, that we ought to practise in like circumstances, and what we condemn in
others we ought not to do.
If there be any such thing as right and wrong in the conduct of moral agents, it must be the
same to all in the same circumstances . . .
As the equity and obligation of this rule of conduct is self-evident to every man who hath a
conscience; so it is, of all rules of morality, the most comprehensive, and truly deserves the
encomium given it by the highest authority, that it is the law and the prophets.23
(EAP 5.1, 365–6)
Yet the Golden Rule, though ‘it is the law and the prophets’, is not the only first principle of
morals. Another fundamental principle in this domain is that each of us has obligations
not only to other individuals, but also to the various groups or communities of which
we are members:
No man is born for himself alone. Every man, therefore, ought to consider himself as a member
of the common society of mankind, and of those subordinate societies to which he belongs,
such as family, friends, neighbourhood, country, and to do as much good as he can, and as little
hurt to the societies of which he is part. (EAP 5.1, 365)
Another moral first principle is that if a person sincerely believes in God, she should
revere God and submit to him in practice. In other words, religious believers have a
duty to glorify God and serve him by doing his will:
To every man who believes the existence, the perfections, and the providence of God, the
veneration and submission we owe to him is self-evident. Right sentiments of the Deity and of
his works, not only make the duty we owe to him obvious to every intelligent being, but likewise
add the authority of a divine law to every rule of right conduct. (EAP 5.1, 367–8)
Yet another self-evident moral judgment, Reid observes, is that certain duties take
precedence over others. For some of our obligations may come into conflict with others,
forcing us to decide which of them has the greatest claim on us as moral agents:
That . . . unmerited generosity should yield to gratitude, and both to justice, is self-evident.
Nor is it less so, that unmerited beneficence to those who are at ease should yield to compassion
to the miserable, and external acts of piety to works of mercy, because God loves mercy more
than sacrifice. (EAP 5.1, 368)
Thanks to the natural faculty of conscience, then, the ordinary person or non-philosopher
cannot help holding certain epistemically basic beliefs about what is right and what
is wrong. Since nature has not left humanity totally in the dark when it comes to
the foundations of morality, the moral sceptic makes the same basic mistake as the
external world sceptic: that of contradicting common sense by doubting the basic
veracity of one of our natural faculties. In the case of external world scepticism, of
course, that faculty is sense-perception; in the case of moral scepticism, it is conscience
or the moral sense.
Finally, what about common sense and religion? Here things are more complicated.
On the one hand, none of the propositions to which religious sceptics take exception—
propositions about God’s existence or attributes, about belief in miracles, about the
immortality of the soul, and so on—finds a place in Reid’s catalogue of first principles.24
On the other hand, Reid’s catalogue does include metaphysical and epistemological
principles which may be used to defend such propositions. The existence of God,
for instance, is not listed as a first principle; but we can formulate versions of the
cosmological and teleological arguments for God’s existence using assumptions
which are identified as first principles (i.e.—“[T]hat whatever begins to exist, must
have a cause which produced it” (EIP 6.6, 497) and “That design, and intelligence in
the cause, may be inferred, with certainty, from marks or signs of it in the effect”
(EIP 6.6, 503; cf. 508), respectively).25 Again, a common sense philosopher intent on
championing the immortality of the soul is entitled to believe (pace Hume) that
there exists a substantial mind or self which is distinct from one’s thoughts—“That
the thoughts of which I am conscious, are the thoughts of a being which I call myself,
my mind, my person” (EIP 6.5, 472) and “that the thoughts we are conscious of must
have a subject, which we call mind” (EIP 6.6, 495)—without needing to prove that
such a self or mind exists. Similarly, a common sense philosopher eager to answer
Hume’s celebrated argument against belief in miracles may begin her rebuttal by
helping herself to another Reidian first principle: “That there is a certain regard due
to human testimony in matters of fact, and even to human authority in matters of
opinion” (EIP 6.5, 487).26
1.3 Why Philosophy Depends on Common Sense

Our survey of Reid’s first principles indicates that his basic anti-sceptical strategy
is straightforward: all four forms of philosophical scepticism—epistemological,
metaphysical, moral, and religious—can be rebutted by appealing to the dictates
of common sense. But why does Reid believe this? That is to say, how does he under-
stand the relation between the principles of common sense, on the one hand, and
the practice of philosophy, on the other?
According to Reid, philosophy must rest upon the principles of common sense, just
as a building must rest upon a fixed and solid foundation, because common sense is
prior to philosophy in every sense that counts:
It is a bold philosophy that rejects, without ceremony, principles which irresistibly govern
the belief and the conduct of all mankind in the common concerns of life; and to which the
philosopher himself must yield, after he imagines he hath confuted them. Such principles
are older, and of more authority, than Philosophy: she rests upon them as her basis, not they
upon her. If she could overturn them, she must be buried in their ruins; but all the engines of
philosophical subtilty are too weak for this purpose; and the attempt is no less ridiculous, than
if a mechanic should contrive an axis in peritrochio to remove the earth out of its place; or if a
mathematician should pretend to demonstrate, that things equal to the same thing are not
equal to each other. (IHM 1.5, 21)
In saying this, Reid takes up arms against one aspect of the tradition inaugurated by
René Descartes (1596–1650), for whom philosophy must begin with radical and
all-encompassing doubt. Common sense, seen from within this tradition, must be
presumed guilty until proven innocent; and the modern philosopher, serving
simultaneously as police inspector, prosecutor, and judge, proves a most zealous
and implacable opponent. None of our ordinary beliefs, no matter how natural or
tenacious, receives a free pass from him; damning charges are brought against them
all; no assumptions are granted, no alibis permitted; and nothing, we are sternly
warned, shall henceforth be taken on trust. Each class of our convictions is now obliged
to produce its epistemological passport, or confess that it is really an impostor—a
dressed-up prejudice or disguised idée fixe—instead of the stuff of which real knowledge
is made.
But is philosophy truly fit to sit in judgment on common sense? Contrariwise:
philosophy is ultimately answerable to common sense, not common sense to philosophy:
“Such principles [i.e.—principles of common sense] are older, and of more authority,
than Philosophy: she rests upon them as her basis, not they upon her” (IHM 1.5, 21).
As Reid sees it, the plain dictates of common sense do not need to be grounded by
means of philosophical arguments; and a wise philosopher will be disposed to take
our shared first principles for granted, viewing them as brute ineradicable givens
that cannot sensibly be gainsaid. In other words, philosophers need to appreciate that
philosophy, far from being an autonomous or self-contained pursuit, can only grow
out of common sense, and that philosophy can flourish only as long as it remains
connected to that tough, lowly, life-giving root: “Philosophy . . . has no other root but
the principles of Common Sense; it grows out of them, and draws its nourishment
from them; severed from this root, its honours wither, its sap is dried up, it dies
and rots” (IHM 1.5, 19).
Reid concludes from this that philosophy cannot controvert the principles of com-
mon sense without subverting itself. Suppose, for instance, that a sceptical philosopher
argues that we do not have good reasons to trust the deliverances of perception, or that
we cannot know that our senses are not shameless prevaricators or inveterate dissem-
blers. Faced with such a bold antagonist, Reid has an ingenious rejoinder—to wit, that
our sceptic is not sceptical enough, since her doubts ultimately rest on dogmas to
which she is blindly committed. To be more specific, Reid thinks that the sceptical
philosopher who fulminates against our faith in perception puts her faith in reason
without it ever dawning on her that this is inconsistent:
I am aware, that this belief which I have in perception, stands exposed to the strongest
batteries of scepticism. But they make no great impression upon it. The sceptic asks me,
Why do you believe the existence of the external object which you perceive? This belief,
Sir, is none of my manufacture; it came from the mint of Nature; it bears her image and
superscription; and, if it is not right, the fault is not mine: I even took it upon trust, and
without suspicion. Reason, says the sceptic, is the only judge of truth, and you ought to
throw off every opinion and every belief that is not grounded on reason. Why, Sir, should
I believe the faculty of reason more than that of perception?; they came both out of the same
shop, and were made by the same artist; and if he puts one piece of false ware into my hands,
what should hinder him from putting another? (IHM 6.20, 168–9)
It is evident that our sceptic thinks reason trustworthy (since she relies upon it, “the
only judge of truth”, to make her case against perception). Yet it is also evident that
reason, like perception, is one of our natural cognitive faculties; and we are constrained
at the outset of our inquiries to put all such faculties (i.e.—memory, introspection,
perception, reason, and conscience) on a par as far as their basic reliability is con-
cerned. After all, none of them can be reckoned infallible or perfectly reliable, and no
faculty can be used to validate itself, since that way lies circularity:
If a man’s honesty were called into question, it would be ridiculous to refer it to the man’s own
word, whether he be honest or not. The same absurdity there is in attempting to prove, by any
kind of reasoning, probable or demonstrative, that our reason is not fallacious, since the very
point in question is, whether reasoning may be trusted. (EIP 6.5, 480)
Every kind of reasoning for the veracity of our faculties, amounts to no more than taking their
own testimony for their veracity; and this we must do implicitly, until God give us new faculties
to sit in judgment upon the old . . . (EIP 6.5, 481)
For it is evident, that every argument offered to prove the truth and fidelity of our faculties,
takes for granted the thing in question, and is therefore that kind of sophism which Logicians
call petitio principii. (EIP 7.4, 571)
The faculties which nature hath given us, are the only engines we can use to find out the
truth. We cannot indeed prove that those faculties are not fallacious, unless God should
give us new faculties to sit in judgment upon the old. But we are born under a necessity of
trusting them. (EAP 3.6, 237)
If our sceptic is prepared to credit the deliverances of her reason, she should also be
prepared to extend the same courtesy to the deliverances of her senses; yet the moment
she takes that eminently commonsensical step, she has ceased to be a sceptic about
perception. If, on the other hand, our sceptic decides to disavow perception to the
bitter end, consistency requires her to renounce the works of reason along with those
of perception. But since renouncing reason is tantamount to abandoning argument
and philosophy altogether, it begins to look very much as though our sceptic can
remain a sceptic only by ceasing to be a philosopher.27 In the end, Reid maintains, a
philosopher really has only two options: either consistently respect the authority of
common sense (and so eschew scepticism), or commit intellectual suicide and fall
silent forever.28
Note that there is an additional sense in which a philosopher who argues against
common sense is at odds with himself. Because Reidian first principles are psychologically
irresistible, we cannot throw them off in practice, no matter how hard or long we try;
such natural commitments simply cannot be extirpated or expelled from any healthy
mind. Indeed, anyone who really doubted whether he existed, say, or whether there
were other minds or external objects, would not be hailed as a great metaphysician and
admired; he would simply be pitied as a madman and promptly sent to Bedlam. Yet our
philosophical sceptics are but mad north-north-west: whatever they may write or say
in the privacy of the study, their speech and their conduct in the marketplace prove
that they do not really doubt that they exist, or that there is a material world, or that
fire warms, or that water refreshes. Sceptics from Pyrrho to Hume believe all these
things and more, Reid observes; and this is because they, like the rest of humanity,
cannot help it:
All we would ask of this kind of Sceptic is, that he would be uniform and consistent, and that
his practice in life do not belie his profession of scepticism with regard to the fidelity of his
faculties: For the want of faith, as well as faith itself, is best shown by works. If a Sceptic avoid
the fire as much as those who believe it dangerous to go into it, we can hardly avoid thinking
his scepticism to be feigned, and not real. (EIP 7.4, 571)
My belief is carried along by perception, as irresistibly as my body by the earth. And the
greatest sceptic will find himself in the same condition. He may struggle hard to disbelieve
the informations of his senses, as a man does to swim against a torrent: but ah! it is in vain. It
is in vain that he strains every nerve, and wrestles with nature, and with every object that
strikes upon his senses. For after all, when his strength is spent in the fruitless attempt, he will
be carried down the torrent with the common herd of believers. (IHM 6.20, 169)
Here the sceptic’s humiliating fate—that of being “carried down the torrent with the
common herd of believers”—may be seen as a fitting rebuke to “the pride of philosophy”
(EIP 2.20, 233): a pride that dares to contradict nature, despises common sense, and
dismisses mankind as a herd of “Yahoos” or credulous fools (IHM 1.6, 21; cf. IHM 5.7,
68). By opposing philosophy to common sense, by doubting first principles instead of
acquiescing in them, by refusing to follow nature with serene spontaneous confidence,
the sceptic effectively denies his kinship with the rest of us. Philosophical sceptics,
Reid intimates, are consequently guilty of a kind of hubris and misanthropy; for
their unnatural doubts are a form of rebellion, evincing a desire to reject “the lot of
humanity” altogether:
We cannot give a reason why we believe even our sensations to be real and not fallacious; why
we believe what we are conscious of; why we trust any of our natural faculties. We say, it must
be so, it cannot be otherwise. This expresses only a strong belief, which is indeed the voice of
Nature, and which therefore in vain we attempt to resist. But if, in spite of Nature, we resolve to
go deeper, and not to trust our faculties, without a reason to shew that they cannot be fallacious,
I am afraid, that seeking to become wise, and to be as gods, we shall become foolish, and being
unsatisfied with the lot of humanity, we shall throw off common sense. (EIP 6.6, 497)
The final sentence of this passage contains an allusion—“seeking to become wise, and
to be as gods”—whose significance in the present context would certainly not have
been lost on Reid’s Calvinist contemporaries in Scotland. Steeped in the Bible and
theology, they would have heard in these words an echo of an argument made long
ago in Eden, when the serpent tempted Eve with specious reasoning, and a flattering
fallacy led to a Fall.29 And they would have immediately seen what Reid was driving at:
that underlying the sceptic’s faux pas in epistemology—that of demanding proof where
proof is neither necessary nor possible—is a proud and self-enfeebling refusal to trust
God, “the Author of our being” (EAP 4.6, 304). Determined to be wholly self-sufficient
and autonomous, the sceptical philosopher is discomfited by his dependence upon a

