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THE ENGLISH UTILITARIANS

_By_

LESLIE STEPHEN


[Illustration]


LONDON

_DUCKWORTH and CO._

3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.

1900




PREFACE


This book is a sequel to my _History of English Thought in the
Eighteenth Century_. The title which I then ventured to use was more
comprehensive than the work itself deserved: I felt my inability to
write a continuation which should at all correspond to a similar title
for the nineteenth century. I thought, however, that by writing an
account of the compact and energetic school of English Utilitarians I
could throw some light both upon them and their contemporaries. I had
the advantage for this purpose of having been myself a disciple of the
school during its last period. Many accidents have delayed my completion
of the task; and delayed also its publication after it was written. Two
books have been published since that time, which partly cover the same
ground; and I must be content with referring my readers to them for
further information. They are _The English Radicals_, by Mr. C. B.
Roylance Kent; and _English Political Philosophy from Hobbes to Maine_,
by Professor Graham.




CONTENTS


                                     PAGE
  INTRODUCTORY                          1


  CHAPTER I

  POLITICAL CONDITIONS

    I. The British Constitution        12

   II. The Ruling Class                18

  III. Legislation and Administration  22

   IV. The Army and Navy               30

    V. The Church                      35

   VI. The Universities                43

  VII. Theory                          51


  CHAPTER II

  THE INDUSTRIAL SPIRIT

    I. The Manufacturers               57

   II. The Agriculturists              69


  CHAPTER III

  SOCIAL PROBLEMS

    I. Pauperism                       87

   II. The Police                      99

  III. Education                      108

   IV. The Slave-Trade                113

    V. The French Revolution          121

   VI. Individualism                  130


  CHAPTER IV

  PHILOSOPHY

    I. John Horne Tooke               137

   II. Dugald Stewart                 142


  CHAPTER V

  BENTHAM'S LIFE

    I. Early Life                     169

   II. First Writings                 175

  III. The Panopticon                 193

   IV. Utilitarian Propaganda         206

    V. Codification                   222


  CHAPTER VI

  BENTHAM'S DOCTRINE

    I. First Principles               235

   II. Springs of Action              249

  III. The Sanctions                  255

   IV. Criminal Law                   263

    V. English Law                    271

   VI. Radicalism                     282

  VII. Individualism                  307


  NOTE ON BENTHAM'S WRITINGS          319




INTRODUCTORY


The English Utilitarians of whom I am about to give some account were a
group of men who for three generations had a conspicuous influence upon
English thought and political action. Jeremy Bentham, James Mill, and
John Stuart Mill were successively their leaders; and I shall speak of
each in turn. It may be well to premise a brief indication of the method
which I have adopted. I have devoted a much greater proportion of my
work to biography and to consideration of political and social
conditions than would be appropriate to the history of a philosophy. The
reasons for such a course are very obvious in this case, inasmuch as the
Utilitarian doctrines were worked out with a constant reference to
practical applications. I think, indeed, that such a reference is often
equally present, though not equally conspicuous, in other philosophical
schools. But in any case I wish to show how I conceive the relation of
my scheme to the scheme more generally adopted by historians of abstract
speculation.

I am primarily concerned with the history of a school or sect, not with
the history of the arguments by which it justifies itself in the court
of pure reason. I must therefore consider the creed as it was actually
embodied in the dominant beliefs of the adherents of the school, not as
it was expounded in lecture-rooms or treatises on first principles. I
deal not with philosophers meditating upon Being and not-Being, but with
men actively engaged in framing political platforms and carrying on
popular agitations. The great majority even of intelligent partisans are
either indifferent to the philosophic creed of their leaders or take it
for granted. Its postulates are more or less implied in the doctrines
which guide them in practice, but are not explicitly stated or
deliberately reasoned out. Not the less the doctrines of a sect,
political or religious, may be dependent upon theories which for the
greater number remain latent or are recognised only in their concrete
application. Contemporary members of any society, however widely they
differ as to results, are employed upon the same problems and, to some
extent, use the same methods and make the same assumptions in attempting
solutions. There is a certain unity even in the general thought of any
given period. Contradictory views imply some common ground. But within
this wider unity we find a variety of sects, each of which may be
considered as more or less representing a particular method of treating
the general problem: and therefore principles which, whether clearly
recognised or not, are virtually implied in their party creed and give a
certain unity to their teaching.

One obvious principle of unity, or tacit bond of sympathy which holds a
sect together depends upon the intellectual idiosyncrasy of the
individuals. Coleridge was aiming at an important truth when he said
that every man was born an Aristotelian or a Platonist.[1] Nominalists
and realists, intuitionists and empiricists, idealists and materialists,
represent different forms of a fundamental antithesis which appears to
run through all philosophy. Each thinker is apt to take the postulates
congenial to his own mind as the plain dictates of reason. Controversies
between such opposites appear to be hopeless. They have been aptly
compared by Dr. Venn to the erection of a snow-bank to dam a river. The
snow melts and swells the torrent which it was intended to arrest. Each
side reads admitted truths into its own dialect, and infers that its own
dialect affords the only valid expression. To regard such antitheses as
final and insoluble would be to admit complete scepticism. What is true
for one man would not therefore be true--or at least its truth would not
be demonstrable--to another. We must trust that reconciliation is
achievable by showing that the difference is really less vital and
corresponds to a difference of methods or of the spheres within which
each mode of thought may be valid. To obtain the point of view from
which such a conciliation is possible should be, I hold, one main end of
modern philosophising.

The effect of this profound intellectual difference is complicated by
other obvious influences. There is, in the first place, the difference
of intellectual horizon. Each man has a world of his own and sees a
different set of facts. Whether his horizon is that which is visible
from his parish steeple or from St. Peter's at Rome, it is still
strictly limited: and the outside universe, known vaguely and
indirectly, does not affect him like the facts actually present to his
perception. The most candid thinkers will come to different conclusions
when they are really provided with different sets of fact. In political
and social problems every man's opinions are moulded by his social
station. The artisan's view of the capitalist, and the capitalist's view
of the artisan, are both imperfect, because each has a first-hand
knowledge of his own class alone: and, however anxious to be fair, each
will take a very different view of the working of political
institutions. An apparent concord often covers the widest divergence
under the veil of a common formula, because each man has his private
mode of interpreting general phrases in terms of concrete fact.

This, of course, implies the further difference arising from the
passions which, however illogically, go so far to determine opinions.
Here we have the most general source of difficulty in considering the
actual history of a creed. We cannot limit ourselves to the purely
logical factor. All thought has to start from postulates. Men have to
act before they think: before, at any rate, reasoning becomes distinct
from imagining or guessing. To explain in early periods is to fancy and
to take a fancy for a perception. The world of the primitive man is
constructed not only from vague conjectures and hasty analogies but from
his hopes and fears, and bears the impress of his emotional nature. When
progress takes place some of his beliefs are confirmed, some disappear,
and others are transformed: and the whole history of thought is a
history of this gradual process of verification. We begin, it is said,
by assuming: we proceed by verifying, and we only end by demonstrating.
The process is comparatively simple in that part of knowledge which
ultimately corresponds to the physical sciences. There must be a certain
harmony between beliefs and realities in regard to knowledge of ordinary
matters of fact, if only because such harmony is essential to the life
of the race. Even an ape must distinguish poisonous from wholesome food.
Beliefs as to physical facts require to be made articulate and distinct;
but we have only to recognise as logical principles the laws of nature
which we have unconsciously obeyed and illustrated--to formulate
dynamics long after we have applied the science in throwing stones or
using bows and arrows. But what corresponds to this in the case of the
moral and religious beliefs? What is the process of verification? Men
practically are satisfied with their creed so long as they are satisfied
with the corresponding social order. The test of truth so suggested is
obviously inadequate: for all great religions, however contradictory to
each other, have been able to satisfy it for long periods. Particular
doctrines might be tested by experiment. The efficacy of witchcraft
might be investigated like the efficacy of vaccination. But faith can
always make as many miracles as it wants: and errors which originate in
the fancy cannot be at once extirpated by the reason. Their form may be
changed but not their substance. To remove them requires not disproof of
this or that fact, but an intellectual discipline which is rare even
among the educated classes. A religious creed survives, as poetry or art
survives,--not so long as it contains apparently true statements of fact
but--so long as it is congenial to the whole social state. A philosophy
indeed is a poetry stated in terms of logic. Considering the natural
conservatism of mankind, the difficulty is to account for progress, not
for the persistence of error. When the existing order ceases to be
satisfactory; when conquest or commerce has welded nations together and
brought conflicting creeds into cohesion; when industrial development
has modified the old class relations; or when the governing classes have
ceased to discharge their functions, new principles are demanded and new
prophets arise. The philosopher may then become the mouthpiece of the
new order, and innocently take himself to be its originator. His
doctrines were fruitless so long as the soil was not prepared for the
seed. A premature discovery if not stamped out by fire and sword is
stifled by indifference. If Francis Bacon succeeded where Roger Bacon
failed, the difference was due to the social conditions, not to the men.
The cause of the great religious as well as of the great political
revolutions must be sought mainly in the social history. New creeds
spread when they satisfy the instincts or the passions roused to
activity by other causes. The system has to be so far true as to be
credible at the time; but its vitality depends upon its congeniality as
a whole to the aspirations of the mass of mankind.

The purely intellectual movement no doubt represents the decisive
factor. The love of truth in the abstract is probably the weakest of
human passions; but truth when attained ultimately gives the fulcrum for
a reconstruction of the world. When a solid core of ascertained and
verifiable truth has once been formed and applied to practical results
it becomes the fixed pivot upon which all beliefs must ultimately turn.
The influence, however, is often obscure and still indirect. The more
cultivated recognise the necessity of bringing their whole doctrine into
conformity with the definitely organised and established system; and, at
the present day, even the uneducated begin to have an inkling of
possible results. Yet the desire for logical consistency is not one
which presses forcibly upon the less cultivated intellects. They do not
feel the necessity of unifying knowledge or bringing their various
opinions into consistency and into harmony with facts. There are easy
methods of avoiding any troublesome conflict of belief. The philosopher
is ready to show them the way. He, like other people, has to start from
postulates, and to see how they will work. When he meets with a
difficulty it is perfectly legitimate that he should try how far the old
formula can be applied to cover the new applications. He may be led to a
process of 'rationalising' or 'spiritualising' which is dangerous to
intellectual honesty. The vagueness of the general conceptions with
which he is concerned facilitates the adaptation; and his words slide
into new meanings by imperceptible gradations. His error is in taking a
legitimate tentative process for a conclusive test; and inferring that
opinions are confirmed because a non-natural interpretation can be
forced upon them. This, however, is only the vicious application of the
normal process through which new ideas are diffused or slowly infiltrate
the old systems till the necessity of a thoroughgoing reconstruction
forces itself upon our attention. Nor can it be denied that an opposite
fallacy is equally possible, especially in times of revolutionary
passion. The apparent irreconcilability of some new doctrine with the
old may lead to the summary rejection of the implicit truth, together
with the error involved in its imperfect recognition. Hence arises the
necessity for faking into account not only a man's intellectual
idiosyncrasies and the special intellectual horizon, but all the
prepossessions due to his personal character, his social environment,
and his consequent sympathies and antipathies. The philosopher has his
passions like other men. He does not really live in the thin air of
abstract speculation. On the contrary, he starts generally, and surely
is right in starting, with keen interest in the great religious,
ethical, and social problems of the time. He wishes--honestly and
eagerly--to try them by the severest tests, and to hold fast only what
is clearly valid. The desire to apply his principles in fact justifies
his pursuit, and redeems him from the charge that he is delighting in
barren intellectual subtleties. But to an outsider his procedure may
appear in a different light. His real problem comes to be: how the
conclusions which are agreeable to his emotions can be connected with
the postulates which are congenial to his intellect? He may be
absolutely honest and quite unconscious that his conclusions were
prearranged by his sympathies. No philosophic creed of any importance
has ever been constructed, we may well believe, without such sincerity
and without such plausibility as results from its correspondence to at
least some aspects of the truth. But the result is sufficiently shown by
the perplexed controversies which arise. Men agree in their conclusions,
though starting from opposite premises; or from the same premises reach
the most diverging conclusions. The same code of practical morality, it
is often said, is accepted by thinkers who deny each other's first
principles; dogmatism often appears to its opponents to be thoroughgoing
scepticism in disguise, and men establish victoriously results which
turn out in the end to be really a stronghold for their antagonists.

Hence there is a distinction between such a history of a sect as I
contemplate and a history of scientific inquiry or of pure philosophy. A
history of mathematical or physical science would differ from a direct
exposition of the science, but only in so far as it would state truths
in the order of discovery, not in the order most convenient for
displaying them as a system. It would show what were the processes by
which they were originally found out, and how they have been afterwards
annexed or absorbed in some wider generalisation. These facts might be
stated without any reference to the history of the discoverers or of the
society to which they belonged. They would indeed suggest very
interesting topics to the general historian or 'sociologist.' He might
be led to inquire under what conditions men came to inquire
scientifically at all; why they ceased for centuries to care for
science; why they took up special departments of investigation; and what
was the effect of scientific discoveries upon social relations in
general. But the two inquiries would be distinct for obvious reasons. If
men study mathematics they can only come to one conclusion. They will
find out the same propositions of geometry if they only think clearly
enough and long enough, as certainly as Columbus would discover America
if he only sailed far enough. America was there, and so in a sense are
the propositions. We may therefore in this case entirely separate the
two questions: what leads men to think? and what conclusions will they
reach? The reasons which guided the first discoverers are just as valid
now, though they can be more systematically stated. But in the 'moral
sciences' this distinction is not equally possible. The intellectual and
the social evolution are closely and intricately connected, and each
reacts upon the other. In the last resort no doubt a definitive system
of belief once elaborated would repose upon universally valid truths
and determine, instead of being determined by, the corresponding social
order. But in the concrete evolution which, we may hope, is
approximating towards this result, the creeds current among mankind have
been determined by the social conditions as well as helped to determine
them. To give an account of that process it is necessary to specify the
various circumstances which may lead to the survival of error, and to
the partial views of truth taken by men of different idiosyncrasies
working upon different data and moved by different passions and
prepossessions. A history written upon these terms would show primarily
what, as a fact, were the dominant beliefs during a given period, and
state which survived, which disappeared, and which were transformed or
engrafted upon other systems of thought. This would of course raise the
question of the truth or falsehood of the doctrines as well as of their
vitality: for the truth is at least one essential condition of permanent
vitality. The difference would be that the problem would be approached
from a different side. We should ask first what beliefs have flourished,
and afterwards ask why they flourished, and how far their vitality was
due to their partial or complete truth. To write such a history would
perhaps require an impartiality which few people possess and which I do
not venture to claim. I have my own opinions for which other people may
account by prejudice, assumption, or downright incapacity. I am quite
aware that I shall be implicitly criticising myself in criticising
others. All that I can profess is that by taking the questions in this
order, I shall hope to fix attention upon one set of considerations
which are apt, as I fancy, to be unduly neglected. The result of
reading some histories is to raise the question: how people on the other
side came to be such unmitigated fools? Why were they imposed upon by
such obvious fallacies? That may be answered by considering more fully
the conditions under which the opinions were actually adopted, and one
result may be to show that those opinions had a considerable element of
truth, and were held by men who were the very opposite of fools. At any
rate I shall do what I can to write an account of this phase of thought,
so as to bring out what were its real tenets; to what intellectual type
they were naturally congenial; what were the limitations of view which
affected the Utilitarians' conception of the problems to be solved; and
what were the passions and prepossessions due to the contemporary state
of society and to their own class position, which to some degree
unconsciously dictated their conclusions. So far as I can do this
satisfactorily, I hope that I may throw some light upon the intrinsic
value of the creed, and the place which it should occupy in a definitive
system.

NOTES:

[1] _Table-Talk_, 3 July 1830.




