Author's Preface to the Reader, 1

Reader, I promise you here what usually calls for the greatest attention, whether you consider the dignity or advantage of the subject, the proper method of treating it, the honest purpose and sound counsel behind the undertaking, or, finally, the author's moderation; and I place it before your eyes. In this book you will find a brief account of people's duties: first as human beings, then as subjects, and lastly as Christians. These duties encompass not only the elements of the laws of nature and of nations, together with the true origin and power of justice, but also the very essence of the Christian religion, so far as the scope of my purpose permits.

The earliest sages, apart from what concerns the Christian religion, thought this kind of teaching best handed down to posterity either artfully clothed in verse or veiled in allegory, as the most beautiful and sacred mystery of royal authority, lest the arguments of private individuals profane it. Other philosophers meanwhile studied the appearances and motions of things, to humankind's benefit; others studied their natures and causes, doing no harm. Later, Socrates is said to have been the first who truly loved this civil science. Though not yet fully understood, it shone faintly through the clouds in the government of the commonwealth; and he valued it so highly that he entirely abandoned and despised every other branch of philosophy and devoted himself to this one alone, as alone worthy of his labor. After him came Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, and other philosophers, Greek and Latin. At last people of every nation—not merely philosophers but ordinary people too—have treated, and still treat, it as an easy subject open to anyone's native wit, requiring no great care or study. And, as a further mark of its dignity, those who think they possess this knowledge, or hold offices requiring it, are so enamored of their notion of it that they willingly allow practitioners of other arts to be called gifted, learned, skilled, or anything else—except prudent. Prudence in civil matters is a title they reserve for themselves alone. Whether we measure an art's worth by the standing of those who practice it, the number who have written about it, or the judgment of the wisest, this art must surely prevail. It concerns princes and others engaged in governing humankind so closely; most people also delight in its counterfeit forms, while the most excellent philosophical minds have devoted themselves to it. We shall best see the benefit of this science, when it is rightly presented—that is, deduced from true principles by a clear chain of reasoning—by considering the harm its counterfeit, empty-chattering form has done humankind. If we make an error in matters we consider only to exercise our minds, no harm results; we lose nothing but time. But in matters everyone ought to consider in directing his life, errors, and even ignorance itself, inevitably produce offenses, strife, even slaughter. Measure the harm these cause, and you measure the benefit of a true account of morality. How many kings, good men among them, has the single error that a tyrannical king may lawfully be killed brought to slaughter! How many throats has the false assertion that certain men may depose a prince for certain reasons cut! What bloodshed has been caused by the mistaken doctrine that kings are not superiors of the people but merely their administrators! And how many rebellions have arisen from the opinion that private individuals have the authority to decide whether royal commands are just or unjust, and that before obeying they may—indeed must—dispute them! Accepted moral philosophy contains many other teachings no less dangerous, which need not be listed here. I suppose the ancients who chose to wrap the science of justice in fables rather than lay it bare to debate foresaw this. Before such questions were raised, princes did not petition for supreme power; they already exercised it. They preserved their dominion not by arguments, but by punishing wrongdoers and protecting the good. Subjects likewise measured justice not by private people's sayings and opinions, but by the laws of the realm; and they were kept at peace not by debate, but by power and authority. Indeed, they revered supreme power, whether lodged in one person or in a council, as a kind of visible divinity. Thus they seldom joined themselves, as people do in our day, to ambitious and infernal spirits for the utter ruin of their state. They could not entertain so strange a fancy as to cease desiring the preservation of what preserved them. The simplicity of those times was not yet capable of so sophisticated a folly. There was peace and a golden age, which ended only when, after Saturn's expulsion, people were taught that taking up arms against kings was lawful. The ancients not only saw this themselves; they appear to have conveyed it to us with singular aptness in a fable. They say that when Ixion was invited by Jupiter to a banquet, he fell in love with Juno herself and began courting her. Trying to embrace her, he clasped a cloud; from it came the Centaurs, creatures half human and half horse, fierce, combative, and restless. Change only the names, and their story says this: when private individuals are called into councils of state, they seek to subject justice, the supreme ruler's only sister and wife, to their personal judgments and impressions. Embracing a false and empty shadow in her place, they beget the hybrid opinions of moral philosophers—partly sound and beautiful, partly bestial and wild—the causes of every conflict and bloodshed. Since opinions of this kind appear daily, someone who dispels those clouds and proves by the firmest reasoning that there are no authoritative doctrines of right and wrong or good and evil apart from the established laws of each realm and government, and that only those entrusted by the supreme power with interpreting its laws may be asked whether a future action will prove just or unjust, good or bad, will surely not only show us the highway to peace but also teach us to avoid the narrow, dark, dangerous byways of faction and sedition. I know of nothing that could be more useful.