nature that is his and yet not his—a nature by which he is ruled, but which is not of
his own making—and so he seeks to transcend its limitations in thought. Instead of
acknowledging that there are intuitive principles which “the constitution of our nature
leads us to believe . . . without being able to give a reason for them” (IHM 2.6, 33), our
sceptic, “seeking to become wise”, reserves the right to reject them unless they can be
established by his reason, “the only judge of truth” (IHM 6.20, 169); and so he “wrestles
with nature” (IHM 6.20, 169) in a vain attempt to throw off such involuntary and (to
him) demeaning commitments, though no one can make his way in this world without
their guidance. The sceptic is thus divided against himself; and this deplorable loss of
integrity, this deep cleft bisecting his being, stems from an unlawful and futile desire to
silence “the voice of nature”.
As this suggests, Reid encourages his readers to view radical scepticism not only
through the lens of philosophy, but also through the lenses of religion and theology.
The moral he invites us to draw is hard to miss: radical scepticism, when seen from a
Christian perspective, wears the appearance of impiety, foolish pride, and presump-
tion. It goes without saying that none of this amounts to a philosophical refutation of
scepticism; but there isn’t the slightest reason to think that it was intended by Reid as
such. Rather, it can be understood as a diagnosis or interpretation of scepticism’s genesis
which is available to a reader who already belongs to that religious tradition and who
thinks from within it—available, that is, to a person “who is persuaded that he is
the workmanship of God, and that it is a part of his constitution to believe his senses”
(EIP 2.20, 231). Taken in this way, the diagnosis seems reasonable enough: if you truly
conceive of first principles as “the gift of Heaven” (EIP 2.20, 233) or as “the inspiration
of the Almighty” (IHM 7, 215; EIP 2.20, 231), there can be no question of rejecting,
contesting, or second-guessing them.30 Such unconquerable convictions are divine
gifts to be accepted, not with idle doubts and murmurs, but with humble trust and
hope; they are boons to be viewed not as objects of suspicion, but as occasions for
gratitude; and their practical indispensability and irresistibility may be taken as proof
that (pace Hume) the great guide of human life is not custom or habit, but a ubiquitous
species of common grace.
For Reid, accepting first principles in this pious spirit—with trust, hope, and
gratitude—means accepting a certain picture of ourselves as creatures whose true
good lies in a confident and whole-hearted submission to the laws of the constitution
which the benevolent “Author of our being” has seen fit to give us.31 This broadly
Christian picture of human nature informs much of Reid’s writing, and his allegiance
to it is proclaimed on the title pages of his three major works, whose epigraphs stress
our indebtedness to a sovereign and provident God. Drawn from the Book of Job,
the epigraphs to the Inquiry into the Human Mind and the Essays on the Intellectual
Powers—“The inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding” (Job 32:8) and
“Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts?” (Job 38: 36), respectively—indicate the
extent of our debts in the domain of epistemology; and the Essays on the Active Powers
begins with a verse from the Book of Micah—“He hath showed thee, O Man, what is
good” (Micah 6:8)—which does the same for the realm of ethics or moral philosophy.
From this we may draw two conclusions. The first is that Reid’s philosophy, like that of
Hume, presents us with a vivid and well-defined picture of human nature;32 the second
is that Reid’s picture, unlike Hume’s, is meant to be consonant with the spirit and tenets
of Christianity.33
What do we discover, then, when we study the curious case of ‘Reid, to common
sense appealing’? Not (as Immanuel Kant and Robert Burns seem to have imagined) a
dull, crude, and desperate appeal to ‘[w]hat wives an’ wabsters see an’ feel’, but a sober yet
ambitious philosophy which is not lacking in subtlety. For what, we may ask, is it which
Reid ultimately hopes to achieve? Nothing less than this: to establish a sceptic-proof
scheme in which ordinary perception, science, morality, and religion are understood
not as enemies or rivals, but as different branches of a single tree—a tree whose ancient
roots nourish and sustain human nature. Suspicious of dramatic one-sidedness and
tidy oversimplification, Reid’s philosophy of common sense aspires to avoid the extremes
that have tempted defiant sceptics, on the one hand, and complacent dogmatists, on
the other.34 It is committed to acknowledging the authority of our faculties without
making them the measure of all things; it is pleased to credit conscience no less than
perception; it welcomes religion while shunning superstition and enthusiasm; and it is
liberal and large enough to accommodate both Newton’s Principia and the Westminster
Confession of Faith. In addition, it proclaims that Providence has placed us somewhere
between angels and brutes in the great chain of being; that we are not our own, but
belong to God; that God evidently intends human beings to lead a life devoted to pru-
dent and dutiful action, as opposed to one filled with unanchored speculations or base
gratifications; and—last but not least—that to repine at our God-given condition is
unnatural and impious, not to mention self-defeating.
1.4 ‘The Pride of Philosophy’

If Reid is right in thinking that philosophy ultimately depends on common sense,
philosophy is not nearly as important as most of its leading modern practitioners
have thought. Why? Because Descartes, Locke, Malebranche, Hume, and others have
assumed—quite erroneously, as Reid thinks—that our ordinary conceptual scheme
must be validated by philosophers if its employment is to qualify as reasonable and
warranted. This self-aggrandizing assumption reflects a deep and invidious contrast
between ‘the vulgar’ and ‘the philosophers’; a contrast, that is to say, between the innu-
merable naïfs who accept that conceptual scheme without argument, on the one hand,
and, on the other, the handful of fastidious sages who will consent to endorse ordinary
beliefs only on the basis of esoteric arguments which they themselves have excogitated.
According to this way of understanding our epistemic predicament, the ordinary
person’s belief in the existence of material objects, other minds, or the uniformity of
nature does not amount to knowledge. Why not? Not because these run-of-the-mill
beliefs are false—they may very well be true—but because the vulgar person, who
cannot argue cogently for their truth, is not justified or warranted in holding them. If
the philosophical elite can find arguments which vindicate vulgar convictions, well
and good; such beliefs will finally have been rationally grounded or justified.
However, it would not follow that the vulgar qua vulgar are justified in holding such
beliefs. Indeed, we should expect to be told by the modern philosopher that the
ordinary man or woman is not justified in believing in a material world, say, or in
other minds, or in nature’s uniformity. For according to the line of thought whose
trajectory we have been tracing, you are entitled to hold such beliefs if and only if
you can establish their truth by ingenious reasoning or rigorous logical proof; yet
anyone who can perform that remarkable intellectual feat surely deserves the honorific
title of philosopher.35
On the other hand, if philosophy either (a) fails to find arguments which justify
some set of ordinary beliefs or (b) produces arguments which refute or discredit such
beliefs, the result will be some form of scepticism about that entire class of convictions.
Here, too, the philosopher may claim that he has an advantage over the person who
takes the correctness of such homely judgments for granted. For whereas the vulgar
man thinks that he knows something—say, that material objects exists—which he in
fact does not know, it is the boast of the modern sceptic that he knows that he does not
know whether material objects exist. What is more, the sceptic’s knowledge that he does
not know such things is derived from his own rigorous and independent investigations,
the conclusions of which purport to be universally valid. Hence the sceptic not only
claims he does not know whether things ‘without the mind’ exist; he also claims that no
one can ever know whether such things exist. The fact that the rest of humanity blithely
takes the reality of material things for granted may excite our philosopher’s pity or
inspire his contempt; depending upon his humour, he may wax eloquent on ‘the
whimsical condition of mankind’, or throw up his hands in a paroxysm of misanthropic
despair. Yet regardless of whether he laughs or weeps at the sight of our irremediable
simplicity and gullibility, he can always console himself with the flattering thought
that he has seen through the foolish illusions that hold the rest of humanity captive.
A Pharisee of the intellect, he gives thanks to the goddess Reason that he is ‘not as other
men are’—purblind and superficial, unsophisticated and obtuse.
The modern opposition between the vulgar and the philosophers recalls a much
older and more famous contrast: that between the imprisoned Platonic Cave-Dweller
who takes the shadowy play of appearances at face value, and the emancipated Platonic
Sun-Worshipper who sees through the deceptive surface of things to the luminous
reality above them.36 Whatever its lineage or pedigree, however, this wholesale dualism
between the vulgar and the philosopher is roundly condemned by Reid, who insists
that when it comes to matters of common sense, “[t]he learned and the unlearned, the
Philosopher and the day-labourer, are upon a level” (EIP 6.4, 461; cf. EIP 2.19, 219).
In The Scottish Philosophy (1875), James McCosh (1811–94), himself a Scot and a
c ommitted common-sensist, summed up Reid’s attitude beautifully: “Reid laboured to