CHAPTER I

POLITICAL CONDITIONS


I. THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION

The English Utilitarians represent one outcome of the speculations
current in England during the later part of the eighteenth century. For
the reasons just assigned I shall begin by briefly recalling some of the
social conditions which set the problems for the coming generation and
determined the mode of answering them. I must put the main facts in
evidence, though they are even painfully familiar. The most obvious
starting-point is given by the political situation. The supremacy of
parliament had been definitively established by the revolution of 1688,
and had been followed by the elaboration of the system of party
government. The centre of gravity of the political world lay in the
House of Commons. No minister could hold power unless he could command a
majority in this house. Jealousy of the royal power, however, was still
a ruling passion. The party line between Whig and Tory turned ostensibly
upon this issue. The essential Whig doctrine is indicated by Dunning's
famous resolution (6 April 1780) that 'the power of the crown had
increased, was increasing, and ought to be diminished.' The resolution
was in one sense an anachronism. As in many other cases, politicians
seem to be elaborately slaying the slain and guarding against the
attacks of extinct monsters. There was scarcely more probability under
George III. than there is under Victoria that the king would try to
raise taxes without consent of parliament. George III., however, desired
to be more than a contrivance for fixing the great seal to official
documents. He had good reason for thinking that the weakness of the
executive was an evil. The king could gain power not by attacking the
authority of parliament but by gaining influence within its walls. He
might form a party of 'king's friends' able to hold the balance between
the connections formed by the great families and so break up the system
of party government. Burke's great speech (11 Feb. 1780) upon
introducing his plan 'for the better security of the independence of
parliament and the economical reformation of the civil and other
establishments' explains the secret and reveals the state of things
which for the next half century was to supply one main theme for the
eloquence of reformers. The king had at his disposal a vast amount of
patronage. There were relics of ancient institutions: the principality
of Wales, the duchies of Lancaster and Cornwall, and the earldom of
Chester; each with its revenue and establishment of superfluous
officials. The royal household was a complex 'body corporate' founded in
the old days of 'purveyance.' There was the mysterious 'Board of Green
Cloth' formed by the great officers and supposed to have judicial as
well as administrative functions. Cumbrous mediæval machinery thus
remained which had been formed in the time when the distinction between
a public trust and private property was not definitely drawn or which
had been allowed to remain for the sake of patronage, when its functions
had been transferred to officials of more modern type. Reform was
foiled, as Burke put it, because the turnspit in the king's kitchen was
a member of parliament. Such sinecures and the pensions on the civil
list or the Irish establishment provided the funds by which the king
could build up a personal influence, which was yet occult,
irresponsible, and corrupt. The measure passed by Burke in 1782[2] made
a beginning in the removal of such abuses.

Meanwhile the Whigs were conveniently blind to another side of the
question. If the king could buy, it was because there were plenty of
people both able and willing to sell. Bubb Dodington, a typical example
of the old system, had five or six seats at his disposal: subject only
to the necessity of throwing a few pounds to the 'venal wretches' who
went through the form of voting, and by dealing in what he calls this
'merchantable ware' he managed by lifelong efforts to wriggle into a
peerage. The Dodingtons, that is, sold because they bought. The 'venal
wretches' were the lucky franchise-holders in rotten boroughs. The
'Friends of the People'[3] in 1793 made the often-repeated statement
that 154 individuals returned 307 members, that is, a majority of the
house. In Cornwall, again, 21 boroughs with 453 electors controlled by
about 15 individuals returned 42 members,[4] or, with the two county
members, only one member less than Scotland; and the Scottish members
were elected by close corporations in boroughs and by the great
families in counties. No wonder if the House of Commons seemed at times
to be little more than an exchange for the traffic between the
proprietors of votes and the proprietors of offices and pensions.

The demand for the reforms advocated by Burke and Dunning was due to the
catastrophe of the American War. The scandal caused by the famous
coalition of 1783 showed that a diminution of the royal influence might
only make room for selfish bargains among the proprietors of
parliamentary influence. The demand for reform was taken up by Pitt. His
plan was significant. He proposed to disfranchise a few rotten boroughs;
but to soften this measure he afterwards suggested that a million should
be set aside to buy such boroughs as should voluntarily apply for
disfranchisement. The seats obtained were to be mainly added to county
representation; but the franchise was to be extended so as to add about
99,000 voters in boroughs, and additional seats were to be given to
London and Westminster and to Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, and
Sheffield. The Yorkshire reformers, who led the movement, were satisfied
with this modest scheme. The borough proprietors were obviously too
strong to be directly attacked, though they might be induced to sell
some of their power.

Here was a mass of anomalies, sufficient to supply topics of
denunciation for two generations of reformers, and, in time, to excite
fears of violent revolution. Without undertaking the easy task of
denouncing exploded systems, we may ask what state of mind they implied.
Our ancestors were perfectly convinced that their political system was
of almost unrivalled excellence: they held that they were freemen
entitled to look down upon foreigners as the slaves of despots. Nor can
we say that their satisfaction was without solid grounds. The boasting
about English freedom implied some misunderstanding. But it was at least
the boast of a vigorous race. Not only were there individuals capable of
patriotism and public spirit, but the body politic was capable of
continuous energy. During the eighteenth century the British empire
spread round the world. Under Chatham it had been finally decided that
the English race should be the dominant element in the new world; if the
political connection had been severed by the bungling of his successors,
the unbroken spirit of the nation had still been shown in the struggle
against France, Spain, and the revolted colonies; and whatever may be
thought of the motives which produced the great revolutionary wars, no
one can deny the qualities of indomitable self-reliance and high courage
to the men who led the country through the twenty years of struggle
against France, and for a time against France with the continent at its
feet. If moralists or political theorists find much to condemn in the
ends to which British policy was directed, they must admit that the
qualities displayed were not such as can belong to a simply corrupt and
mean-spirited government.

One obvious remark is that, on the whole, the system was a very good
one--as systems go. It allowed free play to the effective political
forces. Down to the revolutionary period, the nation as a whole was
contented with its institutions. The political machinery provided a
sufficient channel for the really efficient force of public opinion.
There was as yet no large class which at once had political aspirations
and was unable to gain a hearing. England was still in the main an
agricultural country: and the agricultural labourer was fairly
prosperous till the end of the century, while his ignorance and
isolation made him indifferent to politics. There might be a bad squire
or parson, as there might be a bad season; but squire and parson were as
much parts of the natural order of things as the weather. The farmer or
yeoman was not much less stolid; and his politics meant at most a choice
between allegiance to one or other of the county families. If in the
towns which were rapidly developing there was growing up a discontented
population, its discontent was not yet directed into political channels.
An extended franchise meant a larger expenditure on beer, not the
readier acceptance of popular aspirations. To possess a vote was to have
a claim to an occasional bonus rather than a right to influence
legislation. Practically, therefore, parliament might be taken to
represent what might be called 'public opinion,' for anything that
deserved to be called public opinion was limited to the opinions of the
gentry and the more intelligent part of the middle classes. There was no
want of complaints of corruption, proposals to exclude placemen from
parliament and the like; and in the days of Wilkes, Chatham, and Junius,
when the first symptoms of democratic activity began to affect the
political movement, the discontent made itself audible and alarming. But
a main characteristic of the English reformers was the constant appeal
to precedent, even in their most excited moods. They do not mention the
rights of man; they invoke the 'revolution principles' of 1688; they
insist upon the 'Bill of Rights' or Magna Charta. When keenly roused
they recall the fate of Charles I.; and their favourite toast is the
cause for which Hampden died on the field and Sidney on the scaffold.
They believe in the jury as the 'palladium of our liberties'; and are
convinced that the British Constitution represents an unsurpassable
though unfortunately an ideal order of things, which must have existed
at some indefinite period. Chatham in one of his most famous speeches,
appeals, for example, to the 'iron barons' who resisted King John, and
contrasts them with the silken courtiers which now compete for place and
pensions. The political reformers of the time, like religious reformers
in most times, conceive of themselves only as demanding the restoration
of the system to its original purity, not as demanding its abrogation.
In other words, they propose to remedy abuses but do not as yet even
contemplate a really revolutionary change. Wilkes was not a 'Wilkite,'
nor was any of his party, if Wilkite meant anything like Jacobin.

NOTES:

[2] 22 George III. c. 82.

[3] _Parl. Hist._ xxx. 787.

[4] _State Trials_, xxiv. 382.


II. THE RULING CLASS

Thus, however anomalous the constitution of parliament, there was no
thought of any far-reaching revolution. The great mass of the population
was too ignorant, too scattered and too poor to have any real political
opinions. So long as certain prejudices were not aroused, it was content
to leave the management of the state to the dominant class, which alone
was intelligent enough to take an interest in public affairs and strong
enough to make its interest felt. This class consisted in the first
place of the great landed interest. When Lord North opposed Pitt's
reform in 1785 he said[5] that the Constitution was 'the work of
infinite wisdom ... the most beautiful fabric that had ever existed
since the beginning of time.' He added that 'the bulk and weight' of the
house ought to be in 'the hands of the country-gentlemen, the best and
most respectable objects of the confidence of the people,' The speech,
though intended to please an audience of country-gentlemen, represented
a genuine belief.[6] The country-gentlemen formed the class to which not
only the constitutional laws but the prevailing sentiment of the country
gave the lead in politics as in the whole social system. Even reformers
proposed to improve the House of Commons chiefly by increasing the
number of county-members, and a county-member was almost necessarily a
country-gentleman of an exalted kind. Although the country-gentleman was
very far from having all things his own way, his ideals and prejudices
were in a great degree the mould to which the other politically
important class conformed. There was indeed a growing jealousy between
the landholders and the 'monied-men.' Bolingbroke had expressed this
distrust at an earlier part of the century. But the true representative
of the period was his successful rival, Walpole, a thorough
country-gentleman who had learned to understand the mysteries of finance
and acquired the confidence of the city. The great merchants of London
and the rising manufacturers in the country were rapidly growing in
wealth and influence. The monied-men represented the most active,
energetic, and growing part of the body politic. Their interests
determined the direction of the national policy. The great wars of the
century were undertaken in the interests of British trade. The extension
of the empire in India was carried on through a great commercial
company. The growth of commerce supported the sea-power which was the
main factor in the development of the empire. The new industrial
organisation which was arising was in later years to represent a class
distinctly opposed to the old aristocratic order. At present it was in a
comparatively subordinate position. The squire was interested in the
land and the church; the merchant thought more of commerce and was apt
to be a dissenter. But the merchant, in spite of some little jealousies,
admitted the claims of the country-gentleman to be his social superior
and political leader. His highest ambition was to be himself admitted to
the class or to secure the admission of his family. As he became rich he
bought a solid mansion at Clapham or Wimbledon, and, if he made a
fortune, might become lord of manors in the country. He could not as yet
aspire to become himself a peer, but he might be the ancestor of peers.
The son of Josiah Child, the great merchant of the seventeenth century,
became Earl Tylney, and built at Wanstead one of the noblest mansions in
England. His contemporary Sir Francis Child, Lord Mayor, and a founder
of the Bank of England, built Osterley House, and was ancestor of the
earls of Jersey and Westmoreland. The daughter of Sir John Barnard, the
typical merchant of Walpole's time, married the second Lord Palmerston.
Beckford, the famous Lord Mayor of Chatham's day, was father of the
author of _Vathek_, who married an earl's daughter and became the father
of a duchess. The Barings, descendants of a German pastor, settled in
England early in the century and became country-gentlemen, baronets,
and peers. Cobbett, who saw them rise, reviled the stockjobbers who were
buying out the old families. But the process had begun long before his
days, and meant that the heads of the new industrial system were being
absorbed into the class of territorial magnates. That class represented
the framework upon which both political and social power was moulded.

This implies an essential characteristic of the time. A familiar topic
of the admirers of the British Constitution was the absence of the sharp
lines of demarcation between classes and of the exclusive aristocratic
privileges which, in France, provoked the revolution. In England the
ruling class was not a 'survival': it had not retained privileges
without discharging corresponding functions. The essence of
'self-government,' says its most learned commentator,[7] is the organic
connection 'between State and society.' On the Continent, that is,
powers were intrusted to a centralised administrative and judicial
hierarchy, which in England were left to the class independently strong
by its social position. The landholder was powerful as a product of the
whole system of industrial and agricultural development; and he was
bound in return to perform arduous and complicated duties. How far he
performed them well is another question. At least, he did whatever was
done in the way of governing, and therefore did not sink into a mere
excrescence or superfluity. I must try to point out certain results
which had a material effect upon English opinion in general and, in
particular, upon the Utilitarians.

NOTES:

[5] _Parl. Hist._ xxv. 472.

[6] The country-gentlemen, said Wilberforce in 1800, are the 'very
nerves and ligatures of the body politic.'--_Correspondence_, i. 219.

[7] Gneist's _Self-Government_ (3rd edition, 1871), p. 879.


III. LEGISLATION AND ADMINISTRATION

The country-gentlemen formed the bulk of the law-making body, and the
laws gave the first point of assault of the Utilitarian movement. One
explanation is suggested by a phrase attributed to Sir Josiah Child.[8]
The laws, he said, were a heap of nonsense, compiled by a few ignorant
country-gentlemen, who hardly knew how to make good laws for the
government of their own families, much less for the regulation of
companies and foreign commerce. He meant that the parliamentary
legislation of the century was the work of amateurs, not of specialists;
of an assembly of men more interested in immediate questions of policy
or personal intrigue than in general principles, and not of such a
centralised body as would set a value upon symmetry and scientific
precision. The country-gentleman had strong prejudices and enough common
sense to recognise his own ignorance. The product of a traditional
order, he clung to traditions, and regarded the old maxims as sacred
because no obvious reason could be assigned for them. He was suspicious
of abstract theories, and it did not even occur to him that any such
process as codification or radical alteration of the laws was
conceivable. For the law itself he had the profound veneration which is
expressed by Blackstone. It represented the 'wisdom of our ancestors';
the system of first principles, on which the whole order of things
reposed, and which must be regarded as an embodiment of right reason.
The common law was a tradition, not made by express legislation, but
somehow existing apart from any definite embodiment, and revealed to
certain learned hierophants. Any changes, required by the growth of new
social conditions, had to be made under pretence of applying the old
rules supposed to be already in existence. Thus grew up the system of
'judge-made law,' which was to become a special object of the
denunciations of Bentham. Child had noticed the incompetence of the
country-gentlemen to understand the regulation of commercial affairs.
The gap was being filled up, without express legislation, by judicial
interpretations of Mansfield and his fellows. This, indeed, marks a
characteristic of the whole system. 'Our constitution,' says Professor
Dicey,[9] 'is a judge-made constitution, and it bears on its face all
the features, good and bad, of judge-made law.' The law of landed
property, meanwhile, was of vital and immediate interest to the
country-gentleman. But, feeling his own incompetence, he had called in
the aid of the expert. The law had been developed in mediæval times, and
bore in all its details the marks of the long series of struggles
between king and nobles and parliaments. One result had been the
elaborate series of legal fictions worked out in the conflict between
private interests and public policy, by which lawyers had been able to
adapt the rules fitted for an ancient state of society to another in
which the very fundamental conceptions were altered. A mysterious system
had thus grown up, which deterred any but the most resolute students. Of
Fearne's essay upon 'Contingent remainders'(published in 1772) it was
said that no work 'in any branch of science could afford a more
beautiful instance of analysis.' Fearne had shown the acuteness of 'a
Newton or a Pascal.' Other critics dispute this proposition; but in any
case the law was so perplexing that it could only be fully understood by
one who united antiquarian knowledge to the subtlety of a great
logician. The 'vast and intricate machine,' as Blackstone calls it, 'of
a voluminous family settlement' required for its explanation the
dialectical skill of an accomplished schoolman. The poor
country-gentleman could not understand the terms on which he held his
own estate without calling in an expert equal to such a task. The man
who has acquired skill so essential to his employer's interests is not
likely to undervalue it or to be over anxious to simplify the labyrinth
in which he shone as a competent guide.

The lawyers who played so important a part by their familiarity with the
mysteries of commercial law and landed property, naturally enjoyed the
respect of their clients, and were rewarded by adoption into the class.
The English barrister aspired to success by himself taking part in
politics and legislation. The only path to the highest positions really
open to a man of ability, not connected by blood with the great
families, was the path which led to the woolsack or to the judge's
bench. A great merchant might be the father or father-in-law of peers; a
successful soldier or sailor might himself become a peer, but generally
he began life as a member of the ruling classes, and his promotion was
affected by parliamentary influence. But a successful lawyer might fight
his way from a humble position to the House of Lords. Thurlow, son of a
country-gentleman; Dunning, son of a country attorney; Ellenborough, son
of a bishop and descendant of a long line of North-country 'statesmen';
Kenyon, son of a farmer; Eldon, son of a Newcastle coal merchant,
represent the average career of a successful barrister. Some of them
rose to be men of political importance, and Thurlow and Eldon had the
advantage of keeping George III's conscience--an unruly faculty which
had an unfortunately strong influence upon affairs. The leaders of the
legal profession, therefore, and those who hoped to be leaders, shared
the prejudices, took a part in the struggles, and were rewarded by the
honours of the dominant class.