As for my method, I thought it insufficient merely to write plainly and clearly. I had to begin with the very substance of civil government and proceed from there to its formation and shape, and to the first origin of justice. Everything is best understood through its constituent causes. In a watch or similar small mechanism, we cannot properly understand the material, shape, and motion of the wheels unless we take it apart and examine its components. So too, to investigate the rights of states and the duties of subjects more closely, we need not actually dissolve them, but we must consider them as if they were dissolved. That means understanding the character of human nature, the respects in which it is or is not fit to establish civil government, and how people intending to form a well-founded state must agree with one another. Following this method, I first set down a principle known to everyone by experience and denied by no one: human dispositions are naturally such that, unless restrained by fear of some coercive power, each person will distrust and dread every other; and as he has the right of nature to use his strength to preserve himself, necessity will also compel him to do so. Perhaps you will object that some deny this. Indeed, very many do. But do I contradict myself when I say that these same people both affirm and deny the same thing? I do not: they do, for their deeds disown what their words approve. We see countries, even when at peace with their neighbors, guarding their frontiers with armed men, fortifying their towns with walls and gates, and maintaining constant watch. What purpose would this serve if they did not fear their neighbors' power? Even in well-governed states with laws and prescribed penalties for offenders, individuals do not travel without swords at their sides for protection, or sleep without locking not only their doors against fellow subjects but also their chests and coffers against servants. Could they more clearly testify to the distrust that each has of the others, and all have of all? By these acts both nations and individuals openly declare their mutual fear and mistrust. Yet they deny it in argument: from a desire to contradict others, they contradict themselves. Some object that accepting this principle would imply not only that all human beings are wicked—an assertion that, however harsh it sounds, we may have to accept because holy Scripture declares it so clearly—but also that they are wicked by nature, which cannot be admitted without impiety. Yet this principle does not imply that human beings are evil by nature. Even if the wicked were fewer than the righteous, our inability to tell them apart makes it necessary for even the most honest and best-disposed to suspect, take precautions, anticipate, subdue, and defend themselves. Still less does it follow that wicked people are wicked by nature. From birth, as creatures endowed only with sensation, they are disposed to desire and do whatever most pleases them, as far as they can, and either to flee approaching dangers in fear or resist them by force. But that does not make them wicked. Passions arising solely from the lower faculties of the mind are not themselves wicked; actions that spring from them sometimes may be, when they harm others or violate duty. Deny children anything they ask, and they grow peevish and cry, sometimes even striking their parents; all this comes from nature. Yet they are free of guilt and cannot properly be called wicked, first because they lack the power to cause harm, and then because, without the free use of reason, they are exempt from duty. If, when older and strong enough to cause harm, they persist in the same behavior, they do then begin to be wicked, and are rightly called so. A wicked person is almost a child grown powerful and stubborn, or an adult with a childish disposition; malice is much like a failure of reason at an age when education and experience ought to have taught a person better self-government. Unless, then, we call people naturally evil because nature does not give them their education and the use of reason at birth, we must acknowledge that nature can give them desire, fear, anger, and other passions without being held responsible for their evil effects. With my foundation thus secure, I demonstrate first that the human condition without civil society, properly called the state of nature, is nothing but a war of all against all, and that in this war everyone has an equal right to everything. Next, as soon as people understand how hateful this condition is, they desire, compelled by nature itself, to be free of their misery. But because freedom from it is impossible without agreement, they all relinquish their right to everything. I then explain and establish the nature of agreement: how and by what means one person's right may be transferred to another so that their covenants are valid; also which rights must necessarily be granted, and to whom, to establish peace—that is, which dictates of reason may properly be called laws of nature. All these matters are contained in the part of this book entitled Liberty.