restrain the pride of philosophy, and to bring men back to a common sense in respect
of which the peasant and philosopher are alike” (McCosh 1875: 419). Let us look
briefly at two passages from the Essays on the Intellectual Powers which illustrate and
illuminate this aspect of Reid’s thought.
In the first passage, found in Essay 2 (“Of The Powers We Have By Means of
Our External Senses”), Reid stresses the limitations of human reason, a faculty whose
epistemic reach has been greatly exaggerated by vain philosophers, who have expected
it to deliver insights into familiar things that are deeper than the platitudes known to
every peasant and child. Yet there are cases, Reid observes pointedly, where reason can
give the learned philosopher no advantage whatsoever over the uneducated day-labourer
or peasant. Such rude and brutal levelling deeply wounds ‘the pride of philosophy’—or
at least the pride of certain modern philosophers:
To a Philosopher, who has been accustomed to think that the treasure of his knowledge is the
acquisition of that reasoning power of which he boasts, it is no doubt humiliating to find, that
his reason can lay no claim to the greater part of it.
By his reason, he can discover certain abstract and necessary relations of things: But his
knowledge of what really exists, or did exist, comes by another channel, which is open to those
who cannot reason. He is led to it in the dark, and knows not how he came by it.
It is no wonder that the pride of philosophy should lead some to invent vain theories, in
order to account for this knowledge; and others, who see this to be impracticable, to spurn at a
knowledge they cannot account for, and vainly attempt to throw it off, as a reproach to their
understanding. But the wise and the humble will receive it as the gift of Heaven, and endeavour
to make the best use of it. (EIP 2.20, 233)
The second passage, which is found in Essay 6 (“Of Judgment”), expresses what we
may call Reid’s epistemological egalitarianism: his view that philosophical theories are
constrained by the natural or commonsensical convictions of ordinary people, and
that ordinary people—Robert Burns’s ‘wives an’ wabsters’—are in a perfectly good
position to judge what counts as a natural conviction. Non-philosophers may know
that a philosopher’s argument has gone wrong without knowing exactly where it has
gone wrong, provided they know that the argument’s conclusion contradicts some
common sense principle or natural commitment. In cases of this sort, the philosopher
and the non-philosopher are truly ‘upon a level’, and the former cannot pull rank on
the latter:
In matters beyond the reach of common understanding, the many are led by the few, and
willingly yield to their authority. But, in matters of common sense, the few must yield to
the many, when local and temporary prejudices are removed. No man is now moved
by the subtile arguments of Zeno against motion, though perhaps he knows not how to
answer them . . .
In a matter of common sense, every man is no less a competent judge than a Mathematician
is in a mathematical demonstration; and there must be a great presumption that the judgment
of mankind, in such a matter, is the natural issue of those faculties which God hath given them.
Such a judgment can be erroneous only when there is some cause of the error, as general as the
error is: When this can be shown to be the case, I acknowledge it ought to have its due weight.
But, to suppose a general deviation from truth among mankind in things self-evident, of which
no cause can be assigned, is highly unreasonable. (EIP 6.4, 461, 465–6; EAP 4.6, 314)
Why have modern philosophers resisted epistemological egalitarianism, and employed

reason to prove or disprove what everyone already believes by nature? Is it an expres-
sion of nothing but fiendish conceit or superbia? That is not the view of it taken by Reid,
whose common-sensism leaves room for the idea that philosophy’s insatiable hunger
for proofs and guarantees is an overreaction to a very real and serious problem—the
problem of dogmatism and irresponsible belief. That we are highly fallible creatures
who are easily led astray, that prejudice and superstition are all around us as well as
within us, that there is a surfeit of foolish and wild opinions in the world—these are
facts about the human condition which nobody can deny. Yet it does not follow from
any of this that a philosopher always has the right to question, let alone to condemn,
the unreasoned commitments of ordinary people. Some of these commitments are
our common property or inheritance, bequeathed to us by nature, and we cannot part
with any of them unless we are willing to part with all of them. As long as modern
philosophers overlook this crucial truth, Reid thinks, their schemes and speculations
will end in bankruptcy, and this is because—here the circle of our discourse closes—all
our thinking about things is ultimately funded by common sense.
1.5 ‘To Common Sense They Now Appeal’

Reid was not the only Scottish thinker of his day who accused modern philosophers
of trampling with impunity upon the natural rights of common sense. That there
was, once upon a time, a flourishing Scottish school of common sense philosophy;37
that it originated in the mid-eighteenth century and thrived in Scotland for almost
a century;38 that its influence was extensive, reaching well beyond academic circles
at home and abroad; that it was initially based in and around Aberdeen, seat of
King’s College and Marischal College;39 that most of its early exponents were
affiliated in some way with the Wise Club, the philosophical society founded in
1758 by Reid and some of his Aberdonian associates;40 that the intellectual interests
of the Aberdeen group were impressively diverse and many-sided—these facts
are all matters of historical record. A further fact, no less significant for us, is that
several prominent members of the Wise Club, including Reid, George Campbell
(1719–96), and Alexander Gerard (1728–95), were well acquainted with the works
of David Hume, whose talents they admired but whose sceptical turn of mind they
deplored. In a letter of March 1763, written to thank Hume for his comments on
a partial draft of An Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of Common
Sense, Reid makes it quite clear that the deep respect he and his fellow ‘wise men’
feel for Hume’s work is perfectly compatible with a firm refusal to endorse the latter’s
novel doctrines:
Your Friendly adversaries Drs Campbell and Gerard, as well as Dr Gregory, return their
compliments to you respectfully. A little philosophical society here, of which all the three are
members, is much indebted to you for its entertainment. Your company would, although we
are all good 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, politics, or
metaphysics, I am afraid we shall be at a loss for subjects.41 (RC 92)
‘[W]e are all good Christians’: these words remind us that Reid and Campbell were
ordained ministers licensed to preach by the Church of Scotland, as was James
Oswald (1703–93), a freelance common-sensist unaffiliated with the Wise Men of
Aberdeen.42 Reid, it will be recalled, spent nearly a decade and a half (from 1737
until 1751) as the minister of New Machar before becoming Regent at King’s
College; Oswald, who was named Moderator of the General Assembly of the
Church of Scotland in 1765, was a parish minister for almost all of his adult life;
Gerard was Professor of Divinity at Marischal College from 1760 until 1771, when
he became Professor of Divinity at King’s;43 and Campbell, Principal of Marischal,
became Professor of Divinity there in 1771, filling the vacancy created by Gerard’s
move to King’s College. Yet another of Scottish common-sensism’s leading lights
and a member of the Wise Club, the poet and philosopher James Beattie (1735–1803),
who had been appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic at Marischal in
1760,44 seriously considered ordination at one point, though in the end he decided
against it. Nevertheless, it may very well be that the combative and bombastic
Beattie was the most popular and powerful preacher of the lot, as we shall see in
Section 1.6.45
As ‘good Christians’, these men could not accept a philosophy which they knew was
at odds with their faith; as honest philosophers, they could not accept a philosophy
which they knew was at odds with reason. The philosophy of common sense gave them
what they had been looking for: a way of thinking about human nature and its place in
the grand scheme of things which struck them as intellectually defensible and as con-
sistent with a Christian worldview. As far as they were concerned, ‘common sense’ was
the friend of religion, a disdain for our natural convictions was the stuff of impiety, and
the answer to philosophical scepticism was contained in a simple thought which
proved potent when fully unfolded—to wit, that doubting the fundamental deliver-
ances of our constitution is an exercise in futility and unreason. For if common sense is
the real foundation of philosophy, philosophy cannot subvert common sense without
subverting itself; so if common sense is religion’s ally and friend, no sound philosophy
can be religion’s nemesis.
These are large claims, and what one makes of them depends on the answers to two
interrelated questions. First, what exactly do these philosophers mean by ‘common
sense’? Second, why do they regard its dictates as authoritative and beyond question?
As we have already outlined Reid’s answers to these questions in Sections 1.2 to 1.4, it is
time to see what Oswald, Beattie, and Campbell have to say for themselves.
1.6 James Oswald: Primary Truths and Rational