The criminal law became a main topic of reformers. There, as elsewhere,
we have a striking example of traditional modes of thought surviving
with singular persistence. The rough classification of crimes into
felony and misdemeanour, and the strange technical rules about 'benefit
of clergy' dating back to the struggles of Henry II. and Becket,
remained like ultimate categories of thought. When the growth of social
conditions led to new temptations or the appearance of a new criminal
class, and particular varieties of crime became conspicuous, the only
remedy was to declare that some offence should be 'felony without
benefit of clergy,' and therefore punishable by death. By unsystematic
and spasmodic legislation the criminal law became so savage as to shock
every man of common humanity. It was tempered by the growth of technical
rules, which gave many chances of escape to the criminal; and by
practical revolt against its excesses, which led to the remission of the
great majority of capital sentences.[10] The legislators were clumsy,
not intentionally cruel; and the laws, though sanguinary in reality,
were more sanguinary in theory than in practice. Nothing, on the other
hand, is more conspicuous than the spirit of fair play to the criminal,
which struck foreign observers.[11] It was deeply rooted in the whole
system. The English judge was not an official agent of an inquisitorial
system, but an impartial arbitrator between the prisoner and the
prosecutor. In political cases especially a marked change was brought
about by the revolution of 1688. If our ancestors talked some nonsense
about trial by jury, the system certainly insured that the persons
accused of libel or sedition should have a fair trial, and very often
something more. Judges of the Jeffreys type had become inconceivable,
though impartiality might disappear in cases where the prejudices of
juries were actively aroused. Englishmen might fairly boast of their
immunity from the arbitrary methods of continental rulers; and their
unhesitating confidence in the fairness of the system became so
ingrained as to be taken as a matter of course, and scarcely received
due credit from later critics of the system.

The country-gentleman, again, was not only the legislator but a most
important figure in the judicial and administrative system. As justice
of the peace, he was the representative of law and order to his country
neighbours. The preface of 1785 to the fifteenth edition of Burn's
_Justice of the Peace_, published originally in 1755, mentions that in
the interval between these dates, some three hundred statutes had been
passed affecting the duties of justices, while half as many had been
repealed or modified. The justice was of course, as a rule, a
superficial lawyer, and had to be prompted by his clerk, the two
representing on a small scale the general relation between the lawyers
and the ruling class. Burn tells the justice for his comfort that the
judges will take a lenient view of any errors into which his ignorance
may have led him. The discharge of such duties by an independent
gentleman was thought to be so desirable and so creditable to him that
his want of efficiency must be regarded with consideration. Nor, though
the justices have been a favourite butt for satirists, does it appear
that the system worked badly. When it became necessary to appoint paid
magistrates in London, and the pay, according to the prevalent system,
was provided by fees, the new officials became known as 'trading
justices,' and their salaries, as Fielding tells us, were some of the
'dirtiest money upon earth.' The justices might perhaps be hard upon a
poacher (as, indeed, the game laws became one of the great scandals of
the system), or liable to be misled by a shrewd attorney; but they were
on the whole regarded as the natural and creditable representatives of
legal authority in the country.

The justices, again, discharged functions which would elsewhere belong
to an administrative hierarchy, Gneist observes that the power of the
justices of the peace represents the centre of gravity of the whole
administrative system.[12] Their duties had become so multifarious and
perplexed that Burn could only arrange them under alphabetical heads.
Gneist works out a systematic account, filling many pages of elaborate
detail, and showing how large a part they played in the whole social
structure. An intense jealousy of central power was one correlative
characteristic. Blackstone remarks in his more liberal humour that the
number of new offices held at pleasure had greatly extended the
influence of the crown. This refers to the custom-house officers, excise
officers, stamp distributors and postmasters. But if the tax-gatherer
represented the state, he represented also part of the patronage at the
disposal of politicians. A voter was often in search of the place of a
'tidewaiter'; and, as we know, the greatest poet of the day could only
be rewarded by making him an exciseman. Any extension of a system which
multiplied public offices was regarded with suspicion. Walpole, the
strongest minister of the century, had been forced to an ignominious
retreat when he proposed to extend the excise. The cry arose that he
meant to enslave the country and extend the influence of the crown over
all the corporations in England. The country-gentleman had little reason
to fear that government would diminish his importance by tampering with
his functions. The justices of the peace were called upon to take a
great and increasing share in the administration of the poor-law. They
were concerned in all manner of financial details; they regulated such
police as existed; they looked after the old laws by which the trades
were still restricted; and, in theory at least, could fix the rate of
wages. Parliament did not override, but only gave the necessary sanction
to their activity. If we looked through the journals of the House of
Commons during the American War, for example, we should get the
impression that the whole business of the legislature was to arrange
administrative details. If a waste was to be enclosed, a canal or a
highroad to be constructed, there was no public department to be
consulted. The gentry of the neighbourhood joined to obtain a private
act of parliament which gave the necessary powers to the persons
interested. No general enclosure act could be passed, though often
suggested. It would imply a central commission, which would only, as was
suggested, give rise to jobbery and take power out of the natural hands.
Parliament was omnipotent; it could regulate the affairs of the empire
or of a parish; alter the most essential laws or act as a court of
justice; settle the crown or arrange for a divorce or for the alteration
of a private estate. But it objected to delegate authority even to a
subordinate body, which might tend to become independent. Thus, if it
was the central power and source of all legal authority, it might also
be regarded as a kind of federal league, representing the wills of a
number of partially independent persons. The gentry could meet there and
obtain the sanction of their allies for any measure required in their
own little sphere of influence. But they had an instinctive aversion to
the formation of any organised body representing the state. The
neighbourhood which wanted a road got powers to make it, and would
concur in giving powers to others. But if the state were to be intrusted
to make roads, ministers would have more places to give, and roads
might be made which they did not want. The English roads had long been
infamous, but neither was money wasted, as in France, on roads where
there was no traffic.[13] Thus we have the combination of an absolute
centralisation of legislative power with an utter absence of
administrative centralisation. The units meeting in parliament formed a
supreme assembly; but they did not sink their own individuality. They
only met to distribute the various functions among themselves.

The English parish with its squire, its parson, its lawyer and its
labouring population was a miniature of the British Constitution in
general. The squire's eldest son could succeed to his position; a second
son might become a general or an admiral; a third would take the family
living; a fourth, perhaps, seek his fortune at the bar. This implies a
conception of other political conditions which curiously illustrate some
contemporary conceptions.

NOTES:

[8] See _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[9] _The Law of the Constitution_, p. 209.

[10] See Sir J. F. Stephen's _History of the Criminal Law_ (1883), i.
470. He quotes Blackstone's famous statement that there were 160
felonies without benefit of clergy, and shows that this gives a very
uncertain measure of the severity of the law. A single act making
larceny in general punishable by death would be more severe than fifty
separate acts, making fifty different varieties of larceny punishable by
death. He adds, however, that the scheme of punishment was 'severe to
the highest degree, and destitute of every sort of principle or system.'
The number of executions in the early part of this century varied
apparently from a fifth to a ninth of the capital sentences passed. See
Table in Porter's _Progress of the Nation_ (1851), p. 635.

[11] See the references to Cottu's report of 1822 in Stephen's
_History_, i. 429, 439, 451. Cottu's book was translated by Blanco
White.

[12] Gneist's _Self-Government_ (1871), p. 194. It is characteristic
that J. S. Mill, in his _Representative Government_, remarks that the
'Quarter Sessions' are formed in the 'most anomalous' way; that they
represent the old feudal principle, and are at variance with the
fundamental principles of representative government (_Rep. Gov._ (1867),
p. 113). The mainspring of the old system had become a simple anomaly to
the new radicalism.

[13] See Arthur Young, _passim_. There was, however, an improvement even
in the first half of the century. See Cunningham's _Growth of English
Industry, etc. (Modern Times)_, p. 378.


IV. THE ARMY AND NAVY

We are often amused by the persistency of the cry against a 'standing
army' in England. It did not fairly die out until the revolutionary
wars. Blackstone regards it as a singularly fortunate circumstance 'that
any branch of the legislature might annually put an end to the legal
existence of the army by refusing to concur in the continuance' of the
mutiny act. A standing army was obviously necessary; but by making
believe very hard, we could shut our eyes to the facts, and pretend
that it was a merely temporary arrangement.[14] The doctrine had once
had a very intelligible meaning. If James II. had possessed a
disciplined army of the continental pattern, with Marlborough at its
head, Marlborough would hardly have been converted by the prince of
Orange. But loyal as the gentry had been at the restoration, they had
taken very good care that the Stuarts should not have in their hand such
a weapon as had been possessed by Cromwell. When the Puritan army was
disbanded, they had proceeded to regulate the militia. The officers were
appointed by the lords-lieutenants of counties, and had to possess a
property qualification; the men raised by ballot in their own districts;
and their numbers and length of training regulated by Act of Parliament.
The old 'train-bands' were suppressed, except in the city of London, and
thus the recognised military force of the country was a body essentially
dependent upon the country gentry. The militia was regarded with favour
as the 'old constitutional force' which could not be used to threaten
our liberties. It was remodelled during the Seven Years' War and
embodied during that and all our later wars. It was, however,
ineffective by its very nature. An aristocracy which chose to carry on
wars must have a professional army in fact, however careful it might be
to pretend that it was a provision for a passing necessity. The pretence
had serious consequences. Since the army was not to have interests
separate from the people, there was no reason for building barracks. The
men might be billeted on publicans, or placed under canvas, while they
were wanted. When the great war came upon us, large sums had to be spent
to make up for the previous neglect. Fox, on 22nd February 1793,
protested during a lively debate upon this subject that sound
constitutional principles condemned barracks, because to mix the army
with the people was the 'best security against the danger of a standing
army.'[15]

In fact a large part of the army was a mere temporary force. In 1762,
towards the end of the Seven Years' War, we had about 100,000 men in
pay; and after the peace, the force was reduced to under 20,000. Similar
changes took place in every war. The ruling class took advantage of the
position. An army might be hired from Germany for the occasion. New
regiments were generally raised by some great man who gave commissions
to his own relations and dependants. When the Pretender was in Scotland,
for example, fifteen regiments were raised by patriotic nobles, who gave
the commissions, and stipulated that although they were to be employed
only in suppressing the rising, the officers should have permanent
rank.[16] So, as was shown in Mrs. Clarke's case, a patent for raising a
regiment might be a source of profit to the undertaker, who again might
get it by bribing the mistress of a royal duke. The officers had,
according to the generally prevalent system, a modified property in
their commissions; and the system of sale was not abolished till our own
days. We may therefore say that the ruling class, on the one hand,
objected to a standing army, and, on the other, since such an army was
a necessity, farmed it from the country and were admitted to have a
certain degree of private property in the concern. The prejudice against
any permanent establishment made it necessary to fill the ranks on
occasion by all manner of questionable expedients. Bounties were offered
to attract the vagrants who hung loose upon society. Smugglers,
poachers, and the like were allowed to choose between military service
and transportation. The general effect was to provide an army of
blackguards commanded by gentlemen. The army no doubt had its merits as
well as its defects. The continental armies which it met were collected
by equally demoralising methods until the French revolution led to a
systematic conscription. The bad side is suggested by Napier's famous
phrase, the 'cold shade of our aristocracy'; while Napier gives facts
enough to prove both the brutality too often shown by the private
soldier and the dogged courage which is taken to be characteristic even
of the English blackguard. By others,--by such men as the duke of
Wellington and Lord Palmerston, for example, types of the true
aristocrat--the system was defended[17] as bringing men of good family
into the army and so providing it, as the duke thought, with the best
set of officers in Europe. No doubt they and the royal dukes who
commanded them were apt to be grossly ignorant of their business; but it
may be admitted by a historian that they often showed the qualities of
which Wellington was himself a type. The English officer was a gentleman
before he was a soldier, and considered the military virtues to be a
part of his natural endowment. But it was undoubtedly a part of his
traditional code of honour to do his duty manfully and to do it rather
as a manifestation of his own spirit than from any desire for rewards or
decorations. The same quality is represented more strikingly by the
navy. The English admiral represents the most attractive and stirring
type of heroism in our history. Nelson and the 'band of brothers' who
served with him, the simple and high-minded sailors who summed up the
whole duty of man in doing their best to crush the enemies of their
country, are among the finest examples of single-souled devotion to the
calls of patriotism. The navy, indeed, had its ugly side no less than
the army. There was corruption at Greenwich[18] and in the dockyards,
and parliamentary intrigue was a road to professional success. Voltaire
notes the queer contrast between the English boast of personal liberty
and the practice of filling up the crews by pressgangs. The discipline
was often barbarous, and the wrongs of the common sailor found
sufficient expression in the mutiny at the Nore. A grievance, however,
which pressed upon a single class was maintained from the necessity of
the case and the inertness of the administrative system. The navy did
not excite the same jealousy as the army; and the officers were more
professionally skilful than their brethren. The national qualities come
out, often in their highest form, in the race of great seamen upon whom
the security of the island power essentially depended.

NOTES:

[14] See _Military Forces of the Crown_, by Charles M. Clode (1869), for
a full account of the facts.

[15] _Parl. Hist._ xxx. 490. Clode states (i. 222) that £9,000,000 was
spent upon barracks by 1804, and, it seems, without proper authority.

[16] Debate in _Parl. Hist._ xiii. 1382, etc., and see Walpole's
_Correspondence_, i. 400, for some characteristic comments.

[17] Clode, ii. 86.

[18] See the famous case in 1778 in which Erskine made his first
appearance, in _State Trials_, xxi. Lord St. Vincent's struggle against
the corruption of his time is described by Prof. Laughton in the
_Dictionary of National Biography_, (_s.v._ Sir John Jervis). In 1801
half a million a year was stolen, besides all the waste due to
corruption and general muddling.


V. THE CHURCH

I turn, however, to the profession which was more directly connected
with the intellectual development of the country. The nature of the
church establishment gives the most obvious illustration of the
connection between the intellectual position on the one hand and the
social and political order on the other, though I do not presume to
decide how far either should be regarded as effect and the other as
cause.

What is the church of England? Some people apparently believe that it is
a body possessing and transmitting certain supernatural powers. This
view was in abeyance for the time for excellent reasons, and, true or
false, is no answer to the constitutional question. It does not enable
us to define what was the actual body with which lawyers and politicians
have to deal. The best answer to such questions in ordinary case would
be given by describing the organisation of the body concerned. We could
then say what is the authority which speaks in its name; and what is the
legislature which makes its laws, alters its arrangements, and defines
the terms of membership. The supreme legislature of the church of
England might appear to be parliament. It is the Act of Uniformity which
defines the profession of belief exacted from the clergy; and no
alteration could be made in regard to the rights and duties of the
clergy except by parliamentary authority. The church might therefore be
regarded as simply the religious department of the state. Since 1688,
however, the theory and the practice of toleration had introduced
difficulties. Nonconformity was not by itself punishable though it
exposed a man to certain disqualifications. The state, therefore,
recognised that many of its members might legally belong to other
churches, although it had, as Warburton argued, formed an 'alliance'
with the dominant church. The spirit of toleration was spreading
throughout the century. The old penal laws, due to the struggles of the
seventeenth century, were becoming obsolete in practice and were
gradually being repealed. The Gordon riots of 1780 showed that a
fanatical spirit might still be aroused in a mob which wanted an excuse
for plunder; but the laws were not explicitly defended by reasonable
persons and were being gradually removed by legislation towards the end
of the century. Although, therefore, parliament was kept free from
papists, it could hardly regard church and state as identical, or
consider itself as entitled to act as the representative body of the
church. No other body, indeed, could change the laws of the church; but
parliament recognised its own incompetence to deal with them. Towards
the end of the century, various attempts were made to relax the terms of
subscription. It was proposed, for example, to substitute a profession
of belief in the Bible for a subscription to the Thirty-Nine Articles.
But the House of Commons sensibly refused to expose itself by venturing
upon any theological innovations. A body more ludicrously incompetent
could hardly have been invented.