Reader, I promise to give you things that usually demand the closest attention when promised. This is true whether you consider the importance or usefulness of the subject, the proper method of handling it, the honest reason and good advice behind the undertaking, or the author’s moderation. I now put them before you. This book briefly describes the duties of people, first as human beings, then as subjects, and finally as Christians. These duties include the basic laws of nature and of nations, the true origin and power of justice, and the very essence of Christianity, as far as the scope of my project allows.

Apart from the part concerning Christianity, the oldest sages thought this teaching was best handed down to later generations in carefully made verse or concealed in allegories. They treated royal authority as a beautiful and sacred mystery that private individuals might spoil by disputing over it. Meanwhile, other philosophers studied the appearance and movements of things, to humanity’s benefit; still others studied their natures and causes without doing harm. Later, Socrates is said to have been the first who truly loved this study of civil government. It was not yet fully understood, but showed faintly through the government of the commonwealth. He valued it so highly that he abandoned and dismissed every other branch of philosophy and embraced this one alone as worthy of his thought. After him came Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, and other Greek and Latin philosophers. Now people in every nation, not just philosophers but ordinary people too, treat it as an easy subject open to anyone’s native wit, requiring little care or study. Its status rises even higher because people who think they possess this knowledge, or whose jobs require it, are so pleased with their idea of it. They readily let practitioners of other arts be called talented, learned, skilled, or anything else, but not prudent. They claim that title in civil matters for themselves alone. Whether we judge an art’s worth by the people engaged in it, by the number who have written about it, or by the judgment of the wisest, this art must rank highest. It is so closely connected with princes and others who govern people. Most people delight in its counterfeit, and the finest philosophical minds have worked on it. We can best appreciate the benefit of a sound account of this subject, built from true principles through clear reasoning, by considering the harm done by its false and noisy imitation. When we study something merely to exercise our minds, an error does no harm and costs only time. But everyone must think about how to guide his life. In those matters error, and even ignorance alone, necessarily lead to wrongdoing, quarrels, and even killing. The greater those harms, the greater the benefit of a true account of morality. How many good kings have been killed because of the single mistaken belief that it is lawful to kill a king called a tyrant? How many throats have been cut because of the false claim that certain people may remove a prince for certain reasons? How much bloodshed has come from the false teaching that kings do not stand above the people but merely administer affairs for them? And how many rebellions have come from the view that private individuals may decide whether royal commands are just or unjust, and that they not only may but must debate them before obeying? Commonly accepted moral philosophy contains many other equally dangerous claims that I need not list now. I suppose the ancients foresaw this danger when they chose to wrap the science of justice in stories rather than expose it to open debate. Before these questions arose, princes did not ask for supreme power; they already exercised it. They kept their rule intact not by arguments, but by punishing wrongdoers and protecting good people. Subjects likewise measured justice by the laws of the realm, not by the statements and judgments of private individuals. Power and authority, not debate, kept the peace. People even revered supreme power, whether held by one man or a council, as a visible divinity. Unlike people today, they seldom joined ambitious and wicked agitators to destroy their state. They could not imagine rejecting the preservation of the power that preserved them. In fact, people in those simpler times had not yet learned so sophisticated a folly. They lived in peace, in a golden age. That age ended only when Saturn was driven out and people were taught that taking up arms against kings was lawful. The ancients not only saw this themselves; they also seem to have conveyed it very aptly in a story. They say that Jupiter invited Ixion to a banquet, where Ixion fell in love with Juno herself and tried to court her. When he went to embrace her, he embraced a cloud instead. From it came the Centaurs, fierce, warlike, restless creatures that were half human and half horse. Change only the names and the story says this: private individuals, invited into state councils, wanted to subject justice, the sole sister and wife of supreme power, to their own judgments and opinions. But they embraced a false, empty shadow instead. From it they produced the mixed opinions of moral philosophers, partly sound and attractive, partly savage and wild. These opinions cause every quarrel and bloodshed. Since such opinions still arise every day, someone who clears away the clouds and proves through firm reasoning that the established laws of each realm and government alone provide authoritative teachings about right and wrong, good and evil, will do a great service. Whether a future act will be just or unjust, good or bad, must be asked only of those whom the sovereign has appointed to interpret the laws. Such a person would show us not only the main road to peace, but also how to avoid the narrow, dark, dangerous paths of faction and rebellion. I cannot imagine anything more useful.