Perceptions
Let us begin with James Oswald, the least important and most obscure member of our
supporting triumvirate. An Appeal To Common Sense In Behalf of Religion (1766–72),46
Oswald’s sole contribution to common sense philosophy, may be described as a third-rate
work of Christian apologetics masquerading as a third-rate work of philosophy.
The book’s title accurately identifies its author’s aim: to vanquish scepticism and
‘infidelity’ (a word of which Oswald was inordinately fond) by showing that natural
religion’s critics contradict the self-evident judgments of common sense. But if this
is right, the foundations of Christian belief—more or less co-extensive with what
the scholastics had called the praeambula fidei—must be regarded as impervious to
philosophical criticism.
In addition to being a work of apologetics, Oswald’s Appeal is a work of social and
cultural criticism. Writing with the ire and indignation of a self-styled prophet, Oswald
denounces the frivolous spirit of a free-thinking age, appalled by what he sees as its
affected scepticism, its rank impiety, and its lawless hedonism. The world is turning
its back on God, he declares, and the consequences of widespread infidelity are dire
indeed. How can a people expect to endure, let alone prosper, without an abiding
and lively faith in God? And for how long shall a decadent and sybaritic nation, weak-
ened by feverish doubting and wasted by fashionable vice, be suffered to remain upon
the earth?
What effect an earthquake,47 or the pestilence, or a formidable French invasion, might have, is
uncertain; but it seems agreed, that there is not as much regard to God and a good conscience,
as would save the nation in a severe trial; and hardly so much as is necessary for the preservation
of decency and good order. And if this is the truth, it demands the serious attention of every
good citizen, and indeed of every one who hath the feelings of a man.
(ACS 2 Conclusion, 306)
According to our sour Scottish Jeremiah, we cannot arrest society’s slide into
decadence unless we come to our senses and stop feigning ignorance of the fundamental
truths of religion and morality. Instead of letting ourselves be imposed upon by restive
sceptics or malignant doubt-mongers, we need to remember what their false philosophy,
Lethe-like, has almost made us forget—namely, that there are certain clear and incon-
testable truths which all human beings are naturally disposed to accept, and by which
men and women are meant to live. That a just God governs this world; that we are
answerable to him for our conduct; that there is a real distinction between good and
evil; that the difference between virtue and vice is not a matter of convention; that we
have certain definite obligations to God, to other men and women, and to ourselves;
that we can acquire knowledge of the order of things: these are among the plain
yet pregnant truths to which Oswald repeatedly calls our attention in his Appeal To
Common Sense. Although modern philosophers have sought to discredit these trad-
itional convictions, this only indicates that these authors are not true lovers of wisdom,
and that their hearts are not in the right place. Unwilling to countenance truths which
would humble their pride and restrain their appetites, cunning and worldly men have
perverted philosophy, turning it into the fine art of manufacturing unanswerable
objections to unassailable truths. As for the enlightened idea that we are entitled to
dismiss as mere prejudices all opinions which cannot be supported by convincing
proofs, Oswald will have none of it: “A philosopher ought, no doubt, to be above vulgar
prejudices; but he cannot, with safety to his own character, set himself above the common
sense of mankind. His business is not to confound the ignorant and the unthinking
with paradoxical opinions, but to pursue his inquiries, until he arrive at things in which
men of judgment can rest” (ACS 1.2, 36). Why does Oswald take this line? Not because
he distrusts reasoning per se, but because he maintains that we have a significant
amount of non-inferential or immediate knowledge—knowledge, that is, which we do
not owe to our reasoning powers. Failure to appreciate this point, he thinks, has led
many a modern philosopher to question truths which are beyond question, to demand
proof where proof is impossible, and to advance proofs where no proofs are necessary.
Yet this endless quest for reasons and demonstrations is vanity and madness, a striving
after wind:
Reasoning is proper, of great use, as well as of indispensable necessity, when kept within its own
province; but beyond that, becomes frivolous, impertinent, and fitter to perplex and abuse the
understanding, than to assist in the discovery of truth. (ACS 1.4, 84)
Many truths in nature, and among these the great truths in religion, have too much evidence in
themselves to admit of any foreign proof. Their evidence is at least equal to, if not greater than
what can be found in any other truths with which they are connected or can be compared.
Every attempt therefore to establish their belief by means of argument, takes from their native
evidence, or weakens the assent they would obtain on being fairly presented to the mind. With
regard to truths of this order, the business is not to reason, but to judge. (ACS 1.4, 86)
The modern sceptic’s peremptory demand for proofs is not always in order, Oswald
concludes, because not every judgment which is justified for us is justified through
inference or reasoning. Some truths are beyond argument in the sense of being prior to
it; far from being proper subjects for disputation, they must be endorsed without proof
(and without question) as soon as they are apprehended by any healthy and normally
constituted human being. These self-evident or fundamental judgments are primary
truths, and they are contrasted by Oswald with the secondary truths whose epistemic
status is derived from them:
You see now, that there is a real difference, however small it may be in some cases, between the
evidence of primary and secondary truths. The one is absolute; the other is not. The one admits
the possibility of mistake; the other does not. The one is but a high degree of probability; the
other is certainty. And you see at the same time, that the different evidence arises from the dif-
ferent nature of the truths. One is an object of intuition; and therefore, if there is no defect in
the faculty by which you perceive those truths, there can be no possible ground of doubt. The
other is a subject of reasoning, in which you are always more or less liable to mistake, through
a variety of causes needless to be enumerated, let your faculty of perception be ever so perfect,
and your medium ever so clear. (ACS 1 Letters, 138)
Supposing there are primary truths, how can we know them? Through what faculty
or power are such elementary verities grasped or apprehended? Readers of An Appeal
To Common Sense In Behalf of Religion soon learn Oswald’s answer: the power of
the human mind which immediately perceives primary truths is none other than
common sense:
[R]ational beings are distinguished from the irrational, not so much by the discursive faculty,
as by a perception and judgment of certain obvious truths, which for quickness, clearness, and
indubitable certainty, is called sense; and on account of its being possessed in some degree by
all the rational kind, is called common sense. (ACS 1.4, 68)
If this is true, why have so many modern philosophers questioned the judgments of
common sense? The answer has to do with the self-serving way in which they have
interpreted the ancient dictum that man is a rational animal. Once we identify the
essence of humanity with rationality, and once we equate rationality with reasoning,
it becomes tempting to think of ourselves as creatures born to wrangle and argue
endlessly about whatever we please, and to pose as inquirers entitled to pry patiently
into all things. This temptation is one to which modern infidels and idle lovers of
argument have repeatedly succumbed; for such proud free spirits, Oswald seems to
think, are “men of corrupt minds, and destitute of the truth”.48 Strictly speaking,
however, our reasoning powers are not what distinguish us from the beasts of the field
who lack understanding; what truly makes us rational animals is our native faculty of
judgment, our inborn capacity to intuit truths which are abstract and inaccessible to
sense—‘rational perceptions’, as he calls them, in contradistinction to mere ‘animal
perceptions’. If this account of human nature is correct, and our rationality is rooted in
our possession of common sense, how can anyone think it right to attack common
sense in the name of rationality? According to Oswald, the very idea is risible—and so,
by implication, is scepticism. The moral is plain: “All who trust to common sense, may
rest assured, that the great truths of natural philosophy, theology, and ethics, will
maintain their ground against all the attacks of the most subtile reasoning. These
[sceptical] doctrines do hurt raw minds and superficial thinkers, but can give no
disturbance to men of sound understanding and solid judgment; for indeed they have
no influence, or but little influence on those who adopt them” (ACS 1.2, 35).
From a philosophical point of view, Oswald’s Appeal to Common Sense In Behalf of
Religion leaves much to be desired. The book’s principal arguments, though frequently
repeated, are seldom formulated with care or precision; objections typically receive
brusque, superficial replies; and remarkably little interest is shown in elucidating

key concepts, including that of common sense.49 Nevertheless, Oswald was at least
pursuing a philosophically interesting project: that of developing a moral epistemology
which would steer clear of two vicious yet seductive extremes. The first of these
extremes is radical scepticism, where there is too much doubt and not enough belief;
the second is vulgar bigotry, where there is too much belief and not enough doubt.
The dramatic clash between these camps reflects the logical distance between their
respective starting-points. According to our cautious sceptic, it is folly to believe what
we cannot prove to be true—a maxim which leads him to doubt the primary truths on
which all moral knowledge rests. According to our blustering bigot, it is treason to
doubt what one feels must be true—a maxim which leads him to confuse beloved
prejudices with primary truths, and to present the slogans of his own sect or party as
dogmas for which no argument need ever be advanced.
The thoughtful sceptic thus judges things by one false standard; the thoughtless
bigot by another. Fortunately, a third possibility is available: we can navigate between
these perilous extremes, Oswald suggests, if we let ourselves be guided by the compass
of common sense. And just how does Oswaldian common sense save us from the
Scylla of indifference and the Charybdis of fanaticism? In the first place, scepticism is
vanquished by the recognition that there are primary truths, self-evident and accessible
to all persons of sound mind, which supply a firm foundation for moral knowledge. In
the second place, bigotry is rebuked by the twin reminders that subjective certitude is
not the same thing as self-evidence, and that passion’s alchemy can never transmute
the lead of prejudice into the gold of primary truths. That Oswald himself occasionally
needed to be reminded of these things is no doubt ironic, but his shortcomings as
a philosopher in no way invalidate his project: that of finding the mean between
unnatural apathy and unreasonable self-assertion, or between excessive self-suspicion
and unconscionable complacency.50
1.7 James Beattie: The Desolation of Philosophy

James Beattie’s An Essay on the Nature and Immutability of Truth in Opposition to
Sophistry and Scepticism (1771) was that rarity of rarities: a philosophical best-seller
which created a sensation in its day among non-philosophers.51 Although the Essay
on Truth was memorably denounced by David Hume in an uncharacteristically ill-
humoured outburst—“Truth! There is no truth in it; it is a horrible large lie in Octavo”
(Mossner 1980: 581)—the book was praised by the likes of Edmund Burke and Samuel
Johnson, and it quickly made its author a famous man: fêted in England, studied on the
Continent, and acclaimed in the New World. Sir Joshua Reynolds painted Beattie’s
portrait, entitled ‘The Triumph of Truth, with the Portrait of a Gentleman’; King
George III, one of the Essay’s many non-philosophical admirers, desired an audience
with its author; the Crown gave Beattie a pension of £200 a year; Oxford University
offered him an honorary doctorate; the American Philosophical Society, founded in

Philadelphia by Benjamin Franklin, made him a member; and the Essay itself was
translated into French, German, and Dutch. Hume, in a huff, might curse “that bigoted
silly Fellow, Beattie” (Mossner 1980: 577), but countless readers held the author of the
Essay in high esteem and hailed his book as a great achievement.52
Why did the Essay on Truth enjoy such a vogue? One reason for its success, no doubt,
was that the book told cultural conservatives and timorous Christians exactly what
they wanted to hear: that philosophical sceptics are utterly misguided, that traditional
morality is woven into the very nature of things, that faith in God has nothing to fear
from the proper exercise of reason, and that the ancients were better students of human
nature than the moderns. Speaking as the friend and self-appointed defender of “truth,
virtue, and Christianity” (EOT Introduction, xv), the author of the Essay reassures
pious men and women that their inherited worldview is essentially correct,53 and he
warns them not to waste their time reading the works of Hume—an urbane infidel
who makes the weaker argument the stronger, a conceited sciolist whose pages
overflow with toxic paradoxes.54 In order to impress upon his readers the dangers of
“philosophy and vain deceit”,55 Beattie penned several passages which are remarkable
from a rhetorical, though hardly from a logical, point of view. Here, for the reader’s
delectation, are three examples:
This is called the age of reason and philosophy; and this is the age of avowed and dogmatical
Atheism. Sceptics have at last grown weary of doubting; and have now discovered, by the force
of their great talents, that one thing at least is certain, namely, that God, and religion, and
immortality, are empty sounds. This is the final triumph of our so much boasted philosophic
spirit; these are the limits of the dominion of error, beyond which we can hardly conceive it
possible for human sophistry to penetrate. Exult, O Metaphysic, at the consummation of thy
glories. More thou canst not hope, more thou canst not desire. Fall down, ye mortals, and
acknowledge the stupendous blessing: adore those men of great talents, those daring spirits,
those patterns of modesty, gentleness, and candour, those prodigies of genius, those heroes of
beneficence, who have thus laboured—to strip you of every rational consolation, and to make
your condition ten thousand times worse than that of the beasts that perish. (EOT 3.3, 321)
Why can I not express myself with less warmth! Why can I not devise an apology for these
philosophers, to screen them from this dreadful imputation of being the enemies and plague of
mankind!—Perhaps they do not themselves believe their own tenets, but publish them only as
the means of getting a name and a fortune. But I hope this is not the case; God forbid that it
should! for then the enormity of their guilt would surpass all power of language; we could only
gaze at it, and tremble. Compared with such wickedness, the crimes of the thief, the robber, the
incendiary, would almost disappear. These sacrifice their fortunes or the lives of their fellow-
creatures, to their own necessity or outrageous appetite: but those would run the hazard of
sacrificing, to their own avarice or vanity, the happiness of mankind, both here and hereafter.
No; I cannot suppose it: the heart of man, however depraved, is not capable of such malignity.
(EOT 3.3, 321–2)
Caressed by those who call themselves the great, ingrossed by the formalities and fopperies of
life, intoxicated with vanity, pampered with adulation, dissipated in the tumult of business, or
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païen s’est retiré. Il entend la clameur ; il voit les horribles traces de
sa cruauté ; il voit des membres humains épars de tous côtés. Mais
en voilà assez pour le moment ; que celui qui volontiers écoute cette
belle histoire revienne une autre fois.
CHANT XVII.
Argument. — Charles exhorte ses paladins, et attaque avec eux