Hence we must say that the church had either no supreme body which could
speak in its name and modify its creed, its ritual, its discipline, or
the details of its organisation; or else, that the only body which had
in theory a right to interfere was doomed, by sufficient considerations,
to absolute inaction. The church, from a secular point of view, was not
so much a department of the state as an aggregate of offices, the
functions of which were prescribed by unalterable tradition. It
consisted of a number of bishops, deans and chapters, rectors, vicars,
curates, and so forth, many of whom had certain proprietary rights in
their position, and who were bound by law to discharge certain
functions. But the church, considered as a whole, could hardly be called
an organism at all, or, if an organism, it was an organism with its
central organ in a permanent state of paralysis. The church, again, in
this state was essentially dependent upon the ruling classes. A glance
at the position of the clergy shows their professional position. At
their head were the bishops, some of them enjoying princely revenues,
while others were so poor as to require that their incomes should be
eked out by deaneries or livings held _in commendam_. The great sees,
such as Canterbury, Durham, Ely, and Winchester, were valued at between,
£20,000 and £30,000 a year; while the smaller, Llandaff, Bangor,
Bristol, and Gloucester, were worth less than £2000. The bishops had
patronage which enabled them to provide for relatives or for deserving
clergymen. The average incomes of the parochial clergy, meanwhile, were
small. In 1809 they were calculated to be worth £255, while nearly four
thousand livings were worth under £150; and there were four or five
thousand curates with very small pay. The profession, therefore, offered
a great many blanks with a few enormous prizes. How were those prizes
generally obtained? When the reformers published the _Black Book_ in
1820, they gave a list of the bishops holding sees in the last year of
George III.; and, as most of these gentlemen were on their promotion at
the end of the previous century. I give the list in a note.[19]

There were twenty-seven bishoprics including Sodor and Man. Of these
eleven were held by members of noble families; fourteen were held by men
who had been tutors in, or in other ways personally connected with the
royal family or the families of ministers and great men; and of the
remaining two, one rested his claim upon political writing in defence of
Pitt, while the other seems to have had the support of a great city
company. The system of translation enabled the government to keep a hand
upon the bishops. Their elevation to the more valuable places or leave
to hold subsidiary preferments depended upon their votes in the House of
Lords. So far, then, as secular motives operated, the tendency of the
system was clear. If Providence had assigned to you a duke for a father
or an uncle, preferment would fall to you as of right. A man of rank who
takes orders should be rewarded for his condescension. If that
qualification be not secured, you should aim at being tutor in a great
family, accompany a lad on the grand tour, or write some pamphlet on a
great man's behalf. Paley gained credit for independence at Cambridge,
and spoke with contempt of the practice of 'rooting,' the cant phrase
for patronage hunting. The text which he facetiously suggested for a
sermon when Pitt visited Cambridge, 'There is a young man here who has
six loaves and two fishes, but what are they among so many?' hit off the
spirit in which a minister was regarded at the universities. The memoirs
of Bishop Watson illustrate the same sentiment. He lived in his pleasant
country house at Windermere, never visiting his diocese, and according
to De Quincey, talking Socinianism at his table. He felt himself to be a
deeply injured man, because ministers had never found an opportunity
for translating him to a richer diocese, although he had written
against Paine and Gibbon. If they would not reward their friends, he
argued, why should he take up their cause by defending Christianity?

The bishops were eminently respectable. They did not lead immoral lives,
and if they gave a large share of preferment to their families, that at
least was a domestic virtue. Some of them, Bishop Barrington of Durham,
for example, took a lead in philanthropic movements; and, if considered
simply as prosperous country-gentlemen, little fault could be found with
them. While, however, every commonplace motive pointed so directly
towards a career of subserviency to the ruling class among the laity, it
could not be expected that they should take a lofty view of their
profession. The Anglican clergy were not like the Irish priesthood, in
close sympathy with the peasantry, or like the Scottish ministers, the
organs of strong convictions spreading through the great mass of the
middle and lower classes. A man of energy, who took his faith seriously,
was, like the Evangelical clergy, out of the road to preferment, or,
like Wesley, might find no room within the church at all. His colleagues
called him an 'enthusiast,' and disliked him as a busybody if not a
fanatic. They were by birth and adoption themselves members of the
ruling class; many of them were the younger sons of squires, and held
their livings in virtue of their birth. Advowsons are the last offices
to retain a proprietary character. The church of that day owed such a
representative as Horne Tooke to the system which enabled his father to
provide for him by buying a living. From the highest to the lowest ranks
of clergy, the church was as Matthew Arnold could still call it, an
'appendage of the barbarians.' The clergy, that is, as a whole, were an
integral but a subsidiary part of the aristocracy or the great landed
interest. Their admirers urged that the system planted a cultivated
gentleman in every parish in the country. Their opponents replied, like
John Sterling, that he was a 'black dragoon with horse meat and man's
meat'--part of the garrison distributed through the country to support
the cause of property and order. In any case the instinctive
prepossessions, the tastes and favourite pursuits of the profession were
essentially those of the class with which it was so intimately
connected. Arthur Young,[20] speaking of the French clergy, observes
that at least they are not poachers and foxhunters, who divide their
time between hunting, drinking, and preaching. You do not in France find
such advertisements as he had heard of in England, 'Wanted a curacy in a
good sporting country, where the duty is light and the neighbourhood
convivial.' The proper exercise for a country clergyman, he rather
quaintly observes, is agriculture. The ideal parson, that is, should be
a squire in canonical dress. The clergy of the eighteenth century
probably varied between the extremes represented by Trulliber and the
Vicar of Wakefield. Many of them were excellent people, with a mild
taste for literature, contributing to the _Gentleman's Magazine_,
investigating the antiquities of their county, occasionally confuting a
deist, exerting a sound judgment in cultivating their glebes or
improving the breed of cattle, and respected both by squire and farmers.
The 'Squarson,' in Sydney Smith's facetious phrase, was the ideal
clergyman. The purely sacerdotal qualities, good or bad, were at a
minimum. Crabbe, himself a type of the class, has left admirable
portraits of his fellows. Profound veneration for his noble patrons and
hearty dislike for intrusive dissenters were combined in his own case
with a pure domestic life, a keen insight into the uglier realities of
country life and a good sound working morality. Miss Austen, who said
that she could have been Crabbe's wife, has given more delicate pictures
of the clergyman as he appeared at the tea-tables of the time. He varies
according to her from the squire's excellent younger brother, who is
simply a squire in a white neck-cloth, to the silly but still
respectable sycophant, who firmly believes his lady patroness to be a
kind of local deity. Many of the real memoirs of the day give pleasant
examples of the quiet and amiable lives of the less ambitious clergy.
There is the charming Gilbert White (1720-1793) placidly studying the
ways of tortoises, and unconsciously composing a book which breathes an
undying charm from its atmosphere of peaceful repose; William Gilpin
(1724-1804) founding and endowing parish schools, teaching the
catechism, and describing his vacation tours in narratives which helped
to spread a love of natural scenery; and Thomas Gisborne (1758-1846),
squire and clergyman, a famous preacher among the evangelicals and a
poet after the fashion of Cowper, who loved his native Needwood Forest
as White loved Selborne and Gilpin loved the woods of Boldre; and Cowper
himself (1731-1800) who, though not a clergyman, lived in a clerical
atmosphere, and whose gentle and playful enjoyment of quiet country life
relieves the painfully deep pathos of his disordered imagination; and
the excellent W. L. Bowles (1762-1850), whose sonnets first woke
Coleridge's imagination, who spent eighty-eight years in an amiable and
blameless life, and was country-gentleman, magistrate, antiquary,
clergyman, and poet.[21] Such names are enough to recall a type which
has not quite vanished, and which has gathered a new charm in more
stirring and fretful times. These most excellent people, however, were
not likely to be prominent in movements destined to break up the placid
environment of their lives nor, in truth, to be sources of any great
intellectual stir.

NOTES:

[19] The list, checked from other sources of information, is as
follows:--Manners Sutton, archbishop of Canterbury, was grandson of the
third duke of Rutland; Edward Vernon, archbishop of York, was son of the
first Lord Vernon and cousin of the third Lord Harcourt, whose estates
he inherited; Shute Barrington, bishop of Durham, was son of the first
and brother of the second Viscount Barrington; Brownlow North, bishop of
Winchester, was uncle to the earl of Guildford; James Cornwallis, bishop
of Lichfield, was uncle to the second marquis, whose peerage he
inherited; George Pelham, bishop of Exeter, was brother of the earl of
Chichester; Henry Bathurst, bishop of Norwich, was nephew of the first
earl; George Henry Law, bishop of Chester, was brother of the first Lord
Ellenborough; Edward Legge, bishop of Oxford, was son of the second earl
of Dartmouth; Henry Ryder, bishop of Gloucester, was brother to the earl
of Harrowby; George Murray, bishop of Sodor and Man, was nephew-in-law
to the duke of Athol and brother-in-law to the earl of Kinnoul. Of the
fourteen tutors, etc., mentioned above, William Howley, bishop of
London, had been tutor to the prince of Orange at Oxford; George
Pretyman Tomline, bishop of Lincoln, had been Pitt's tutor at Cambridge;
Richard Beadon, bishop of Bath and Wells, had been tutor to the duke of
Gloucester at Cambridge; Folliott Cornewall, bishop of Worcester, had
been made chaplain to the House of Commons by the influence of his
cousin, the Speaker; John Buckner, bishop of Chichester, had been tutor
to the duke of Richmond; Henry William Majendie, bishop of Bangor, was
the son of Queen Charlotte's English master, and had been tutor to
William IV.; George Isaac Huntingford, bishop of Hereford, had been
tutor to Addington, prime minister; Thomas Burgess, bishop of St.
David's, was a personal friend of Addington; John Fisher, bishop of
Salisbury, had been tutor to the duke of Kent; John Luxmoore, bishop of
St. Asaph, had been tutor to the duke of Buccleugh; Samuel Goodenough,
bishop of Carlisle, had been tutor to the sons of the third duke of
Portland and was connected with Addington; William Lort Mansel, bishop
of Bristol, had been tutor to Perceval at Cambridge, and owed to
Perceval the mastership of Trinity; Walter King, bishop of Rochester,
had been secretary to the duke of Portland; and Bowyer Edward Sparke,
bishop of Ely, had been tutor to the duke of Rutland. The two remaining
bishops were Herbert Marsh, bishop of Peterborough, who had established
a claim by defending Pitt's financial measures in an important pamphlet;
and William Van Mildert, bishop of Llandaff, who had been chaplain to
the Grocers' Company and became known as a preacher in London.

[20] _Travels in France_ (1892), p. 327.

[21] See _A Country Clergyman of the Eighteenth Century_ (Thomas
Twining), 1882, for a pleasant picture of the class.


VI. THE UNIVERSITIES

The effect of these conditions is perhaps best marked in the state of
the universities. Universities have at different periods been great
centres of intellectual life. The English universities of the eighteenth
century are generally noted only as embodiments of sloth and prejudice.
The judgments of Wesley and Gibbon and Adam Smith and Bentham coincide
in regard to Oxford; and Johnson's love of his university is an
equivocal testimony to its intellectual merits. We generally think of it
as of a sleepy hollow, in which portly fellows of colleges, like the
convivial Warton, imbibed port wine and sneered at Methodists, though
few indeed rivalled Warton's services to literature. The universities in
fact had become, as they long continued to be, high schools chiefly for
the use of the clergy, and if they still aimed at some wider
intellectual training, were sinking to be institutions where the pupils
of the public schools might, if they pleased, put a little extra polish
upon their classical and mathematical knowledge. The colleges preserved
their mediæval constitution; and no serious changes of their statutes
were made until the middle of the present century. The clergy had an
almost exclusive part in the management, and dissenters were excluded
even from entering Oxford as students.[22] But the clergyman did not as
a rule devote himself to a life of study. He could not marry as a
fellow, but he made no vows of celibacy. The college, therefore, was
merely a stepping-stone on the way to the usual course of preferment. A
fellow looked forwards to settling in a college living, or if he had the
luck to act as tutor to a nobleman, he might soar to a deanery or a
bishopric. The fellows who stayed in their colleges were probably those
who had least ambition, or who had a taste for an easy bachelor's life.
The universities, therefore, did not form bodies of learned men
interested in intellectual pursuits; but at most, helped such men in
their start upon a more prosperous career. The studies flagged in
sympathy. Gray's letters sufficiently reveal the dulness which was felt
by a man of cultivation confined within the narrow society of college
dons of the day. The scholastic philosophy which had once found
enthusiastic cultivators in the great universities had more or less held
its own through the seventeenth century, though repudiated by all the
rising thinkers. Since the days of Locke and Berkeley, it had fallen
utterly out of credit. The bright common sense of the polished society
of the day looked upon the old doctrine with a contempt, which, if not
justified by familiarity, was an implicit judgment of the tree by its
fruits. Nobody could suppose the divines of the day to be the
depositaries of an esoteric wisdom which the vulgar were not worthy to
criticise. They were themselves chiefly anxious to prove that their
sacred mysteries were really not at all mysterious, but merely one way
of expressing plain common sense. At Oxford, indeed, the lads were still
crammed with Aldrich, and learned the technical terms of a philosophy
which had ceased to have any real life in it. At Cambridge, ardent young
radicals spoke with contempt of this 'horrid jargon--fit only to be
chattered by monkies in a wilderness.'[23] Even at Cambridge, they still
had disputations on the old form, but they argued theses from Locke's
essay, and thought that their mathematical studies were a check upon
metaphysical 'jargon.' It is indeed characteristic of the respect for
tradition that at Cambridge even mathematics long suffered from a
mistaken patriotism which resented any improvement upon the methods of
Newton. There were some signs of reviving activity. The fellowships were
being distributed with less regard to private interest. The mathematical
tripos founded at Cambridge in the middle of the century became the
prototype of all competitive examinations; and half a century later
Oxford followed the precedent by the Examination Statute of 1800. A
certain number of professorships of such modern studies as anatomy,
history, botany, and geology were founded during the eighteenth century,
and show a certain sense of a need of broader views. The lectures upon
which Blackstone founded his commentaries were the product of the
foundation of the Vinerian professorship in 1751; and the most recent of
the Cambridge colleges, Downing College, shows by its constitution that
a professoriate was now considered to be desirable. Cambridge in the
last years of the century might have had a body of very eminent
professors. Watson, second wrangler of 1759, had delivered lectures upon
chemistry, of which it was said by Davy that hardly any conceivable
change in the science could make them obsolete.[24] Paley, senior
wrangler in 1763, was an almost unrivalled master of lucid exposition,
and one of his works is still a textbook at Cambridge. Isaac Milner,
senior wrangler in 1774, afterwards held the professorships of
mathematics and natural philosophy, and was famous as a sort of
ecclesiastical Dr. Johnson. Gilbert Wakefield, second wrangler in 1776,
published an edition of Lucretius, and was a man of great ability and
energy. Herbert Marsh, second wrangler in 1779, was divinity professor
from 1807, and was the first English writer to introduce some knowledge
of the early stages of German criticism. Porson, the greatest Greek
scholar of his time, became professor in 1790; Malthus, ninth wrangler
in 1788, who was to make a permanent mark upon political economy, became
fellow of Jesus College in 1793. Waring, senior wrangler in 1757, Vince,
senior wrangler in 1775, and Wollaston, senior wrangler in 1783, were
also professors and mathematicians of reputation. Towards the end of the
century ten professors were lecturing.[25] A large number were not
lecturing, though Milner was good enough to be 'accessible to
students.' Paley and Watson had been led off into the path of
ecclesiastical preferment. Marsh too became a bishop in 1816. There was
no place for such talents as those of Malthus, who ultimately became
professor at Haileybury. Wakefield had the misfortune of not being able
to cover his heterodoxy with the conventional formula. Porson suffered
from the same cause, and from less respectable weaknesses; but it seems
that the university had no demand for services of the great scholar, and
he did nothing for his £40 a year. Milner was occupied in managing the
university in the interests of Pitt and Protestantism, and in waging war
against Jacobins and intruders. There was no lack of ability; but there
was no inducement to any intellectual activity for its own sake; and
there were abundant temptations for any man of energy to diverge to the
career which offered more intelligible rewards.

The universities in fact supplied the demand which was actually
operative. They provided the average clergyman with a degree; they
expected the son of the country-gentleman or successful lawyer to
acquire the traditional culture of his class, and to spend three or four
years pleasantly, or even, if he chose, industriously. But there was no
such thing as a learned society, interested in the cultivation of
knowledge for its own sake, and applauding the devotion of life to its
extension or discussion. The men of the time who contributed to the
progress of science owed little or nothing to the universities, and were
rather volunteers from without, impelled by their own idiosyncrasies.
Among the scientific leaders, for example, Joseph Black (1728-1799) was
a Scottish professor; Priestley (1733-1804) a dissenting minister;
Cavendish (1731-1810) an aristocratic recluse, who, though he studied at
Cambridge, never graduated; Watt (1736-1819) a practical mechanician;
and Dalton (1766-1844) a Quaker schoolmaster. John Hunter (1728-1793)
was one of the energetic Scots who forced their way to fame without help
from English universities. The cultivation of the natural sciences was
only beginning to take root; and the soil, which it found congenial, was
not that of the great learned institutions, which held to their old
traditional studies.