As for my method, I did not think clear and straightforward writing would be enough. I had to start from the very substance of civil government, then examine how it is formed and what shape it takes, and finally reach the first origin of justice. We understand anything best through the causes that make it what it is. To understand a watch or another small machine, we must take it apart and examine its wheels to learn what they are made of, what shapes they have, and how they move. Likewise, to examine the rights of states and the duties of subjects carefully, we need not actually dissolve states. But we must consider them as if they had been dissolved. We must understand human nature: in what respects people are or are not fit to form a civil government, and how they must agree among themselves to create a stable state. Following this method, I begin with a principle that experience makes known to everyone and that no one can deny. Human beings are naturally disposed so that, unless fear of a power able to compel them restrains them, they will all distrust and fear one another. Each person has a right of nature to use his strength to preserve himself, and necessity will force him to do so. You may object that some people deny this. Many do indeed. Does it follow that I contradict myself when I say that these same people both admit and deny it? No. They contradict themselves: their actions reject what their words accept. Even countries at peace with their neighbors guard their borders with armed men, fortify their towns with walls and gates, and keep constant watch. Why would they do that if they did not fear their neighbors’ power? Even in well-run states with laws and punishments for offenders, individuals carry swords when they travel for protection. When they sleep, they lock not only their doors against fellow subjects but also their trunks and chests for fear of the people in their own households. Could people show more clearly that each distrusts the others, and all distrust all? Individuals and countries alike show their fear and distrust openly by doing these things. In argument, however, they deny it. Their desire to contradict others makes them contradict themselves. Some object that if we accept this principle, we must conclude not only that everyone is wicked—perhaps a hard conclusion that Scripture clearly requires us to accept—but also that people are wicked by nature, which it would be irreverent to grant. Yet the principle does not imply that people are evil by nature. Even if the wicked were fewer than the righteous, we could not tell them apart. So even the most honest and fair-minded people must remain suspicious and alert, anticipate threats, subdue others when needed, and defend themselves. Still less does the principle imply that wicked people are born wicked. From birth, as creatures of sensation, they naturally want and do whatever pleases them as far as they can. They flee approaching dangers out of fear, or resist them by force. None of that makes them wicked. Feelings arising solely from the lower parts of the mind are not themselves wicked. Actions prompted by them may sometimes be wicked, when they harm others or violate a duty. Deny children what they ask for and they grow irritable and cry; sometimes they even hit their parents. This behavior comes from nature. Yet they are not guilty, nor can we properly call them wicked. First, they cannot cause real harm; second, they are not yet able to reason freely and so are exempt from duties. Once they grow older and gain the power to do harm, they become wicked, and are rightly called wicked, if they continue to behave the same way. A wicked man is much like a child who has grown strong and robust, or an adult who still thinks like a child. Malice is much like a lack of reason at an age when good education and experience should enable a person to control his nature better. Unless we say people are naturally evil because nature does not give them education and the use of reason at birth, we must acknowledge that desire, fear, anger, and other passions come from nature without blaming nature for their harmful effects. My foundation therefore remains firm. I first demonstrate that the condition of people outside civil society, properly called the state of nature, is nothing but a war of all against all. In that war everyone has an equal right to everything. Next I show that as soon as people understand how terrible this condition is, nature itself drives them to seek escape from it. They can do so only through a compact in which they all give up their right to everything. I then explain and establish what a compact is; how and by what means one person can transfer a right to another so that their compacts are valid; and which rights must necessarily be granted, and to whom, to establish peace. These are the rules of reason properly called the laws of nature. All this appears in the part of the book I call Liberty.