les ennemis. — Griffon, Origile et Martan arrivent à Damas, à la fête
donnée par Norandin. Griffon est vainqueur du tournoi ; Martan y
montre une grande couardise, mais il usurpe l’honneur de la victoire,
tandis que Griffon ne reçoit que honte et outrages.
Quand nos péchés ont dépassé la mesure du pardon, Dieu, pour

prouver que sa justice égale sa miséricorde, confie souvent le
pouvoir souverain à des tyrans atroces, à des monstres. Il leur
donne la force et le génie du mal. C’est pour cela qu’il mit au monde
Marius, Sylla, les deux Néron, Caïus Caligula le Furieux ;
Domitien et le dernier Antonin ; qu’il tira Maximin de la plèbe
immonde et basse, et l’éleva à l’empire ; qu’il fit naître à Thèbes
Créonte, et donna au peuple d’Agylla Mézence, qui engraissa les
sillons de sang humain ; c’est pour cela que, dans des temps moins
reculés, il permit que l’Italie devînt la proie des Huns, des Lombards
et des Goths.
Que dirai-je d’Attila ? que dirai-je de l’inique Ezzelin da Romano,
et de cent autres que Dieu, après de longs siècles de crimes,
envoya pour nous punir et nous opprimer ? Et ce n’est pas
seulement dans les temps antiques que nous avons de tels
exemples ; nous en faisons de nos jours une claire expérience, nous
qui, troupeaux inutiles et coupables dès le berceau, avons été
donnés en garde aux loups enragés.
Comme si leur faim était trop vite apaisée, et que leur ventre ne
pût contenir tant de chair, ceux-ci ont appelé des bois ultramontains
d’autres loups plus affamés [7] , pour achever de nous dévorer. Les
ossements sans sépulture de Trasimène, de Cannes, de Trebia,
paraissent peu de chose auprès de ceux qui engraissent les rives et
les champs de l’Adda, de la Mella, du Ronco et du Taro.
Dieu permet que nous soyons châtiés aujourd’hui par des
peuples plus coupables que nous peut-être, de nos méfaits, de nos
erreurs, de nos vices multipliés à l’infini. Un temps viendra où nous
irons à notre tour ravager leurs territoires, si jamais nous devenons
meilleurs, et si leurs crimes en arrivent à exciter l’indignation de
éternelle Bonté.
Elles devaient sans doute avoir troublé la sérénité de Dieu, ces
contrées que les Turcs et les Maures couvraient alors de viols, de
meurtres, de rapines et de honte. Mais tous ces maux furent encore
aggravés par la fureur de Rodomont. J’ai dit que Charles, dès qu’il
eut reçu la nouvelle des ravages causés par lui, était accouru pour
l’arrêter.
Il voit les malheureux coupés par morceaux joncher les rues ; les
palais brûlés, les temples ruinés, une grande partie de la ville
détruite. Jamais on ne vit de si cruels exemples de désolation : « —
Où fuyez-vous, foule épouvantée ? N’en est-il point parmi vous qui
ose contempler sa ruine, et qui ne comprenne qu’il ne vous restera
plus de refuge si vous abandonnez si lâchement cette cité ?
« Donc, un homme seul, enfermé dans votre ville dont la ceinture
de murailles l’empêche de fuir, pourra se retirer sans la moindre
égratignure, après vous avoir tous tués ? — » Ainsi disait Charles,
qui, enflammé de colère, ne pouvait supporter une telle honte. Il
arrive enfin devant la grande cour du palais, où il voit le païen
massacrer son peuple.
Là s’était retirée une grande partie de la population espérant y
trouver du secours, car le palais était entouré de fortes murailles et
approvisionné de munitions pour une longue défense. Rodomont,
fou d’orgueil et de colère, s’était emparé à lui seul de toute la place.
Dans son mépris de tels adversaires, il fait d’une main tournoyer son
épée, et de l’autre il lance la flamme.
Il frappe les portes élevées et superbes de la royale demeure, et
les fait résonner sous ses coups. La foule qui s’y est réfugiée et se
croit déjà morte, fait pleuvoir sur lui du haut des remparts les
créneaux et les pans de murs. Personne ne regarde à détruire ce
beau palais, et les morceaux de bois, les pierres, les tables en
marbre, les colonnes et les poutres dorées, qui ont coûté si cher à
leurs pères et à leurs ancêtres, tombent tous à la fois.
Le roi d’Alger se tient sur la porte, étincelant sous le clair acier
qui lui recouvre la tête et le buste. Ainsi, le serpent sorti des
ténèbres, après avoir dépouillé sa vieille peau, et fier de sa nouvelle
écaille, se sent redevenu jeune et plus vigoureux que jamais. Il fait
vibrer son triple dard, le feu brille dans ses yeux, et, partout où il
passe, tous les autres animaux lui font place.
Les rochers, les créneaux, les poutres, les flèches, les arbalètes,
et tous les autres objets qui tombent sur le Sarrasin, ne peuvent
ralentir sa main sanguinaire, qui ne cesse de secouer, de tailler, de
mettre en pièces la grande porte. Il y fait une telle ouverture, qu’on
peut facilement voir au travers que la cour est pleine de gens dont le
visage est empreint des couleurs de la mort.
On entend retentir, sous les voûtes élevées et spacieuses, les
cris et les lamentations des femmes qui se frappent le sein et
courent à travers le palais, pâles et gémissantes ; elles embrassent
le seuil des appartements et les lits nuptiaux qu’elles devront bientôt
abandonner aux barbares. C’est dans ce péril extrême qu’arrive le
roi suivi de ses barons.
Charles se tourne vers ces mains robustes qu’il trouvait jadis
promptes aux gigantesques travaux : « — N’êtes-vous pas, — dit-il,
— les mêmes qui combattîtes avec moi contre Agolant dans
Apremont ? Vos forces sont-elles maintenant si épuisées que vous,
qui lui avez arraché la vie, ainsi qu’à Trojan, à Almonte et à cent
mille autres, vous deviez redouter aujourd’hui un homme seul, un
guerrier de ce sang, de cette race méprisable ?
« Serais-je condamné à voir aujourd’hui en vous moins de
courage que je vous en ai vu autrefois ? Montrez à ce chien votre
valeur, à ce chien qui dévore les hommes. Un cœur magnanime
méprise la mort ; il lui importe peu qu’elle soit tardive ou prompte,
pourvu qu’elle soit glorieuse. Mais je ne puis rien craindre avec vous
qui m’avez toujours rendu victorieux. — »
A ces mots, il baisse sa lance et pousse son destrier droit au
Sarrasin. En même temps le paladin Ogier, Naymes, Olivier, Avin,
Avolio, Othon et Bérenger, qu’on ne peut jamais voir l’un sans
l’autre, se précipitent tous ensemble sur Rodomont et le frappent à
la poitrine, au flanc, au visage.
Mais pour Dieu, Seigneur, suspendons le récit de ces colères et
laissons ces chants de mort. C’est assez parlé, pour le moment, du
Sarrasin non moins cruel que redoutable. Il est temps de revenir à
Griffon, que j’ai laissé arrivant aux portes de Damas avec la perfide
Origile et celui qui, loin d’être son frère, s’était rendu complice de
son adultère.
Parmi les plus riches cités du Levant, les plus populeuses et les
mieux bâties, on cite Damas, qui s’élève à sept journées de
Jérusalem, au sein d’une plaine fertile, abondante, et non moins
agréable l’hiver que l’été. Une montagne voisine lui dérobe les
premiers rayons de l’aurore naissante.
Deux fleuves aux eaux de cristal traversent la ville, arrosant de
leurs canaux multipliés un nombre infini de jardins toujours pleins de
fleurs et de verdure. On prétend aussi que les eaux de senteur y
sont assez abondantes pour faire tourner des moulins, et que celui
qui se promène dans les rues sent l’odeur des parfums s’échapper
de toutes les maisons.
La rue principale est entièrement recouverte de tapis aux
couleurs variées et éclatantes ; le pavé est jonché d’herbes
odoriférantes, et les murs des maisons disparaissent sous un vert
feuillage. Chaque porte, chaque fenêtre est ornée de fines draperies,
mais plus encore de belles dames aux robes somptueuses et
chargées de pierreries.
Dans l’intérieur des portes, le peuple se livre en beaucoup
d’endroits à des danses joyeuses, et de beaux chevaux richement
caparaçonnés caracolent de leur mieux par les rues. Mais ce qui
était le plus beau à voir, c’était le riche cortège des seigneurs, des
barons et des vassaux couverts de tout ce que l’Inde et les pays
lointains d’Érythrée peuvent fournir de perles, d’or et de pierreries.
Griffon et ses compagnons s’en venaient lentement, admirant de
çà, de là, lorsqu’un chevalier les arrêta et les fit monter dans son
palais, où, avec la courtoisie en usage à cette époque, il ne les
laissa manquer de rien. A peine entrés, il leur fit apprêter un bain,
puis d’un air gracieux, il les invita à s’asseoir à une table
somptueuse.
Et il leur raconta comment Norandin, roi de Damas et de toute la
Syrie, avait invité tous ceux qui, dans le pays et à l’étranger, avaient
rang de chevalerie, à venir prendre part aux joutes, lesquelles
devaient avoir lieu le lendemain matin sur la place publique. Il ajouta
que s’ils avaient autant de valeur que l’annonçait leur fière
prestance, ils pourraient en donner la preuve sans aller plus loin.
Bien que Griffon ne fût pas venu pour cela, il accepta l’invitation ;
il ne refusait jamais, quand il en avait l’occasion, de montrer son
courage. Il interrogea son hôte sur le motif de cette fête. Il lui
demanda si c’était une solennité qu’on renouvelait chaque année, ou
bien une nouvelle idée du roi pour éprouver la valeur de ses sujets.
Le chevalier répondit : « — La belle fête se reproduira désormais
toutes les quatre lunes. Celle-ci est la première de toutes, et jamais
on n’en a encore donné de semblable. Elle est fondée en mémoire
de la délivrance de notre roi, dont la vie fut miraculeusement sauvée
en un pareil jour, après quatre mois passés dans les angoisses et
les pleurs, et la mort devant les yeux.
« Mais, pour vous raconter plus à fond cette histoire, je vous dirai
que notre roi, qui s’appelle Norandin, avait, depuis de longues
années, le cœur enflammé pour la charmante fille du roi de Chypre,
qui surpasse toute autre belle. Ayant fini par l’obtenir pour femme, il
s’en revenait avec elle, en compagnie de dames et de chevaliers, et
se dirigeait droit vers la Syrie.
« Nous étions déjà loin du port, voguant à pleines voiles sur
l’orageuse mer de Carpathes, lorsque nous fûmes assaillis par une
si horrible tempête, qu’elle épouvanta notre vieux pilote lui-même.
Trois jours et trois nuits nous errâmes sur les ondes menaçantes,
poussés de côté et d’autre. Nous abordâmes enfin, harassés de
fatigue et les vêtements trempés d’eau, sur une terre aux rives
fraîches, aux collines ombreuses et verdoyantes.
« Tout joyeux, nous fîmes déployer les tentes et les courtines
entre les arbres ; on apprêta les feux et les cuisines, et des tapis
nous servirent de tables. Pendant ce temps, le roi parcourait les
vallées voisines et fouillait les parties les plus secrètes du bois, pour
voir s’il ne trouverait pas quelques chèvres, quelques daims ou
quelques cerfs. Deux serviteurs le suivaient, portant son arc.
« Pendant que, heureux de nous reposer, nous attendions que
notre seigneur revînt de la chasse, nous vîmes venir à nous,
accourant le long du rivage, l’Ogre, ce terrible monstre. Dieu vous
garde, seigneur, de voir jamais de vos yeux la face horrible de
l’Ogre ! Il vaut mieux le connaître par ouï-dire que s’en approcher de
façon à le voir.
« Rien ne peut lui être comparé, tellement il est long, tellement sa
grandeur est démesurée. A la place d’yeux, il a sous le front deux
excroissances d’os, semblables à des champignons pour la couleur.
Il venait vers nous, comme je vous dis, le long du rivage, et il
semblait que c’était une petite montagne qui se mouvait. Il montrait
hors de sa gueule deux défenses comme celles du porc ; il avait le
museau allongé et le sein plein de bave et de saleté.
« Il vint en courant, tenant son museau comme le chien braque
quand il suit une piste. A cette vue, nous nous enfuîmes tous,
éperdus, là où nous chassait la peur. Il nous servait de peu qu’il fût
aveugle, car, en flairant le sol, il semblait mieux guidé par son odorat
que s’il avait vu le jour. Il eût fallu des ailes pour fuir.
« Nous courions de çà, de là ; mais en vain nous essayions de le
fuir, il était plus rapide que le vent d’autan. De quarante personnes, à
peine dix se sauvèrent à la nage sur le navire. Le monstre aveugle,
après avoir saisi les autres, les mit en paquet, les uns sous son bras,
les autres sur sa poitrine ; il en remplit également une vaste
gibecière qui lui pendait au flanc, comme à un berger.
« Puis il nous emporta dans sa tanière creusée au milieu d’un
écueil sur le rivage, et qui était en marbre aussi blanc qu’une feuille
de papier sur laquelle il n’y aurait encore rien d’écrit. Là habitait avec
lui une matrone au visage accablé de douleur et de deuil. Elle était
entourée de dames et de damoiselles de tout âge, de toute
condition, les unes laides, les autres belles.
« Tout auprès était une grotte non moins vaste, où l’Ogre
renfermait ses troupeaux. Il en avait tellement qu’on ne pouvait les
compter. Il les conduisait au pâturage été comme hiver, les sortant et
les enfermant lui-même à des heures fixes. Il les avait plutôt comme
passe-temps que pour son usage.
« La chair humaine lui semblait meilleure. Il nous le fit bien voir :
à peine arrivé dans son antre, il mangea trois d’entre nous, ou plutôt
il les engloutit tout vivants. Puis il alla vers la seconde grotte,