I may, then, sum up the result in a few words. The church had once
claimed to be an entirely independent body, possessing a supernatural
authority, with an organisation sanctioned by supernatural powers, and
entitled to lay down the doctrines which gave the final theory of life.
Theology was the queen of the sciences and theologians the interpreters
of the first principles of all knowledge and conduct. The church of
England, on the other hand, at our period had entirely ceased to be
independent: it was bound hand and foot by acts of parliament: there was
no ecclesiastical organ capable of speaking in its name, altering its
laws or defining its tenets: it was an aggregate of offices the
appointment to which was in the hands either of the political ministers
or of the lay members of the ruling class. It was in reality simply a
part of the ruling class told off to perform divine services: to
maintain order and respectability and the traditional morality. It had
no distinctive philosophy or theology, for the articles of belief
represented simply a compromise; an attempt to retain as much of the old
as was practicable and yet to admit as much of the new as was made
desirable by political considerations. It was the boast of its more
liberal members that they were not tied down to any definite dogmatic
system; but could have a free hand so long as they did not wantonly come
into conflict with some of the legal formulæ laid down in a previous
generation. The actual teaching showed the effects of the system. It had
been easy to introduce a considerable leaven of the rationalism which
suited the lay mind; to explain away the mysterious doctrines upon which
an independent church had insisted as manifestations of its spiritual
privileges, but which were regarded with indifference or contempt by the
educated laity now become independent. The priest had been disarmed and
had to suit his teaching to the taste of his patrons and congregations.
The divines of the eighteenth century had, as they boasted, confuted the
deists; but it was mainly by showing that they could be deists in all
but the name. The dissenters, less hampered by legal formulæ, had
drifted towards Unitarianism. The position of such divines as Paley,
Watson, and Hey was not so much that the Unitarians were wrong, as that
the mysterious doctrines were mere sets of words, over which it was
superfluous to quarrel. The doctrine was essentially traditional; for it
was impossible to represent the doctrines of the church of England as
deductions from any abstract philosophy. But the traditions were not
regarded as having any mysterious authority. Abstract philosophy might
lead to deism or infidelity. Paley and his like rejected such philosophy
in the spirit of Locke or even Hume. But it was always possible to treat
a tradition like any other statement of fact. It could be proved by
appropriate evidence. The truth of Christianity was therefore merely a
question of facts like the truth of any other passages of history. It
was easy enough to make out a case for the Christian miracles, and then
the mysteries, after it had been sufficiently explained that they really
meant next to nothing, could be rested upon the authority of the
miracles. In other words, the accepted doctrines, like the whole
constitution of the church, could be so modified as to suit the
prejudices and modes of thought of the laity. The church, it may be
said, was thoroughly secularised. The priest was no longer a wielder of
threats and an interpreter of oracles, but an entirely respectable
gentleman, who fully sympathised with the prejudices of his patron and
practically admitted that he had very little to reveal, beyond
explaining that his dogmas were perfectly harmless and eminently
convenient. He preached, however, a sound common sense morality, and was
not divided from his neighbours by setting up the claims characteristic
of a sacerdotal caste. Whether he has become on the whole better or
worse by subsequent changes is a question not to be asked here; but
perhaps not quite so easily answered as is sometimes supposed.

The condition of the English church and universities may be contrasted
with that of their Scottish rivals. The Scottish church and universities
had no great prizes to offer and no elaborate hierarchy. But the church
was a national institution in a sense different from the English. The
General Assembly was a powerful body, not overshadowed by a great
political rival. To rise to be a minister was the great ambition of poor
sons of farmers and tradesmen. They had to study at the universities in
the intervals, perhaps, of agricultural labour; and if the learning was
slight and the scholarship below the English standard, the young
aspirant had at least to learn to preach and to acquire such philosophy
as would enable him to argue upon grace and freewill with some
hard-headed Davie Deans. It was doubtless owing in part to these
conditions that the Scottish universities produced many distinguished
teachers throughout the century. Professors had to teach something which
might at least pass for philosophy, though they were more or less
restrained by the necessity of respecting orthodox prejudices. At the
end of the century, the only schools of philosophy in the island were to
be found in Scotland, where Reid (1710-1796) and Adam Smith (1723-1790)
had found intelligent disciples, and where Dugald Stewart, of whom I
shall speak presently, had become the recognised philosophical
authority.

NOTES:

[22] At Cambridge subscription was abolished for undergraduates in 1775;
and bachelors of arts had only to declare themselves '_bona-fide_
members of the church of England.'

[23] Gilbert Wakefield's _Memoirs_, ii. 149.

[24] De Quincey, _Works_ (1863), ii. 106.

[25] Wordsworth's _University Life, etc._ (1874), 83-87.


VII. THEORY

What theory corresponds to this practical order? It implies, in the
first place, a constant reference to tradition. The system has grown up
without any reference to abstract principles or symmetrical plan. The
legal order supposes a traditional common law, as the ecclesiastical
order a traditional creed, and the organisation is explicable only by
historical causes. The system represents a series of compromises, not
the elaboration of a theory. If the squire undertook by way of
supererogation to justify his position he appealed to tradition and
experience. He invoked the 'wisdom of our ancestors,' the system of
'checks and balances' which made our Constitution an unrivalled mixture
of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy deserving the 'dread and envy
of the world.' The prescription for compounding that mixture could
obviously be learned by nothing but experiment. Traditional means
empirical. By instinct, rather than conscious reasoning, Englishmen had
felt their way to establishing the 'palladia of our liberties': trial by
jury, the 'Habeas Corpus' Act, and the substitution of a militia for a
standing army. The institutions were cherished because they had been
developed by long struggles and were often cherished when their real
justification had disappeared. The Constitution had not been 'made' but
had 'grown'; or, in other words, the one rule had been the rule of
thumb. That is an excellent rule in its way, and very superior to an
abstract rule which neglects or overrides experience. The 'logic of
facts,' moreover, may be trusted to produce a certain harmony: and
general principles, though not consciously invoked, tacitly govern the
development of institutions worked out under uniform conditions. The
simple reluctance to pay money without getting money's worth might
generate the important principle that representation should go with
taxation, without embodying any theory of a 'social contract' such as
was offered by an afterthought to give a philosophical sanction.
Englishmen, it is said, had bought their liberties step by step, because
at each step they were in a position to bargain with their rulers. What
they had bought they were determined to keep and considered to be their
inalienable property. One result is conspicuous. In England the ruling
classes did not so much consider their privileges to be something
granted by the state, as the power of the state to be something derived
from their concessions. Though the lord-lieutenant and the justices of
the peace were nominated by the crown, their authority came in fact as
an almost spontaneous consequence of their birthright or their acquired
position in the country. They shone by their own light and were really
the ultimate sources of authority. Seats in parliament, preferments in
the church, commissions in the army belonged to them like their estates;
and they seemed to be qualified by nature, rather than by appointment,
to act in judicial and administrative capacities. The system of
'self-government' embodies this view. The functions of government were
assigned to men already powerful by their social position. The absence
of the centralised hierarchy of officials gave to Englishmen the sense
of personal liberty which compelled the admiration of Voltaire and his
countrymen in the eighteenth century. In England were no _lettres de
cachet_, and no Bastille. A man could say what he thought and act
without fear of arbitrary rule. There was no such system as that which,
in France, puts the agents of the central power above the ordinary law
of the land. This implies what has been called the 'rule of the law' in
England. 'With us every official from the prime minister down to a
constable or a collector of taxes' (as Professor Dicey explains the
principle) 'is under the same responsibility for every act done without
legal justification as any other citizen.'[26] The early centralisation
of the English monarchy had made the law supreme, and instead of
generating a new structure had combined and regulated the existing
social forces. The sovereign power was thus farmed to the aristocracy
instead of forming an organ of its own. Instead of resigning power they
were forced to exercise it on condition of thorough responsibility to
the central judiciary. Their privileges were not destroyed but were
combined with the discharge of corresponding duties. Whatever their
shortcomings, they were preserved from the decay which is the inevitable
consequence of a divorce of duties from privileges.

Another aspect of the case is equally clear. If the privilege is
associated with a duty, the duty may also be regarded as a privilege.
The doctrine seems to mark a natural stage in the evolution of the
conception of duty to the state. The power which is left to a member of
the ruling class is also part of his dignity. Thus we have an
amalgamation between the conceptions of private property and public
trust. 'In so far as the ideal of feudalism is perfectly realised,' it
has been said,[27] 'all that we can call public law is merged in private
law; jurisdiction is property; office is property; the kingship itself
is property.' This feudal ideal was still preserved with many of the
institutions descended from feudalism. The king's right to his throne
was regarded as of the same kind as the right to a private estate. His
rights as king were also his rights as the owner of the land.[28]
Subordinate landowners had similar rights, and as the royal power
diminished greater powers fell to the aggregate of constitutional
kinglets who governed the country. Each of them was from one point of
view an official, but each also regarded his office as part of his
property. The country belonged to him and his class rather than he to
the country. We occasionally find the quaint theory which deduced
political rights from property in land. The freeholders were the owners
of the soil and might give notice to quit to the rest of the
population.[29] They had therefore a natural right to carry on
government in their own interests. The ruling classes, however, were not
marked off from others by any deep line of demarcation; they could sell
their own share in the government to anybody who was rich enough to buy
it, and there was a constant influx of new blood. Moreover, they did in
fact improve their estate with very great energy, and discharged
roughly, but in many ways efficiently, the duties which were also part
of their property. The nobleman or even the squire was more than an
individual; as head of a family he was a life tenant of estates which he
desired to transmit to his descendants. He was a 'corporation sole' and
had some of the spirit of a corporation. A college or a hospital is
founded to discharge a particular function; its members continue perhaps
to recognise their duty; but they resent any interference from outside
as sacrilege or confiscation. It is for them alone to judge how they can
best carry out, and whether they are actually carrying out, the aims of
the corporate life. In the same way the great noble took his part in
legislation, church preferment, the command of the army, and so forth,
and fully admitted that he was bound in honour to play his part
effectively; but he was equally convinced that he was subject to nothing
outside of his sense of honour. His duties were also his rights. The
naïf expression of this doctrine by a great borough proprietor, 'May I
not do what I like with my own?' was to become proverbial.[30]

This, finally, suggests that a doctrine of 'individualism' is implied
throughout. The individual rights are the antecedent and the rights of
the state a consequent or corollary. Every man has certain sacred rights
accruing to him in virtue of 'prescription' or tradition, through his
inherited position in the social organism. The 'rule of law' secures
that he shall exercise them without infringing the privileges of his
neighbour. He may moreover be compelled by the law to discharge them on
due occasion. But, as there is no supreme body which can sufficiently
superintend, stimulate, promote, or dismiss, the active impulse must
come chiefly from his own sense of the fitness of things. The efficiency
therefore depends upon his being in such a position that his duty may
coincide with his personal interest. The political machinery can only
work efficiently on the assumption of a spontaneous activity of the
ruling classes, prompted by public spirit or a sense of personal
dignity. Meanwhile, 'individualism' in a different sense was represented
by the forces which made for progress rather than order, and to them I
must now turn.

NOTES:

[26] Professor Dicey's _Lectures on the Law of the Constitution_ (1885),
p. 178. Professor Dicey gives an admirable exposition of the 'rule of
law.'

[27] Pollock and Maitland's _History of English Law_, i. 208.

[28] A characteristic consequence is that Hale and Blackstone make no
distinction between public and private law. Austin (_Jurisprudence_
(1869), 773-76) applauds them for this peculiarity, which he regards as
a proof of originality, though it would rather seem to be an acceptance
of the traditional view. Austin, however, retorts the charge of
_Verwirrung_ upon German critics.

[29] This is the theory of Defoe in his _Original Power of the People of
England_ (Works by Hazlitt, vol iii. See especially p. 57).

[30] The fourth duke of Newcastle in the House of Lords, 3 Dec. 1830.




CHAPTER II

THE INDUSTRIAL SPIRIT


I. THE MANUFACTURERS

The history of England during the eighteenth century shows a curious
contrast between the political stagnancy and the great industrial
activity. The great constitutional questions seemed to be settled; and
the statesmen, occupied mainly in sharing power and place, took a very
shortsighted view (not for the first time in history) of the great
problems that were beginning to present themselves. The British empire
in the East was not won by a towering ambition so much as forced upon a
reluctant commercial company by the necessities of its position. The
English race became dominant in America; but the political connection
was broken off mainly because English statesmen could only regard it
from the shopkeeping point of view. When a new world began to arise at
the Antipodes, our rulers saw an opportunity not for planting new
offshoots of European civilisation, but for ridding themselves of the
social rubbish no longer accepted in America. With purblind energy, and
eyes doggedly fixed upon the ground at their feet, the race had somehow
pressed forwards to illustrate the old doctrine that a man never goes so
far as when he does not know whither he is going. While thinking of
earning an honest penny by extending the trade, our 'monied-men' were
laying the foundation of vast structures to be developed by their
descendants.

Politicians, again, had little to do with the great 'industrial
revolution' which marked the last half of the century. The main facts
are now a familiar topic of economic historians; nor need I speak of
them in detail. Though agriculture was still the main industry, and the
landowners almost monopolised political power, an ever growing
proportion of the people was being collected in towns; the artisans were
congregating in large factories; and the great cloud of coal-smoke,
which has never dwindled, was already beginning to darken our skies. The
change corresponds to the difference between a fully developed organism
possessed of a central brain, with an elaborate nervous system, and some
lower form in which the vital processes are still carried on by a number
of separate ganglia. The concentration of the population in the great
industrial centres implied the improvement of the means of commerce; new
organisation of industry provided with a corresponding apparatus of
machinery; and the systematic exploitation of the stored-up forces of
nature. Each set of changes was at once cause and effect, and each was
carried on separately, although in relation to the other. Brindley,
Arkwright, and Watt may be taken as typical representatives of the three
operations. Canals, spinning-jennies, and steam-engines were changing
the whole social order.

The development of means of communication had been slow till the last
half of the century. The roads had been little changed since they had
been first laid down as part of the great network which bound the Roman
empire together. Turnpike acts, sanctioning the construction of new
roads, became numerous. Palmer's application of the stage-coaches to the
carriage of the mails marked an epoch in 1784; and De Quincey's prose
poem, 'The Mail-coach,' shows how the unprecedented speed of Palmer's
coaches, then spreading the news of the first battles in the Peninsula,
had caused them to tyrannise over the opium-eater's dreams. They were
discharging at once a political and an industrial function. Meanwhile
the Bridgewater canal, constructed between 1759 and 1761, was the first
link in a great network which, by the time of the French revolution,
connected the seaports and the great centres of industry. The great
inventions of machinery were simultaneously enabling manufacturers to
take advantage of the new means of communication. The cotton manufacture
sprang up soon after 1780 with enormous rapidity. Aided by the
application of steam (first applied to a cotton mill in 1785) it passed
the woollen trade, the traditional favourite of legislators, and became
the most important branch of British trade. The iron trade had made a
corresponding start. While the steam-engine, on which Watt had made the
first great improvement in 1765, was transforming the manufacturing
system, and preparing the advent of the steamship and railroad, Great
Britain had become the leading manufacturing and commercial country in
the world. The agricultural interest was losing its pre-eminence; and
huge towns with vast aggregations of artisan population were beginning
to spring up with unprecedented rapidity. The change was an
illustration upon a gigantic scale of the doctrines expounded in the
_Wealth of Nations_. Division of labour was being applied to things more
important than pin-making, involving a redistribution of functions not
as between men covered by the same roof, but between whole classes of
society; between the makers of new means of communication and the
manufacturers of every kind of material. The whole industrial community
might be regarded as one great organism. Yet the organisation was formed
by a multitude of independent agencies without any concerted plan. It
was thus a vast illustration of the doctrine that each man by pursuing
his own interests promoted the interests of the whole, and that
government interference was simply a hindrance. The progress of
improvement, says Adam Smith, depends upon 'the uniform, constant, and
uninterrupted effort of every man to better his condition,' which often
succeeds in spite of the errors of government, as nature often overcomes
the blunders of doctors. It is, as he infers, 'the highest impertinence
and presumption for kings and ministers to pretend to watch over the
economy of private people' by sumptuary laws and taxes upon imports.[31]
To the English manufacturer or engineer government appeared as a
necessary evil. It allowed the engineer to make roads and canals, after
a troublesome and expensive process of application. It granted patents
to the manufacturer, but the patents were a source of perpetual worry
and litigation. The Chancellor of the Exchequer might look with
complacency upon the development of a new branch of trade; but it was
because he was lying in wait to come down upon it with a new tax or
system of duties.

The men who were the chief instruments of the process were 'self-made';
they were the typical examples of Mr. Smiles's virtue of self-help; they
owed nothing to government or to the universities which passed for the
organs of national culture. The leading engineers began as ordinary
mechanics. John Metcalf (1717-1810), otherwise 'blind Jack of
Knaresborough,' was a son of poor parents. He had lost his sight by
smallpox at the age of six, and, in spite of his misfortune, became a
daring rider, wrestler, soldier, and carrier, and made many roads in the
north of England, executing surveys and constructing the works himself.
James Brindley (1716-1772), son of a midland collier, barely able to
read or write, working out plans by processes which he could not
explain, and lying in bed till they took shape in his brain, a rough
mechanic, labouring for trifling weekly wages, created the canals which
mainly enabled Manchester and Liverpool to make an unprecedented leap in
prosperity. The two great engineers, Thomas Telford (1757-1834), famous
for the Caledonian canal and the Menai bridge; and John Rennie
(1761-1821), drainer of Lincolnshire fens, and builder of Waterloo
bridge and the Plymouth breakwater, rose from the ranks. Telford
inherited and displayed in a different direction the energies of Eskdale
borderers, whose achievements in the days of cattle-stealing were to be
made famous by Scott: Rennie was the son of an East Lothian farmer. Both
of them learned their trade by actual employment as mechanics. The
inventors of machinery belonged mainly to the lower middle classes. Kay
was a small manufacturer; Hargreaves a hand-loom weaver; Crompton the
son of a small farmer; and Arkwright a country barber. Watt, son of a
Greenock carpenter, came from the sturdy Scottish stock, ultimately of
covenanting ancestry, from which so many eminent men have sprung.

The new social class, in which such men were the leaders, held
corresponding principles. They owed whatever success they won to their
own right hands. They were sturdy workers, with eyes fixed upon success
in life, and success generally of course measured by a money criterion.
Many of them showed intellectual tastes, and took an honourable view of
their social functions. Watt showed his ability in scientific inquiries
outside of the purely industrial application; Josiah Wedgwood, in whose
early days the Staffordshire potters had led a kind of gipsy life,
settling down here and there to carry on their trade, had not only
founded a great industry, but was a man of artistic taste, a patron of
art, and a lover of science. Telford, the Eskdale shepherd, was a man of
literary taste, and was especially friendly with the typical man of
letters, Southey. Others, of course, were of a lower type. Arkwright
combined the talents of an inventor with those of a man of business. He
was a man, says Baines (the historian of the cotton trade), who was sure
to come out of an enterprise with profit, whatever the result to his
partners. He made a great fortune, and founded a county family. Others
rose in the same direction. The Peels, for example, represented a line
of yeomen. One Peel founded a cotton business; his son became a baronet
and an influential member of parliament; and his grandson went to
Oxford, and became the great leader of the Conservative party, although
like Walpole, he owed his power to a kind of knowledge in which his
adopted class were generally deficient.

The class which owed its growing importance to the achievements of such
men was naturally imbued with their spirit. Its growth meant the
development of a class which under the old order had been strictly
subordinate to the ruling class, and naturally regarded it with a
mingled feeling of respect and jealousy. The British merchant felt his
superiority in business to the average country-gentleman; he got no
direct share of the pensions and sinecures which so profoundly affected
the working of the political machinery, and yet his highest ambition was
to rise to be himself a member of the class, and to found a family which
might flourish in the upper atmosphere. The industrial classes were
inclined to favour political progress within limits. They were
dissenters because the church was essentially part of the aristocracy;
and they were readiest to denounce the abuses from which they did not
profit. The agitators who supported Wilkes, solid aldermen and rich
merchants, represented the view which was popular in London and other
great cities. They were the backbone of the Whig party when it began to
demand a serious reform. Their radicalism, however, was not thoroughly
democratic. Many of them aspired to become members of the ruling class,
and a shopkeeper does not quarrel too thoroughly with his customers. The
politics of individuals were of course determined by accidents. Some of
them might retain the sympathy of the class from which they sprang, and
others might adopt an even extreme version of the opinions of the class
to which they desired to rise. But, in any case, the divergence of
interest between the capitalists and the labourers was already making
itself felt. The self-made man, it is said, is generally the hardest
master. He approves of the stringent system of competition, of which he
is himself a product. It clearly enables the best man to win, for is he
not himself the best man? The class which was the great seat of movement
had naturally to meet all the prejudices which are roused by change. The
farmers near London, as Adam Smith tells us,[32] petitioned against an
extension of turnpike roads, which would enable more distant farmers to
compete in their market. But the farmers were not the only prejudiced
persons. All the great inventors of machinery, Kay and Arkwright and
Watt, had constantly to struggle against the old workmen who were
displaced by their inventions. Although, therefore, the class might be
Whiggish, it did not share the strongest revolutionary passions. The
genuine revolutionists were rather the men who destroyed the
manufacturer's machines, and were learning to regard him as a natural
enemy. The manufacturer had his own reasons for supporting government.
Our foreign policy during the century was in the long run chiefly
determined by the interests of our trade, however much the trade might
at times be hampered by ill-conceived regulations. It is remarkable that
Adam Smith[33] argues that, although the capitalist is acuter that the
country-gentleman, his acuteness is chiefly displayed by knowing his own
interests better. Those interests, he thinks, do not coincide so much as
the interests of the country-gentleman with the general interests of the
country. Consequently the country-gentleman, though less intelligent,
is more likely to favour a national and liberal policy. The merchant, in
fact, was not a free-trader because he had read Adam Smith or
consciously adopted Smith's principles, but because or in so far as
particular restrictions interfered with him. Arthur Young complains
bitterly of the manufacturers who supported the prohibition to export
English wool, and so protected their own class at the expense of
agriculturists. Wedgwood, though a good liberal and a supporter of
Pitt's French treaty in 1786, joined in protesting against the proposal
for free-trade with Ireland. The Irish, he thought, might rival his
potteries. Thus, though as a matter of fact the growing class of
manufacturers and merchants were inclined in the main to liberal
principles, it was less from adhesion to any general doctrine than from
the fact that the existing restrictions and prejudices generally
conflicted with their plain interests.

Another characteristic is remarkable. Though the growth of manufactures
and commerce meant the growth of great towns, it did not mean the growth
of municipal institutions. On the contrary, as I shall presently have to
notice, the municipalities were sinking to their lowest ebb.
Manufactures, in the first instance, spread along the streams into
country districts: and to the great manufacturer, working for his own
hand, his neighbours were competitors as much as allies. The great
towns, however, which were growing up, showed the general tendencies of
the class. They were centres not only of manufacturing but of
intellectual progress. The population of Birmingham, containing the
famous Soho works of Boulton and Watt, had increased between 1740 and
1780 from 24,000 to 74,000 inhabitants. Watt's partner Boulton started
the 'Lunar Society' at Birmingham.[34] Its most prominent member was
Erasmus Darwin, famous then for poetry which is chiefly remembered by
the parody in the _Anti-Jacobin_; and now more famous as the advocate of
a theory of evolution eclipsed by the teaching of his more famous
grandson, and, in any case, a man of remarkable intellectual power.
Among those who joined in the proceedings was Edgeworth, who in 1768 was
speculating upon moving carriages by steam, and Thomas Day, whose
_Sandford and Merton_ helped to spread in England the educational
theories of Rousseau. Priestley, who settled at Birmingham in 1780,
became a member, and was helped in his investigations by Watt's counsels
and Wedgwood's pecuniary help. Among occasional visitors were Smeaton,
Sir Joseph Banks, Solander, and Herschel of scientific celebrity; while
the literary magnate, Dr. Parr, who lived between Warwick and
Birmingham, occasionally joined the circle. Wedgwood, though too far off
to be a member, was intimate with Darwin and associated in various
enterprises with Boulton. Wedgwood's congenial partner, Thomas Bentley
(1731-1780), had been in business at Manchester and at Liverpool. He had
taken part in founding the Warrington 'Academy,' the dissenting seminary
(afterwards moved to Manchester) of which Priestley was tutor
(1761-1767), and had lectured upon art at the academy founded at
Liverpool in 1773. Another member of the academy was William Roscoe
(1753-1831), whose literary taste was shown by his lives of Lorenzo de
Medici and Leo X., and who distinguished himself by opposing the
slave-trade, then the infamy of his native town. Allied with him in this
movement were William Rathbone and James Currie (1756-1805) the
biographer of Burns, a friend of Darwin and an intelligent physician. At
Manchester Thomas Perceval (1740-1804) founded the 'Literary and
Philosophical Society' in 1780. He was a pupil of the Warrington
Academy, which he afterwards joined on removing to Manchester, and he
formed the scheme afterwards realised by Owens College. He was an early
advocate of sanitary measures and factory legislation, and a man of
scientific reputation. Other members of the society were: John Ferriar
(1761-1815), best known by his _Illustrations of Sterne_, but also a man
of literary and scientific reputation; the great chemist, John Dalton
(1766-1844), who contributed many papers to its transactions; and, for a
short time, the Socialist Robert Owen, then a rising manufacturer. At
Norwich, then important as a manufacturing centre, was a similar circle.
William Taylor, an eminent Unitarian divine, who died at the Warrington
Academy in 1761, had lived at Norwich. One of his daughters married
David Martineau and became the mother of Harriet Martineau, who has
described the Norwich of her early years. John Taylor, grandson of
William, was father of Mrs. Austin, wife of the jurist. He was a man of
literary tastes, and his wife was known as the Madame Roland of Norwich.
Mrs. Opie (1765-1853) was daughter of James Alderson, a physician of
Norwich, and passed most of her life there. William Taylor (1761-1836),
another Norwich manufacturer, was among the earliest English students of
German literature. Norwich had afterwards the unique distinction of
being the home of a provincial school of artists. John Crome
(1788-1821), son of a poor weaver, and John Sell Cotman (1782-1842) were
its leaders; they formed a kind of provincial academy, and exhibited
pictures which have been more appreciated since their death. At Bristol,
towards the end of the century, were similar indications of intellectual
activity. Coleridge and Southey found there a society ready to listen to
their early lectures, and both admired Thomas Beddoes (1760-1808), a
physician, a chemist, a student of German, an imitator of Darwin in
poetry, and an assailant of Pitt in pamphlets. He had married one of
Edgeworth's daughters. With the help and advice of Wedgwood and Watt, he
founded the 'Pneumatic Institute' at Clifton in 1798, and obtained the
help of Humphry Davy, who there made some of his first discoveries. Davy
was soon transported to the Royal Institution, founded at the suggestion
of Count Rumford in 1799, which represented the growth of a popular
interest in the scientific discoveries.

The general tone of these little societies represents, of course, the
tendency of the upper stratum of the industrial classes. In their own
eyes they naturally represented the progressive element of society. They
were Whigs--for 'radicalism' was not yet invented--but Whigs of the left
wing; accepting the aristocratic precedency, but looking askance at the
aristocratic prejudices. They were rationalists, too, in principle, but
again within limits: openly avowing the doctrines which in the
Established church had still to be sheltered by ostensible conformity to
the traditional dogmas. Many of them professed the Unitarianism to which
the old dissenting bodies inclined. 'Unitarianism,' said shrewd old
Erasmus Darwin, 'is a feather-bed for a dying Christian.' But at present
such men as Priestley and Price were only so far on the road to a
thorough rationalism as to denounce the corruptions of Christianity, as
they denounced abuses in politics, without anticipating a revolutionary
change in church and state. Priestley, for example, combined
'materialism' and 'determinism' with Christianity and a belief in
miracles, and controverted Horsley upon one side and Paine on the other.

NOTES:

[31] _Wealth of Nations_, bk. ii. ch. iii.

[32] _Wealth of Nations_, bk. i. ch. xi. § 1.

[33] _Ibid._ bk. i. ch. xi. conclusion.

[34] Smiles's _Watt and Boulton_, p. 292.


II. THE AGRICULTURISTS

The general spirit represented by such movements was by no means
confined to the commercial or manufacturing classes; and its most
characteristic embodiment is to be found in the writings of a leading
agriculturist.

Arthur Young,[35] born in 1741, was the son of a clergyman, who had also
a small ancestral property at Bradfield, near Bury St. Edmunds.
Accidents led to his becoming a farmer at an early age. He showed more
zeal than discretion, and after trying three thousand experiments on his
farm, he was glad to pay £100 to another tenant to take his farm off his
hands. This experience as a practical agriculturist, far from
discouraging him, qualified him in his own opinion to speak with
authority, and he became a devoted missionary of the gospel of
agricultural improvement. The enthusiasm with which he admired more
successful labourers in the cause, and the indignation with which he
regards the sluggish and retrograde, are charming. His kindliness, his
keen interest in the prosperity of all men, rich or poor, his ardent
belief in progress, combined with his quickness of observation, give a
charm to the writings which embody his experience. Tours in England and
a temporary land-agency in Ireland supplied him with materials for books
which made him known both in England and on the Continent. In 1779 he
returned to Bradfield, where he soon afterwards came into possession of
his paternal estate, which became his permanent home. In 1784 he tried
to extend his propaganda by bringing out the _Annals of Agriculture_--a
monthly publication, of which forty-five half-yearly volumes appeared.
He had many able contributors and himself wrote many interesting
articles, but the pecuniary results were mainly negative. In 1791 his
circulation was only 350 copies.[36] Meanwhile his acquaintance with the
duc de Liancourt led to tours in France from 1788 to 1790. His _Travels
in France_, first published in 1792, has become a classic. In 1793 Young
was made secretary to the Board of Agriculture, of which I shall speak
presently. He became known in London society as well as in agricultural
circles. He was a handsome and attractive man, a charming companion, and
widely recognised as an agricultural authority. The empress of Russia
sent him a snuff-box; 'Farmer George' presented a merino ram; he was
elected member of learned societies; he visited Burke at Beaconsfield,
Pitt at Holmwood, and was a friend of Wilberforce and of Jeremy Bentham.

Young had many domestic troubles. His marriage was not congenial; the
loss of a tenderly loved daughter in 1797 permanently saddened him; he
became blind, and in his later years sought comfort in religious
meditation and in preaching to his poorer neighbours. He died 20th April
1820. He left behind him a gigantic history of agriculture, filling ten
folio volumes of manuscript, which, though reduced to six by an
enthusiastic disciple after his death, have never found their way to
publication.

The _Travels in France_, Young's best book, owes one merit to the advice
of a judicious friend, who remarked that the previous tours had suffered
from the absence of the personal details which interest the common
reader. The insertion of these makes Young's account of his French tours
one of the most charming as well as most instructive books of the kind.
It gives the vivid impression made upon a keen and kindly observer in
all their freshness. He sensibly retained the expressions of opinion
made at the time. 'I may remark at present,' he says,[37] 'that although
I was totally mistaken in my prediction, yet, on a revision, I think I
was right in it.' It was right, he means, upon the data then known to
him, and he leaves the unfulfilled prediction as it was. The book is
frequently cited in justification of the revolution, and it may be
fairly urged that his authority is of the more weight, because he does
not start from any sympathy with revolutionary principles. Young was in
Paris when the oath was taken at the tennis-court; and makes his
reflections upon the beauty of the British Constitution, and the folly
of visionary reforms, in a spirit which might have satisfied Burke. He
was therefore not altogether inconsistent when, after the outrages, he
condemned the revolution, however much the facts which he describes may
tend to explain the inevitableness of the catastrophe. At any rate, his
views are worth notice by the indications which they give of the mental
attitude of a typical English observer.

Young in his vivacious way struck out some of the phrases which became
proverbial with later economists. 'Give a man the secure possession of a
bleak rock and he will turn it into a garden. Give him a nine years'
lease of a garden, and he will convert it into a desert.'[38] 'The magic
of PROPERTY turns sand to gold.'[39] He is delighted with the comfort of
the small proprietors near Pau, which reminds him of English districts
still inhabited by small yeomen.[40] Passing to a less fortunate region,
he explains that the prince de Soubise has a vast property there. The
property of a grand 'seigneur' is sure to be a desert.[41] The signs
which indicate such properties are 'wastes, _landes_, deserts, fern,
ling.' The neighbourhood of the great residences is well peopled--'with
deer, wild boars, and wolves,' 'Oh,' he exclaims, 'if I was the
legislator of France for a day, I would make such great lords skip
again!' 'Why,' he asked, 'were the people miserable in lower Savoy?'
'_Because_', was the reply, '_there are seigneurs everywhere_'.[42]
Misery in Brittany was due 'to the execrable maxims of despotism or the
equally detestable prejudices of a feudal nobility.'[43] There was
nothing, he said, in the province but 'privileges and poverty,'[44]
privileges of the nobles and poverty of the peasants.