souleva un grand rocher, en fit sortir le troupeau, à la place duquel il
nous enferma, et partit pour le mener selon son habitude au
pâturage, en jouant d’un chalumeau qu’il portait au cou.
« Cependant notre prince, de retour sur le rivage, comprend son
malheur. Un profond silence règne tout autour de lui ; il retrouve les
débris des tentes et des pavillons détruits, brisés en mille pièces ; il
ne sait qui peut l’avoir ainsi dépouillé. Plein de crainte, il descend sur
le bord de la mer, et voit ses matelots lever en toute hâte les ancres
et tendre les voiles.
« Aussitôt qu’ils aperçoivent Norandin sur le rivage, ils envoient
une barque pour l’emmener. Mais le prince ayant appris comment
l’Ogre était venu le voler, sans penser à autre chose, prend la
résolution de le poursuivre partout où il sera. Il éprouve tant de
douleur de l’enlèvement de Lucine, qu’il veut la retrouver ou mourir.
« Il se dirige en toute hâte du côté où il voit des traces fraîches
sur le sable, et, poussé par sa rage amoureuse, il arrive enfin à la
caverne dont je vous ai parlé et où nous attendions, dans une
angoisse sans égale, le retour de l’Ogre. Au moindre bruit, il nous
semblait qu’il revenait, plus affamé que jamais, pour nous dévorer.
« La fortune voulut que le roi arrivât à la demeure de l’Ogre
pendant que la femme de ce dernier s’y trouvait seule sans lui. Dès
qu’elle le voit : « — Fuis, — lui crie-t-elle ; — malheur à toi si l’Ogre
t’attrape. — » « — Qu’il m’attrape ou non, — répond-il, — qu’il me
tue ou que je lui échappe, je n’en serai pas plus malheureux. Ce
n’est point parce que je me suis trompé de chemin, mais parce que
je désire mourir à côté de mon épouse, que je suis venu ici. — »
« Puis il lui demande des nouvelles de ceux qui ont été pris par
l’Ogre sur le rivage, et avant tous les autres il s’informe de la belle
Lucine, si elle est morte, ou si elle est seulement retenue captive. La
femme lui parle avec humanité et le rassure. Elle lui dit que Lucine
est vivante, et qu’il n’a pas à craindre de la voir mourir, car l’Ogre ne
dévore jamais de femme.
« — Je puis, — ajoute-t-elle, — t’en servir de preuve, ainsi que
toutes celles qui sont avec moi. Jamais l’Ogre ne fait de mal ni à
elles ni à moi, pourvu que nous ne cherchions pas à nous échapper
de cette caverne. A celles qui tentent de fuir, il se montre
impitoyable, et ne les laisse plus jamais en repos. Il les enterre
toutes vives, ou bien il les enchaîne, et les expose nues au soleil sur
le sable.
« Lorsque aujourd’hui il a amené ici tes compagnons, il n’a point
séparé les hommes des femmes, mais il les a tous enfermés pêle-
mêle dans cette caverne. Il reconnaîtra bien au nez la différence des
sexes. Les dames n’ont point à craindre d’être tuées ; les hommes,
au contraire, peuvent s’attendre à une mort certaine ; ses dents
avides en dévoreront quatre ou six par jour.
« Je n’ai pas à t’apprendre comment tu pourrais enlever ton
épouse d’ici ; contente-toi de savoir que sa vie n’est pas en danger,
et qu’elle partagera la bonne et la mauvaise fortune. Mais, au nom
de Dieu, va-t’en, mon fils, va-t’en avant que l’Ogre ne te sente et ne
te dévore. Aussitôt qu’il revient, il flaire tout autour de lui, et
découvrirait jusqu’à une souris, si elle était dans la maison. — »
« Le roi répondit qu’il ne voulait point partir avant d’avoir revu sa
Lucine, et qu’il aimait mieux mourir près d’elle que d’en vivre séparé.
Quand la femme de l’Ogre vit que tout ce qu’elle lui disait ne pouvait
le détourner de son dessein, elle chercha à l’y aider, et y appliqua
toute son industrie, toute son imagination.
« De tout temps on avait tué, dans la grotte, des chèvres, des
agneaux et des boucs dont la femme de l’Ogre et ses compagnes
faisaient leur nourriture. Plus d’une peau pendait au plafond. Elle
prend la dépouille d’un bouc dont les boyaux étaient tout entourés
de graisse, et dit au roi de s’en frotter de la tête aux pieds, afin que
cette odeur fît disparaître celle qu’il avait auparavant.
« Et quand il lui semble qu’il exhale suffisamment l’odeur que le
bouc a l’habitude de répandre, elle le fait entrer dans la peau poilue,
laquelle était assez grande pour le recouvrir tout entier. Une fois
sous cet étrange déguisement, elle le fait mettre à quatre pattes, et
l’entraîne à l’endroit où un rocher énorme fermait l’entrée de la
caverne qui lui dérobait le suave et doux visage de sa dame.
« Norandin obéit et se place à l’entrée de la caverne, attendant le
retour du troupeau et espérant pouvoir se mêler à lui. Le soir venu, il
entend le son du chalumeau avec lequel le féroce berger invitait ses
troupeaux à quitter l’humide pâturage et à rentrer au bercail. Enfin il
l’aperçoit qui les pousse devant lui.
« Pensez si le cœur dut lui trembler quand il entendit l’Ogre
revenir, et quand il vit cette cruelle figure, répandant l’horreur,
s’approcher de l’entrée de la caverne ! Mais le dévouement fut plus
fort que la crainte. Jugez s’il feignait d’aimer, ou s’il aimait
véritablement ! L’Ogre passe devant lui, soulève le rocher, ouvre la
grotte, et Norandin entre, mêlé aux brebis et aux chèvres.
« Le troupeau rentré, l’Ogre s’approche de nous après avoir
refermé la porte. Il nous flaire tous ; enfin il en choisit deux dont la
chair crue est destinée à son souper. Au souvenir de ses hideuses
mâchoires, je ne puis m’empêcher encore de trembler et de sentir la
sueur couler sur tous mes membres. L’Ogre parti, le roi jette la peau
de bouc, et vole dans les bras de sa dame.
« Au lieu de se réjouir à sa vue et de reprendre courage, Lucine
en éprouve au contraire de l’ennui et du désespoir ; elle voit son
époux enfermé dans un endroit où il doit trouver la mort, sans
pouvoir l’empêcher de mourir elle-même. « — Seigneur — lui disait-
elle — dans le malheur qui m’accable, je ne ressentais pas une
médiocre joie de ce que tu ne t’étais pas trouvé hier près de nous
quand l’Ogre m’a conduite ici.
« Bien qu’il me fût cruel et amer de me trouver exposée à perdre
la vie, ce qui est naturel à tous, je n’avais du moins qu’à pleurer sur
mon triste sort. Mais maintenant, la pensée que tu dois mourir me
rendra ta mort plus douloureuse que la mienne. — » Elle poursuit en
se montrant plus affligée du sort de Norandin que de son propre
malheur.
« — C’est l’espoir de te sauver, toi et tous nos compagnons, qui
m’a fait venir ici, — lui dit le roi. — Si je ne puis y parvenir, il vaut
mieux que je meure aussi, car je ne puis vivre privé de ta vue, ô mon
soleil ! Je pourrai m’en retourner d’ici comme j’y suis venu, et vous
viendrez tous avec moi, si vous ne répugnez pas à vous imprégner,
ainsi que je l’ai fait, de l’odeur d’un animal infect. — »
« Puis il nous fait connaître la ruse que la femme de l’Ogre lui a
suggérée à lui-même pour tromper l’odorat du monstre, et qui
consiste à nous vêtir de peaux pour qu’il nous palpe impunément au
sortir de la grotte. Quand chacun de nous eut bien compris, nous
tuâmes autant de boucs que nous étions de prisonniers de l’un et de
l’autre sexe, en ayant soin de choisir les plus fétides et les plus
vieux.
« Nous nous oignîmes le corps de la graisse que nous
recueillîmes autour des intestins, et nous nous revêtîmes de leurs
peaux hideuses. Pendant ce temps, le jour sortit de sa demeure
dorée. Dès que le premier rayon du soleil apparut dans la caverne,
le pasteur revint, et, soufflant dans ses roseaux sonores, il appela
ses troupeaux dans la campagne.
« Il tenait d’une main la pierre de la grotte pour que nous ne
pussions pas sortir en même temps que le troupeau ; il nous
saisissait au passage et ne laissait sortir que ceux auxquels il sentait
de la peau ou de la laine sur le dos. Hommes et femmes, nous
sortions tous par cet étrange chemin, couverts de nos cuirs poilus.
L’Ogre ne retint aucun de nous. Lucine venait la dernière, tremblante
d’effroi.
« Lucine, soit qu’elle n’eût pas voulu, par répugnance, s’oindre
comme nous ; soit que sa démarche fût plus lente ou moins assurée
que celle de la bête qu’elle devait imiter ; soit qu’elle eût poussé un
cri d’épouvante quand l’Ogre la palpait ; soit enfin que ses cheveux
se fussent dénoués, fut reconnue par l’Ogre, je ne saurais bien vous
dire comment.
« Nous étions tous si préoccupés de notre propre situation, que
nous ne faisions point attention à ce qui pouvait arriver à nos
compagnons. Je me retournai au cri poussé par Lucine, et je vis le
monstre, qui lui avait déjà arraché la peau de bouc, la renfermer
dans la caverne. Pour nous, marchant à quatre pattes sous notre
déguisement, nous suivîmes avec le troupeau l’horrible berger, qui
nous mena sur une plage agréable, entre de vertes collines.
« Là, nous attendons qu’étendu à l’ombre d’un épais feuillage,
l’Ogre au nez subtil soit endormi. Alors nous courons, les uns le long
de la mer, les autres vers la montagne. Seul Norandin refuse de
nous suivre. Il veut retourner avec le troupeau dans la grotte, pour
n’en sortir qu’après avoir délivré sa fidèle compagne, ou pour y
mourir.
« Quand, au sortir de la caverne, il avait vu Lucine rester seule
captive, il fut sur le point, dans sa douleur, de se jeter volontairement
dans la gueule de l’Ogre. Il se précipita et courut presque jusque
sous son museau, et peu s’en fallut qu’il ne fût broyé par cette
meule. Mais l’espérance de tirer encore Lucine de prison le retint au
milieu du troupeau.
« Le soir, quand l’Ogre ramena son bétail à la caverne, et qu’il
sentit que nous nous étions enfuis, et qu’ainsi il se trouvait privé de
sa nourriture, il accusa Lucine d’avoir tout fait et la condamna à être
enchaînée à jamais sur une roche nue et élevée. Le roi la voit
souffrir à cause de lui ; il se désespère, et ne peut mourir.
« Matin et soir, le malheureux amant peut la voir s’affliger et se
plaindre. Mêlé aux chèvres, il va de la grotte à la campagne. Lucine,
d’une voix triste et suppliante, le conjure au nom de Dieu de ne pas
rester plus longtemps, car il risque sa vie, sans pouvoir lui être
d’aucun secours.
« De son côté, la femme de l’Ogre prie le roi de s’en aller ; mais il
ne l’écoute pas, il refuse plus que jamais de partir sans Lucine, et
s’obstine de plus en plus dans son projet. Il resta dans cette
servitude, où le retenaient l’amour et le dévouement, jusqu’à ce que
le fils d’Agrican et le roi Gradasse vinrent aborder près du rocher.
« Ils déployèrent tant d’audace, qu’ils réussirent à délivrer la belle
Lucine, bien que la tentative fût plus aventureuse que prudente. Puis
ils coururent la porter à son père, qui les avait suivis et auquel ils la
remirent. Ceci se passa le matin, pendant que Norandin était avec le
troupeau dans la caverne, livré à ses tristes pensées.
« Le jour venu, et la porte ayant été ouverte, le roi apprit, — et ce
fut la femme de l’Ogre qui le lui raconta, — que sa dame était partie,
et comment elle avait été délivrée. Il en rendit grâces à Dieu et jura,
puisqu’elle avait échappé à un si misérable sort, de la rejoindre
partout où elle serait cachée, à l’aide de son épée, de ses prières ou
de ses trésors.
« Plein de joie, il se mêle au troupeau et gagne les verdoyants
pâturages. Là, il attend que le monstre se soit allongé sur l’herbe
pour dormir à l’ombre ; puis il marche tout le jour et toute la nuit. Sûr
enfin que l’Ogre ne peut l’atteindre, il monte à Satalie sur un navire,
et arrive en Syrie, il y a maintenant trois mois.
« A Rhodes, à Chypre, par les cités et les châteaux de l’Afrique,
de l’Égypte et de la Turquie, le roi fit chercher la belle Lucine.
Jusqu’à avant-hier, il n’avait pu retrouver ses traces. Enfin, avant-
hier, il reçut de son beau-père la nouvelle que Lucine était arrivée
saine et sauve auprès de lui à Nicosie, après avoir lutté contre de
nombreux vents contraires.
« C’est en réjouissance de cette bonne nouvelle que notre roi a
institué cette belle fête. Il a voulu que toutes les quatre lunes il s’en
donnât une semblable, pour rappeler le souvenir des quatre mois
qu’il a passés sous des vêtements de peau, au milieu du troupeau
de l’Ogre, et pour célébrer l’anniversaire du jour, — et ce sera
demain, — où il s’échappa d’un si grand danger.
« Ce que je viens de vous raconter, je l’ai vu en partie, et j’ai
entendu raconter le reste par quelqu’un qui avait été témoin de tout,
je veux dire par le roi lui-même, qui était resté prisonnier pendant les
calendes et les ides, jusqu’à ce qu’il réussît à sortir heureusement
de cette lutte. Et si vous en entendez jamais donner une autre
version, vous direz à celui qui l’aura faite qu’il est mal instruit. — »
C’est ainsi que le gentilhomme apprit à Griffon la cause mémorable
de la fête.
Les chevaliers passèrent une grande partie de la nuit à discourir
sur ce sujet, et conclurent que le roi avait montré un grand amour, un
beau dévouement et une grande habileté. Puis, après s’être levés de
table, ils se retirèrent dans de beaux et bons appartements. Le
lendemain matin, au jour serein et clair, ils furent réveillés au bruit de
l’allégresse générale.
Les tambours et les trompettes parcourent la ville, appelant les
habitants sur la grande place. Dès qu’ils entendent les rues retentir
du bruit des chars et des hennissements des chevaux, Griffon