Young was profoundly convinced, moreover, that, as he says more than
once[45] 'everything in this world depends on government.' He is
astonished at the stupidity and ignorance of the provincial population,
and ascribes it to the lethargy produced by despotism.[46] He contrasts
it with 'the energetic and rapid circulation of wealth, animation, and
intelligence of England,' where 'blacksmiths and carpenters' would
discuss every political event. And yet he heartily admires some of the
results of a centralised monarchy. He compares the miserable roads in
Catalonia on the Spanish side of the frontier with the magnificent
causeways and bridges on the French side. The difference is due to the
'one all-powerful cause that instigates mankind ... government.'[47] He
admires the noble public works, the canal of Languedoc, the harbours at
Cherbourg and Havre, and the _école vétérinaire_ where agriculture is
taught upon scientific principles. He is struck by the curious contrast
between France and England. In France the splendid roads are used by few
travellers, and the inns are filthy pothouses; in England there are
detestable roads, but a comparatively enormous traffic. When he wished
to make the great nobles 'skip' he does not generally mean confiscation.
He sees indeed one place where in 1790 the poor had seized a piece of
waste land, declaring that the poor were the nation, and that the waste
belonged to the nation. He declares[48] that he considers their action
'wise, rational, and philosophical,' and wishes that there were a law to
make such conduct legal in England. But his more general desire is that
the landowners should be compelled to do their duty. He complains that
the nobles live in 'wretched holes' in the country in order to save the
means of expenditure upon theatres, entertainments, and gambling in the
towns.[49] 'Banishment alone will force the French nobility to do what
the English do for pleasure--to reside upon and adorn their
estates.'[50] He explains to a French friend that English agriculture
has flourished 'in spite of the teeth of our ministers'; we have had
many Colberts, but not one Sully[51]; and we should have done much
better, he thinks, had agriculture received the same attention as
commerce. This is the reverse of Adam Smith's remark upon the superior
liberality of the English country-gentleman, who did not, like the
manufacturers, invoke protection and interference. In truth, Young
desired both advantages, the vigour of a centralised government and the
energy of an independent aristocracy. His absence of any general theory
enables him to do justice in detail at the cost of consistency in
general theory. In France, as he saw, the nobility had become in the
main an encumbrance, a mere dead weight upon the energies of the
agriculturist. But he did not infer that large properties in land were
bad in themselves; for in England he saw that the landowners were the
really energetic and improving class. He naturally looked at the problem
from the point of view of an intelligent land-agent. He is full of
benevolent wishes for the labourer, and sympathises with the attempt to
stimulate their industry and improve their dwellings, and denounces
oppression whether in France or Ireland with the heartiest goodwill. But
it is characteristic of the position that such a man--an enthusiastic
advocate of industrial progress--was a hearty admirer of the English
landowner. He sets out upon his first tour, announcing that he does not
write for farmers, of whom not one in five thousand reads anything, but
for the country-gentlemen, who are the great improvers. Tull, who
introduced turnips; Weston, who introduced clover; Lord Townshend and
Allen, who introduced 'marling' in Norfolk, were all country-gentlemen,
and it is from them that he expects improvement. He travels everywhere,
delighting in their new houses and parks, their picture galleries, and
their gardens laid out by Kent or 'Capability Brown'; he admires
scenery, climbs Skiddaw, and is rapturous over views of the Alps and
Pyrenees; but he is thrown into a rage by the sight of wastes, wherever
improvement is possible. What delights him is an estate with a fine
country-house of Palladian architecture ('Gothic' is with him still a
term of abuse),[52] with grounds well laid out and a good home-farm,
where experiments are being tried, and surrounded by an estate in which
the farm-buildings show the effects of the landlord's good example and
judicious treatment of his tenantry. There was no want of such examples.
He admires the marquis of Rockingham, at once the most honourable of
statesmen and most judicious of improvers. He sings the praises of the
duke of Portland, the earl of Darlington, and the duke of
Northumberland. An incautious announcement of the death of the duke of
Grafton, remembered chiefly as one of the victims of Junius, but known
to Young for his careful experiments in sheep-breeding, produced a burst
of tears, which, as he believed, cost him his eyesight. His friend, the
fifth duke of Bedford (died 1802), was one of the greatest improvers for
the South, and was succeeded by another friend, the famous Coke of
Holkham, afterwards earl of Leicester, who is said to have spent half a
million upon the improvement of his property. Young appeals to the class
in which such men were leaders, and urges them, not against their
wishes, we may suppose, and, no doubt, with much good sense, to take to
their task in the true spirit of business. Nothing, he declares, is more
out of place than the boast of some great landowners that they never
raise their rents.[53] High rents produce industry. The man who doubles
his rents benefits the country more than he benefits himself. Even in
Ireland,[54] a rise of rents is one great cause of improvement, though
the rent should not be excessive, and the system of middlemen is
altogether detestable. One odd suggestion is characteristic.[55] He
hears that wages are higher in London than elsewhere. Now, he says, in a
trading country low wages are essential. He wonders, therefore, that the
legislature does not limit the growth of London.

This, we may guess, is one of the petulant utterances of early years
which he would have disavowed or qualified upon maturer reflection. But
Young is essentially an apostle of the 'glorious spirit of
improvement,'[56] which has converted Norfolk sheep-walks into arable
fields, and was spreading throughout the country and even into Ireland.
His hero is the energetic landowner, who makes two blades of grass grow
where one grew before; who introduces new breeds of cattle and new
courses of husbandry. He is so far in sympathy with the _Wealth of
Nations_, although he says of that book that, while he knows of 'no
abler work,' he knows of none 'fuller of poisonous errors.'[57] Young,
that is, sympathised with the doctrine of the physiocrats that
agriculture was the one source of real wealth, and took Smith to be too
much on the side of commerce. Young, however, was as enthusiastic a
free-trader as Smith. He naturally denounces the selfishness of the
manufacturers who, in 1788, objected to the free export of English
wool,[58] but he also assails monopoly in general. The whole system, he
says (on occasion of Pitt's French treaty), is rotten to the core. The
'vital spring and animating soul of commerce is LIBERTY.'[59] Though he
talks of the balance of trade, he argues in the spirit of Smith or
Cobden that we are benefited by the wealth of our customers. If we have
to import more silk, we shall export more cloth. Young, indeed, was
everything but a believer in any dogmatic or consistent system of
Political Economy, or, as he still calls it, Political Arithmetic. His
opinions were not of the kind which can be bound to any rigid formulæ.
After investigating the restrictions of rent and wages in different
districts, he quietly accepts the conclusion that the difference is due
to accident.[60] He has as yet no fear of Malthus before his eyes. He
is roused to indignation by the pessimist theory then common, that
population was decaying.[61] Everywhere he sees signs of progress;
buildings, plantations, woods, and canals. Employment, he says, creates
population, stimulates industry, and attracts labour from backward
districts. The increase of numbers is an unqualified benefit. He has no
dread of excess. In Ireland, he observes, no one is fool enough to deny
that population is increasing, though people deny it in England, 'even
in the most productive period of her industry and wealth.'[62] One cause
of this blessing is the absence or the poor-law. The English poor-law is
detestable to him for a reason which contrasts significantly with the
later opinion. The laws were made 'in the very spirit of depopulation';
they are 'monuments of barbarity and mischief'; for they give to every
parish an interest in keeping down the population. This tendency was in
the eyes of the later economist a redeeming feature in the old system;
though it had been then so modified as to stimulate what they took to be
the curse, as Young held it to be the blessing, of a rapid increase of
population.

With such views Young was a keen advocate of the process of enclosure
which was going on with increasing rapidity. He found a colleague, who
may be briefly noticed as a remarkable representative of the same
movement. Sir John Sinclair (1754-1835)[63] was heir to an estate of
sixty thousand acres in Caithness which produced only £2300 a year,
subject to many encumbrances. The region was still in a primitive
state. There were no roads: agriculture was of the crudest kind; part of
the rent was still paid in feudal services; the natives were too
ignorant or lazy to fish, and there were no harbours. Trees were scarce
enough to justify Johnson, and a list of all the trees in the country
included currant-bushes.[64] Sinclair was a pupil of the poet Logan:
studied under Blair at Edinburgh and Millar at Glasgow; became known to
Adam Smith, and, after a short time at Oxford, was called to the English
bar. Sinclair was a man of enormous energy, though not of vivacious
intellect. He belonged to the prosaic breed, which created the 'dismal
science,' and seems to have been regarded as a stupendous bore. Bores,
however, represent a social force not to be despised, and Sinclair was
no exception.

His father died when he was sixteen. When twenty years old he collected
his tenants, and in one night made a road across a hill which had been
pronounced impracticable. He was an enthusiastic admirer of Gaelic
traditions; defended the authenticity of Ossian; supported Highland
games, and brought Italian travellers to listen to the music of the
bagpipes. When he presented himself to his tenants in the Highland
costume, on the withdrawal of its prohibition, they expected him to lead
them in a foray upon the lowlands in the name of Charles Edward. He
afterwards raised a regiment of 'fencibles' which served in Ireland in
1798, and, when disbanded, sent a large contingent to the Egyptian
expedition. But he rendered more peaceful services to his country. He
formed new farms; he enclosed several thousand acres; as head of the
'British Wool Society,' he introduced the Cheviots or 'long sheep' to
the North--an improvement which is said to have doubled the rents of
many estates; he introduced agricultural shows; he persuaded government
in 1801 to devote the proceeds of the confiscated estates of Jacobites
to the improvement of Scottish communications; he helped to introduce
fisheries and even manufactures; and was a main agent in the change
which made Caithness one of the most rapidly improving parts of the
country. His son assures us that he took every means to obviate the
incidental evils which have been the pretexts of denunciators of similar
improvements. Sinclair gained a certain reputation by a _History of the
Revenue_ (1785-90), and, like Malthus, travelled on the Continent to
improve his knowledge. His first book finished, he began the great
statistical work by which he is best remembered. He is said to have
introduced into English the name of 'statistics,' for the researches of
which all economical writers were beginning to feel the necessity. He
certainly did much to introduce the reality. Sinclair circulated a
number of queries (upon 'natural history,' 'population,' 'productions,'
and 'miscellaneous' informations) to every parish minister in Scotland.
He surmounted various jealousies naturally excited, and the ultimate
result was the _Statistical Account of Scotland_, which appeared in
twenty-one volumes between 1791 and 1799.[65] It gives an account of
every parish in Scotland, and was of great value as supplying a basis
for all social investigations. Sinclair bore the expense, and gave the
profits to the 'Sons of the Clergy.' In 1793 Sinclair, who had been in
parliament since 1780, made himself useful to Pitt in connection with
the issue of exchequer bills to meet the commercial crisis. He begged in
return for the foundation of a Board of Agriculture. He became the
president and Arthur Young the secretary;[66] and the board represented
their common aspirations. It was a rather anomalous body, something
between a government office and such an institution as the Royal
Society; and was supported by an annual grant of £3000. The first aim of
the board was to produce a statistical account of England on the plan of
the Scottish account. The English clergy, however, were suspicious; they
thought, it seems, that the collection of statistics meant an attack
upon tithes; and Young's frequent denunciation of tithes as discouraging
agricultural improvement suggests some excuse for the belief. The plan
had to be dropped; a less thoroughgoing description of the counties was
substituted; and a good many 'Views' of the agriculture of different
counties were published in 1794 and succeeding years. The board did its
best to be active with narrow means. It circulated information,
distributed medals, and brought agricultural improvers together. It
encouraged the publication of Erasmus Darwin's _Phytologia_ (1799), and
procured a series of lectures from Humphry Davy, afterwards published as
_Elements of Agricultural Chemistry_ (1813). Sinclair also claims to
have encouraged Macadam (1756-1836), the road-maker, and Meikle, the
inventor of the thrashing-machine. One great aim of the board was to
promote enclosures. Young observes in the introductory paper to the
_Annals_ that within forty years nine hundred bills had been passed
affecting about a million acres. This included wastes, but the greater
part was already cultivated under the 'constraint and imperfection of
the open field system,' a relic of the 'barbarity of our ancestors.'
Enclosures involved procuring acts of parliament--a consequent
expenditure, as Young estimates, of some £2000 in each case;[67] and as
they were generally obtained by the great landowners, there was a
frequent neglect of the rights of the poor and of the smaller holders.
The remedy proposed was a general enclosure act; and such an act passed
the House of Commons in 1798, but was thrown out by the Lords. An act
was not obtained till after the Reform Bill. Sinclair, however, obtained
some modification of the procedure; which, it is said, facilitated the
passage of private bills. They became more numerous in later years,
though other causes obviously co-operated. Meanwhile, it is
characteristic that Sinclair and Young regarded wastes as a backwoodsman
regarded a forest. The incidental injury to poor commoners was not
unnoticed, and became one of the topics of Cobbett's eloquence. But to
the ardent agriculturist the existence of a bit of waste land was a
simple proof of barbarism. Sinclair's favourite toast, we are told, was
'May commons become uncommon'--his one attempt at a joke. He prayed that
Epping Forest and Finchley Common might pass under the yoke as well as
our foreign enemies. Young is driven out of all patience by the sight of
'fern, ling, and other trumpery' usurping the place of possible arable
fields.[68] He groans in spirit upon Salisbury Plain, which might be
made to produce all the corn we import.[69] Enfield Chase, he declares,
is a 'real nuisance to the public.'[70] We may be glad that the zeal for
enclosure was not successful in all its aims; but this view of
philanthropic and energetic improvers is characteristic.

It is said[71] that Young and Sinclair ruined the Board of Agriculture
by making it a kind of political debating club. It died in 1822.
Sinclair obtained an appointment in Scotland, and continued to labour
unremittingly. He carried on a correspondence with all manner of people,
including Washington, Eldon, Catholic bishops in Ireland, financiers and
agriculturists on the Continent, and the most active economists in
England. He suggested a subject for a poem to Scott.[72] He wrote
pamphlets about cash-payments, Catholic Emancipation, and the Reform
Bill, always disagreeing with all parties. He projected four codes which
were to summarise all human knowledge upon health, agriculture,
political economy, and religion. _The Code of Health_ (4 vols., 1807)
went through six editions; _The Code of Agriculture_ appeared in 1829;
but the world has not been enriched by the others. He died at Edinburgh
on the 21st September 1835.

I have dwelt so far upon Young because he is the best representative of
that 'glorious spirit of improvement' which was transforming the whole
social structure. Young's view of the French revolution indicates one
marked characteristic of that spirit. He denounces the French seigneur
because he is lethargic. He admires the English nobleman because he is
energetic. The French noble may even deserve confiscation; but he has
not the slightest intention of applying the same remedy in England,
where squires and noblemen are the very source of all improvement. He
holds that government is everything, and admires the great works of the
French despotism: and yet he is a thorough admirer of the liberties
enjoyed under the British Constitution, the essential nature of which
makes similar works impossible. I need not ask whether Young's logic
could be justified; though it would obviously require for justification
a thoroughly 'empirical' view, or, in other words, the admission that
different circumstances may require totally different institutions. The
view, however, which was congenial to the prevalent spirit of
improvement must be noted.