endosse ses armes blanches. On en trouverait rarement de
pareilles ; la blanche fée les avait trempées de sa propre main, et les
avait rendues impénétrables et enchantées.
Le chevalier d’Antioche, plus que tout autre vil, s’arme aussi et lui
tient compagnie. Leur hôte prévenant leur avait fait préparer des
lances solides et fortes, grosses comme des antennes. Lui-même
les accompagne sur la place, escorté de nombreux parents et après
avoir mis à leur service des écuyers à cheval et à pied.
Ils arrivèrent sur la place et se tinrent à l’écart, ne voulant point
parader dans la lice, mais examiner de leur mieux les beaux enfants
de Mars qui arrivaient seuls, ou par groupe de deux ou de trois. Ils
portaient des couleurs joyeuses ou tristes, pour indiquer à leur dame
l’état de leur cœur ; la façon dont ils portaient leur cimier, ou dont ils
avaient fait peindre leur écu, indiquait si l’amour leur était doux ou
cruel.
A cette époque, les Syriens avaient coutume de s’armer comme
les chevaliers du Ponant. Ils avaient pris probablement cette
habitude au voisinage continuel des Français, qui possédaient alors
la terre sainte où s’incarna le Dieu tout-puissant, et qu’aujourd’hui
les chrétiens, orgueilleux et misérables, laissent, à leur honte, aux
mains des chiens d’infidèles.
Alors qu’ils devraient abaisser la lance pour la défense de la
sainte Foi, ils la tournent contre leur propre poitrine et détruisent le
peu qui reste de ceux qui croient. O vous, gens d’Espagne, vous,
gens de France, et vous, Suisses, Allemands, dirigez ailleurs vos
pas. Vous avez de plus justes conquêtes à faire, car tous les pays
que vous dévastez par ici appartiennent depuis longtemps au Christ.
Si vous voulez qu’on vous prenne pour des chrétiens, ô vous
tous qui vous proclamez catholiques, pourquoi tuez-vous des
hommes soumis au Christ ? Pourquoi les dépouillez-vous de leurs
biens ? Pourquoi ne reprenez-vous pas Jérusalem qui vous a été
enlevée par des renégats ? Pourquoi laissez-vous Constantinople et
la plus belle partie de l’univers occupées par le Turc immonde ?
N’as-tu pas, ô Espagne, l’Afrique pour voisine, et ne t’a-t-elle pas
fait subir plus de maux que l’Italie ? Cependant, pour dévaster notre
malheureux pays, tu renonces à ce qui devrait être pour toi la
première et la plus belle des entreprises ! Et toi, Italie, sentine infecte
de tous les vices, tu dors ivre, et tu ne rougis pas de te voir devenue
l’esclave tantôt d’une nation, tantôt d’une autre, qui toutes te furent
asservies.
Si la crainte de mourir de faim dans tes tanières, ô Suisse,
t’amène en Lombardie, et te fait chercher parmi nous quelqu’un qui
te donne du pain ou qui te délivre de ta misère en te menant à la
mort, sache que les Turcs et leurs immenses richesses ne sont pas
loin. Chasse-les d’Europe, ou déloge-les tout au moins de la Grèce :
ainsi tu pourras te rasseoir, ou tomber avec plus de gloire.
Ce que je te dis, je le dis aussi à l’Allemand ton voisin. En
Turquie sont les richesses que Constantin transporta de Rome. Il y
porta ce qu’il y avait de meilleur, et il lui fit don du reste. Le Pactole
et l’Hermus, d’où l’on extrait l’or fin, la Migdonie, la Lydie et tout ce
riche pays que tant d’historiens ont rendu célèbre, ne sont pas trop
éloignés pour que vous ne puissiez y aller, si cela vous plaît.
Et toi, grand Léon, sur lequel pèse le poids lourd des clefs du
ciel, ne laisse pas l’Italie se plonger ainsi dans le sommeil, puisque
tu as la main dans ses cheveux. Tu es le Pasteur, et Dieu t’a donné
la houlette à porter ; il t’a nommé d’un nom redoutable, afin que tu
rugisses, et que tu étendes les bras pour défendre le troupeau des
loups.
Mais, d’une pensée à une autre, comment me suis-je laissé
entraîner si loin du chemin que je suivais ? Je ne crois cependant
pas m’en être tellement écarté que je ne sache le retrouver encore.
Je disais donc qu’en Syrie on avait l’habitude de s’armer comme les
Français de cette époque ; de sorte que la place de Damas
resplendissait de chevaliers portant casques et cuirasses.
Du haut de leurs balcons, les belles dames jettent sur les
jouteurs des fleurs jaunes et vermeilles, pendant que ceux-ci, au son
des trompettes, font tourner et caracoler leurs chevaux. Chacun,
qu’il monte bien ou mal, tient à se faire voir, et donne de l’éperon.
Les uns sont applaudis, les autres prêtent à rire et se font huer par
derrière.
Le prix de la joute consistait en une armure qui avait été donnée
au roi quelques jours auparavant, et qu’un marchand revenant
d’Arménie avait trouvée par hasard sur la route. Le roi avait ajouté à
ces armes une soubreveste d’un fort beau tissu et ornée de tant de
perles, de pierreries et d’or, qu’elle valait plusieurs trésors à elle
seule.
Si le roi avait connu la valeur de l’armure qu’il avait entre les
mains, il l’aurait estimée bien au-dessus de toutes les autres, et ne
l’aurait pas offerte comme prix de la joute, quelque libéral, quelque
généreux qu’il fût. Il serait trop long de vous dire ici par qui elle avait
été si dédaigneusement laissée au milieu de la route, à la merci du
premier passant.
Je vous raconterai cela plus loin ; j’aime mieux vous parler
maintenant de Griffon. A son arrivée, plus d’une lance avait déjà été
rompue, plus d’un coup de pointe ou de taille avait été donné. Huit
des plus chers et des plus fidèles amis du roi avaient formé une
association. C’étaient tous de jeunes seigneurs fort habiles sous les
armes, et de familles illustres.
Ils devaient, pendant tout un jour, tenir en champ clos contre tous
ceux qui se présenteraient, d’abord avec une lance, puis avec l’épée
et la masse, jusqu’à ce qu’il plût au roi de faire cesser le jeu. Il
arrivait bien parfois que les cuirasses étaient traversées dans ces
jeux, où l’on se battait avec autant d’ardeur que s’il se fût agi
d’ennemis mortels. Il est vrai que le roi pouvait séparer les
combattants quand il voulait.
Le chevalier d’Antioche, homme sans jugement — le couard se
nommait Martan — comme s’il eût, au contact de Griffon, acquis la
force de ce dernier, entre avec audace dans la lice ; puis, se retirant
dans un coin, il attend la fin d’une belle joute engagée entre deux
chevaliers.
Le sire de Séleucie, un des huit qui devaient soutenir la lutte,
combattait en ce moment contre Ombrun. Il le frappe au beau milieu
du visage d’un tel coup de pointe, qu’il l’étend mort. Ce fut pour tous
grand’pitié, car on le tenait pour bon chevalier. Non seulement on
l’estimait pour son courage, mais on n’en aurait pas trouvé de plus
courtois dans tout le pays.
Ce voyant, Martan eut peur qu’il ne lui arrivât pareil sort.
Revenant à sa nature première, il commença à songer comment il
pourrait fuir. Griffon, qui se tenait près de lui et en prenait soin, le
pousse, après l’avoir encouragé par ses paroles et ses gestes,
contre un gentil guerrier qui s’était avancé dans l’arène ; comme le
chien qu’on pousse contre le loup,
Et qui s’approche derrière lui à dix ou vingt pas, puis s’arrête et
regarde, en aboyant, son adversaire qui fait grincer ses dents
menaçantes, et dont un horrible feu embrase les yeux : ainsi le lâche
Martan, en présence de tous ces princes et de cette vaillante
noblesse, évite la rencontre, et fait volte-face à droite.
Il eût pu en rejeter la faute sur son cheval qui aurait porté tout le
poids de l’excuse ; mais à la façon dont il se servit de son épée,
Démosthènes lui-même aurait renoncé à le défendre. Il semble qu’il
est armé de carton et non de fer, tellement il craint d’être blessé par
le moindre coup. Enfin il prend la fuite, troublant l’ordre de la fête, au
milieu des éclats de rire de la foule.
Les applaudissements ironiques, les huées de la populace
s’élèvent derrière lui. Comme le loup pourchassé, Martan se réfugie
en toute hâte dans son logement. Griffon est resté dans la lice. Il lui
semble que la honte de son compagnon rejaillit sur lui et le souille. Il
voudrait être au milieu des flammes, plutôt que de se trouver en un
lieu semblable.
Le feu de la colère, qui lui embrase le cœur, envahit son visage,
comme si toute cette honte était sienne. Il voit que le peuple s’attend
à ce que ses actes porteront la même marque que ceux de son
compagnon. Il faut donc que son courage apparaisse plus clair que
la flamme d’une lampe, car s’il bronche d’un pouce, d’un doigt, on
dira, sous l’influence de la mauvaise impression, qu’il a reculé de six
brasses.
Déjà Griffon, qui avait peu l’habitude d’hésiter sous les armes,
tenait sa lance appuyée sur la cuisse. Il pousse son cheval à toute
bride, et après un léger temps de galop il abaisse la lance et en
porte un coup formidable au baron de Sidonie, qui roule à terre.
Chacun se lève étonné, car on s’attendait à un résultat tout
contraire.
Griffon retourne à la charge avec la même lance, qui était restée
intacte ; il la brise en trois morceaux sur l’écu du sire de Laodicée.
Celui-ci semble trois ou quatre fois près de tomber et reste un
instant renversé sur la croupe de son cheval ; à la fin pourtant il se
relève, saisit son épée, fait retourner son destrier et se précipite sur
Griffon.
Griffon, qui le voit en selle, et qui s’étonne qu’un si rude choc ne
l’ait pas jeté à terre, se dit à part soi : « — Ce que la lance n’a pu
faire, en cinq ou six coups, l’épée le fera. » — Et il lui assène
soudain sur la tempe un coup si droit qu’il semble tomber du ciel, un
autre coup le suit, puis un troisième, et ainsi de suite, jusqu’à ce qu’il
l’ait étourdi et mis à terre.
Il y avait là deux frères d’Apamée, Tyrsis et Corimbe, habitués à
vaincre dans les joutes. Tous deux tombent sous la main du fils
d’Olivier. L’un vide les arçons au premier choc ; avec l’autre, il faut
employer l’épée. Déjà, d’un commun jugement, on tient pour certain
que Griffon remportera le prix du tournoi.
Dans la lice était entré Salinterne, grand écuyer et maréchal du
roi. Il avait le gouvernement de tout le royaume. C’était un guerrier à
la main redoutable. Indigné de voir qu’un chevalier étranger allait
remporter le prix, il prend une lance et défie Griffon par ses cris et
ses menaces.
Celui-ci lui répond par un coup d’une lance qu’il avait choisie
entre dix. De crainte de frapper à faux, il vise au beau milieu de
l’écu, qu’il traverse de part en part, ainsi que la cuirasse et la
poitrine. Le fer cruel passe entre deux côtes, et ressort d’une palme
hors du dos. Le coup fut applaudi de tous, excepté du roi, car
chacun haïssait Salinterne, à cause de son avarice.
Griffon jette ensuite à terre deux chevaliers de Damas, Ermophile
et Carmonde. Le premier conduit la milice du roi, le second est
grand amiral de la mer. L’un est enlevé de selle au premier choc,
l’autre est renversé par le poids de son destrier, qui ne peut soutenir
la violence du coup que lui porte Griffon.
Le sire de Séleucie restait encore debout ; c’était le meilleur des
huit chevaliers. Un bon destrier et des armes excellentes ajoutaient
à sa propre force. Les deux adversaires dirigent leur lance à la
visière du casque ; mais le coup porté par Griffon est plus vigoureux
que celui du païen, auquel il fait perdre l’étrier du pied gauche.
Tous deux jettent les tronçons de leur lance, et reviennent l’un
sur l’autre, pleins d’ardeur et les épées nues. Le païen est tout
d’abord frappé par Griffon d’un coup qui aurait brisé des enclumes,
et qui fend le fer et l’os d’un écu choisi entre mille. Si l’armure n’eût
pas été double et de fine trempe, le même coup en tombant aurait
traversé la cuisse.
Le chevalier de Séleucie, frappe en même temps Griffon à la
visière. Le coup fut si terrible, que le casque aurait été ouvert et
rompu, s’il n’avait été, comme le reste de l’armure, fabriqué à l’aide
d’enchantements. Le païen perd son temps à frapper, tellement les
armes de Griffon sont partout de dure trempe. Aussi ce dernier a-t-il
déjà rompu et brisé en bon nombre d’endroits l’armure de son
adversaire, sans avoir perdu une maille.
Chacun peut voir combien le sire de Séleucie a de désavantage
contre Griffon, et que si le roi n’arrête point le combat, il risque de
perdre la vie. Norandin fait signe à sa garde d’entrer dans la lice et
de séparer les combattants. L’un et l’autre furent emmenés chacun
d’un côté, et le roi fut fort approuvé de cet acte de sagesse.
Les huit chevaliers qui devaient tenir contre tous, et qui n’avaient
pu lutter contre un seul, étaient sortis un à un de la lice. Les autres,
qui étaient venus pour les combattre, restaient sans adversaire,
Griffon étant venu se jeter au milieu de la mêlée, et ayant accompli à
lui seul ce que tous devaient faire contre huit.
La fête avait donc duré très peu, car tout s’était accompli en
moins d’une heure. Mais Norandin, pour prolonger les jeux et les
continuer jusqu’au soir, descendit de son estrade, fit débarrasser la
lice, et divisant en deux troupes tous les chevaliers, les accoupla
suivant leurs prouesses et leur rang, et l’on recommença une
nouvelle joute.
Cependant Griffon était retourné à son logis, plein de colère et de
rage, et plus accablé de la honte de Martan que satisfait de
l’honneur d’avoir vaincu lui-même. Pour se disculper de l’opprobre

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The Rise and Fall of Scottish Common

Sense Realism First Edition. Edition

The Rise and Fall of Scottish Common

The Rise and Fall

For Michelle, Julia, and Andrea

4.4 Hamilton’s Critique of Hypothetical Realism 129

ACS James Oswald. (1766–72) An Appeal To Common Sense In Behalf of Religion,

I’ve sent you here by Johnie Simson,

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 9

10 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

a species of philosophy, the Scottish appeal to common sense is an act of treason

1.1 Thomas Reid: Curriculum Vitae

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 11

assortment of subjects, including mathematics and science;9 as Professor of Moral

1.2 Scepticism and Reid’s Principles of Common Sense

12 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 13

As any philosophically-minded reader will immediately perceive, these principles

14 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 15

16 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

1.3 Why Philosophy Depends on Common Sense

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 17

18 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 19

20 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

and autonomous, the sceptical philosopher is discomfited by his dependence upon a

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 21

1.4 ‘The Pride of Philosophy’

22 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 23

c­ ommitted common-sensist, summed up Reid’s attitude beautifully: “Reid laboured to

24 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

Why have modern philosophers resisted epistemological egalitarianism, and employed

1.5 ‘To Common Sense They Now Appeal’

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 25

26 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

1.6 James Oswald: Primary Truths and Rational

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 27

28 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense 29

brusque, superficial replies; and remarkably little interest is shown in elucidating

1.7 James Beattie: The Desolation of Philosophy

30 Reid and the Foundations of Scottish Common Sense

offered him an honorary doctorate; the American Philosophical Society, founded in

Argument. — Charles exhorte ses paladins, et attaque avec eux

Quand nos péchés ont dépassé la mesure du pardon, Dieu, pour

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4.4 Hamilton’s Critique of Hypothetical Realism 129

c ommitted common-sensist, summed up Reid’s attitude beautifully: “Reid laboured to