It might be stated as a paradox that, whereas in France the most
palpable evils arose from the excessive power of the central government,
and in England the most palpable evils arose from the feebleness of the
central government, the French reformers demanded more government and
the English reformers demanded less government. 'Everything for the
people, nothing by the people,' was, as Mr. Morley remarks,[73] the
maxim of the French economists. The solution seems to be easy. In
France, reformers such as Turgot and the economists were in favour of an
enlightened despotism, because the state meant a centralised power which
might be turned against the aristocracy. Once 'enlightened' it would
suppress the exclusive privileges of a class which, doing nothing in
return, had become a mere burthen or dead weight encumbering all social
development. But in England the privileged class was identical with the
governing class. The political liberty of which Englishmen were
rightfully proud, the 'rule of law' which made every official
responsible to the ordinary course of justice, and the actual discharge
of their duties by the governing order, saved it from being the objects
of a jealous class hatred. While in France government was staggering
under an ever-accumulating resentment against the aristocracy, the
contemporary position in England was, on the whole, one of political
apathy. The country, though it had lost its colonies, was making
unprecedented progress in wealth; commerce, manufactures, and
agriculture were being developed by the energy of individuals; and Pitt
was beginning to apply Adam Smith's principles to finance. The cry for
parliamentary reform died out: neither Whigs nor Tories really cared for
it; and the 'glorious spirit of improvement' showed itself in an energy
which had little political application. The nobility was not an incubus
suppressing individual energy and confronted by the state, but was
itself the state; and its individual members were often leaders in
industrial improvement. Discontent, therefore, took in the main a
different form. Some government was, of course, necessary, and the
existing system was too much in harmony, even in its defects, with the
social order to provoke any distinct revolutionary sentiment. Englishmen
were not only satisfied with their main institutions, but regarded them
with exaggerated complacency. But, though there was no organic disorder,
there were plenty of abuses to be remedied. The ruling class, it seemed,
did its duties in the main, but took unconscionable perquisites in
return. If it 'farmed' them, it was right that it should have a
beneficial interest in the concern; but that interest might be
excessive. In many directions abuses were growing up which required
remedy, though not a subversion of the system under which they had been
generated. It was not desired--unless by a very few theorists--to make
any sweeping redistribution of power; but it was eminently desirable to
find some means of better regulating many evil practices. The attack
upon such practices might ultimately suggest--as, in fact, it did
suggest--the necessity of far more thoroughgoing reforms. For the
present, however, the characteristic mark of English reformers was this
limitation of their schemes, and a mark which is especially evident in
Bentham and his followers. I will speak, therefore, of the many
questions which were arising, partly for these reasons and partly
because the Utilitarian theory was in great part moulded by the
particular problems which they had to argue.

NOTES:

[35] Young's _Travels in France_ was republished in 1892, with a preface
and short life by Miss Betham Edwards. She has since (1898) published
his autobiography. See also the autobiographical sketch in the _Annals
of Agriculture_, xv. 152-97. Young's _Farmer's Letters_ first appeared
in 1767; his _Tours_ in the Southern, Northern, and Eastern Counties in
1768, 1770, and 1771; his _Tour in Ireland_ in 1780; and his _Travels in
France_ in 1792. A useful bibliography, containing a list of his many
publications, is appended to the edition of the _Tour in Ireland_ edited
by Mr. A. W. Hutton in 1892.

[36] _Annals_, xv. 166.

[37] _Travels in France_ (1892), p. 184 _n._

[38] _Travels in France_, p. 54.

[39] _Ibid._ p. 109.

[40] _Ibid._ p. 61.

[41] _Ibid._ p. 70.

[42] _Ibid._ p. 279.

[43] _Travels in France_, p. 125.

[44] _Ibid._ p. 131.

[45] _Ibid._ pp. 198, 298.

[46] _Ibid._ pp. 55, 193, 199, 237.

[47] _Ibid._ p. 43.

[48] _Travels in France_, pp. 291-92.

[49] _Ibid._ p. 132.

[50] _Ibid._ p. 66.

[51] _Ibid._ p. 131.

[52] e.g. _Southern Tour_, p. 103; _Northern Tour_, p. 180 (York
Cathedral).

[53] _Northern Tour_, iv. 344, 377.

[54] _Irish Tour_, ii. 114.

[55] _Southern Tour_, p. 326.

[56] _Southern Tour_, p. 22.

[57] _Annals_, i. 380.

[58] _Ibid._ vol, x.

[59] _Ibid._ iv. 17.

[60] _Southern Tour_, p. 262; _Northern Tour_, ii. 412.

[61] _Northern Tour_, iv. 410, etc.

[62] _Irish Tour_, ii. 118-19.

[63] _Memoirs of Sir John Sinclair_, by his son. 2 vols., 1837.

[64] _Memoirs_, i. 338.

[65] _A New Statistical Account_, replacing this, appeared in
twenty-four volumes from 1834 to 1844.

[66] He was president for the first five years, and again, from 1806
till 1813. For an account of this, see Sir Ernest Clarke's _History of
the Board of Agriculture_, 1898.

[67] _Northern Tour_, i. 222-32.

[68] _Northern Tour_, ii. 186.

[69] _Southern Tour_, p. 20.

[70] _Northern Tour_, iii. 365.

[71] Arthur Young had a low opinion of Sinclair, whom he took to be a
pushing and consequential busybody, more anxious to make a noise than to
be useful. See Young's _Autobiography_ (1898), pp. 243, 315, 437. Sir
Ernest Clarke points out the injury done by Sinclair's hasty and
blundering extravagance; but also shows that the board did great service
in stimulating agricultural improvement.

[72] Scott's _Letters_, i. 202.

[73] Essay on 'Turgot.' See, in Daire's Collection of the _Économistes_,
the arguments of Quesnay (p. 81), Dupont de Nemours (p. 360), and
Mercier de la Rivière in favour of a legal (as distinguished from an
'arbitrary') despotism.




CHAPTER III

SOCIAL PROBLEMS


I. PAUPERISM

Perhaps the gravest of all the problems which were to occupy the coming
generation was the problem of pauperism. The view taken by the
Utilitarians was highly characteristic and important. I will try to
indicate the general position of intelligent observers at the end of the
century by referring to the remarkable book of Sir Frederick Morton
Eden. Its purport is explained by the title: 'The State of the Poor; or,
an History of the Labouring Classes of England from the Norman Conquest
to the present period; in which are particularly considered their
domestic economy, with respect to diet, dress, fuel, and habitation; and
the various plans which have from time to time been proposed and adopted
for the relief of the poor' (3 vols. 4to, 1797). Eden[74] (1766-1809)
was a man of good family and nephew of the first Lord Auckland, who
negotiated Pitt's commercial treaty. He graduated as B.A. from Christ
Church, Oxford, in 1787; married in 1792, and at his death (14th Nov.
1809) was chairman of the Globe Insurance Company. He wrote various
pamphlets upon economical topics; contributed letters signed
'Philanglus' to Cobbett's _Porcupine_, the anti-jacobin paper of the
day; and is described by Bentham[75] as a 'declared disciple' and a
'highly valued friend.' He may be reckoned, therefore, as a Utilitarian,
though politically he was a Conservative. He seems to have been a man of
literary tastes as well as a man of business, and his book is a clear
and able statement of the points at issue.

Eden's attention had been drawn to the subject by the distress which
followed the outbreak of the revolutionary war. He employed an agent who
travelled through the country for a year with a set of queries drawn up
after the model of those prepared by Sinclair for his _Statistical
Account of Scotland_. He thus anticipated the remarkable investigation
made in our own time by Mr. Charles Booth. Eden made personal inquiries
and studied the literature of the subject. He had a precursor in Richard
Burn (1709-1785), whose _History of the Poor-laws_ appeared in 1764, and
a competitor in John Ruggles, whose _History of the Poor_ first appeared
in Arthur Young's _Annals_, and was published as a book in 1793 (second
edition, 1797). Eden's work eclipsed Ruggles's. It has a permanent value
as a collection of facts; and was a sign of the growing sense of the
importance of accurate statistical research. The historian of the social
condition of the people should be grateful to one who broke ground at a
time when the difficulty of obtaining a sound base for social inquiries
began to make itself generally felt. The value of the book for
historical purposes lies beyond my sphere. His first volume, I may say,
gives a history of legislation from the earliest period; and contains
also a valuable account of the voluminous literature which had grown up
during the two preceding centuries. The other two summarise the reports
which he had received. I will only say enough to indicate certain
critical points. Eden's book unfortunately was to mark, not a solution
of the difficulty but, the emergence of a series of problems which were
to increase in complexity and ominous significance through the next
generation.

The general history of the poor-law is sufficiently familiar.[76] The
mediæval statutes take us to a period at which the labourer was still
regarded as a serf; and a man who had left his village was treated like
a fugitive slave. A long series of statutes regulated the treatment of
the 'vagabond.' The vagabond, however, had become differentiated from
the pauper. The decay of the ancient order of society and its
corresponding institutions had led to a new set of problems; and the
famous statute of Elizabeth (1601) had laid down the main lines of the
system which is still in operation.

When the labourer was regarded as in a servile condition, he might be
supported from the motives which lead an owner to support his slaves, or
by the charitable energies organised by ecclesiastical institutions. He
had now ceased to be a serf, and the institutions which helped the poor
man or maintained the beggar were wrecked. The Elizabethan statute gave
him, therefore, a legal claim to be supported, and, on the other hand,
directed that he should be made to work for his living. The assumption
is still that every man is a member of a little social circle. He
belongs to his parish, and it is his fellow-parishioners who are bound
to support him. So long as this corresponded to facts, the system could
work satisfactorily. With the spread of commerce, and the growth of a
less settled population, difficulties necessarily arose. The pauper and
the vagabond represent a kind of social extravasation; the 'masterless
man' who has strayed from his legitimate place or has become a
superfluity in his own circle. The vagabond could be flogged, sent to
prison, or if necessary hanged, but it was more difficult to settle what
to do with a man who was not a criminal, but simply a product in excess
of demand. All manner of solutions had been suggested by philanthropists
and partly adopted by the legislature. One point which especially
concerns us is the awkwardness or absence of an appropriate
administrative machinery.

The parish, the unit on which the pauper had claims, meant the persons
upon whom the poor-rate was assessed. These were mainly farmers and
small tradesmen who formed the rather vague body called the vestry.
'Overseers' were appointed by the ratepayers themselves; they were not
paid, and the disagreeable office was taken in turn for short periods.
The most obvious motive with the average ratepayer was of course to keep
down the rates and to get the burthen of the poor as much as possible
out of his own parish. Each parish had at least an interest in economy.
But the economical interest also produced flagrant evils.

In the first place, there was the war between parishes. The law of
settlement--which was to decide to what parish a pauper
belonged--originated in an act of 1662. Eden observes that the short
clause in this short act had brought more profit to the lawyers than
'any other point in the English jurisprudence.'[77] It is said that the
expense of such a litigation before the act of 1834 averaged from
£300,000 to £350,000 a year.[78] Each parish naturally endeavoured to
shift the burthen upon its neighbours; and was protected by laws which
enabled it to resist the immigration of labourers or actually to expel
them when likely to become chargeable. This law is denounced by Adam
Smith[79] as a 'violation of natural liberty and justice.' It was often
harder, he declared, for a poor man to cross the artificial boundaries
of his parish than to cross a mountain ridge or an arm of the sea. There
was, he declared, hardly a poor man in England over forty who had not
been at some time 'cruelly oppressed' by the working of this law. Eden
thinks that Smith had exaggerated the evil: but a law which operated by
preventing a free circulation of labour, and made it hard for a poor man
to seek the best price for his only saleable commodity, was, so far,
opposed to the fundamental principles common to Smith and Eden. The law,
too, might be used oppressively by the niggardly and narrow-minded. The
overseer, as Burn complained,[80] was often a petty tyrant: his aim was
to depopulate his parish; to prevent the poor from obtaining a
settlement; to make the workhouse a terror by placing it under the
management of a bully; and by all kinds of chicanery to keep down the
rates at whatever cost to the comfort and morality of the poor. This
explains the view taken by Arthur Young, and generally accepted at the
period, that the poor-law meant depopulation. Workhouses had been
started in the seventeenth century[81] with the amiable intention of
providing the industrious poor with work. Children might be trained to
industry and the pauper might be made self-supporting. Workhouses were
expected that is, to provide not only work but wages. Defoe, in his
_Giving Alms no Charity_, pointed out the obvious objections to the
workhouse considered as an institution capable of competing with the
ordinary industries. Workhouses, in fact, soon ceased to be profitable.
Their value, however, in supplying a test for destitution was
recognised; and by an act of 1722, parishes were allowed to set up
workhouses, separately or in combination, and to strike off the lists of
the poor those who refused to enter them. This was the germ of the later
'workhouse test.'[82] When grievances arose, the invariable plan, as
Nicholls observes,[83] was to increase the power of the justices. Their
discretion was regarded 'as a certain cure for every shortcoming of the
law and every evil arising out of it.' The great report of 1834 traces
this tendency[84] to a clause in an act passed in the reign of William
III., which was intended to allow the justices to check the extravagance
of parish officers. They were empowered to strike off persons improperly
relieved. This incidental regulation, widened by subsequent
interpretations, allowed the magistrates to order relief, and thereby
introduced an incredible amount of demoralisation.

The course was natural enough, and indeed apparently inevitable. The
justices of the peace represented the only authority which could be
called in to regulate abuses arising from the incapacity and narrow
local interests of the multitudinous vestries. The schemes of
improvement generally involved some plan for a larger area. If a hundred
or a county were taken for the unit, the devices which depopulated a
parish would no longer be applicable.[85] The only scheme actually
carried was embodied in 'Gilbert's act' (1782), obtained by Thomas
Gilbert (1720-1798), an agent of the duke of Bridgewater, and an active
advocate of poor-law reform in the House of Commons. This scheme was
intended as a temporary expedient during the distress caused by the
American War; and a larger and more permanent scheme which it was to
introduce failed to become law. It enabled parishes to combine if they
chose to provide common workhouses, and to appoint 'guardians.' The
justices, as usual, received more powers in order to suppress the harsh
dealing of the old parochial authorities. The guardians, it was assumed,
could always find 'work,' and they were to relieve the able-bodied
without applying the workhouse test. The act, readily adopted, thus
became a landmark in the growth of laxity.[86]

At the end of the century a rapid development of pauperism had taken
place. The expense, as Eden had to complain, had doubled in twenty
years. This took place simultaneously with the great development of
manufactures. It is not perhaps surprising, though it may be melancholy,
that increase of wealth shall be accompanied by increase of pauperism.
Where there are many rich men, there will be a better field for thieves
and beggars. A life of dependence becomes easier though it need not
necessarily be adopted. Whatever may have been the relation of the two
phenomena, the social revolution made the old social arrangements more
inadequate. Great aggregations of workmen were formed in towns, which
were still only villages in a legal sense. Fluctuations of trade, due to
war or speculation, brought distress to the improvident; and the old
assumption that every man had a proper place in a small circle, where
his neighbours knew all about him, was further than ever from being
verified. One painful result was already beginning to show itself.
Neglected children in great towns had already excited compassion. Thomas
Coram (1668?-1751) had been shocked by the sight of dying children
exposed in the streets of London, and succeeded in establishing the
Foundling Hospital (founded in 1742). In 1762, Jonas Hanway (1712-1786)
obtained a law for boarding out children born within the bills of
mortality. The demand for children's labour, produced by the factories,
seemed naturally enough to offer a better chance for extending such
charities. Unfortunately among the people who took advantage of it were
parish officials, eager to get children off their hands, and
manufacturers concerned only to make money out of childish labour.
Hence arose the shameful system for which remedies (as I shall have to
notice) had to be sought in a later generation.

Meanwhile the outbreak of the revolutionary war had made the question
urgent. When Manchester trade suffered, as Eden tells us in his reports,
many workmen enlisted in the army, and left their children to be
supported by the parish. Bad seasons followed in 1794 and 1795, and
there was great distress in the agricultural districts. The governing
classes became alarmed. In December 1795 Whitbread introduced a bill
providing that the justices of the peace should fix a minimum rate of
wages. Upon a motion for the second reading, Pitt made the famous speech
(12th December) including the often-quoted statement that when a man had
a family, relief should be 'a matter of right and honour, instead of a
ground of opprobrium and contempt.'[87] Pitt had in the same speech
shown his reading of Adam Smith by dwelling upon the general objections
to state interference with wages, and had argued that more was to be
gained by removing the restrictions upon the free movement of labour. He
undertook to produce a comprehensive measure; and an elaborate bill of
130 clauses was prepared in 1796.[88] The rates were to be used to
supplement inadequate wages; 'schools of industry' were to be formed for
the support of superabundant children; loans might be made to the poor
for the purchase of a cow;[89] and the possession of property was not to
disqualify for the receiving relief. In short, the bill seems to have
been a model of misapplied benevolence. The details were keenly
criticised by Bentham, and the bill never came to the birth. Other
topics were pressing enough at this time to account for the failure of a
measure so vast in its scope. Meanwhile something had to be done. On 6th
May 1795 the Berkshire magistrates had passed certain resolutions called
from their place of meeting, the 'Speenhamland Act of Parliament.' They
provided that the rate of wages of a labourer should be increased in
proportion to the price of corn and to the number of his family--a rule
which, as Eden observes, tended to discourage economy of food in times
of scarcity. They also sanctioned the disastrous principle of paying
part of the wages out of rates. An act passed in 1796 repealed the old
restrictions upon out-door relief; and thus, during the hard times that
were to follow, the poor-laws were adapted to produce the state of
things in which, as Cobbett says (in 1821) 'every labourer who has
children is now regularly and constantly a pauper.'[90] The result
represents a curious compromise. The landowners, whether from
benevolence or fear of revolution, desired to meet the terrible distress
of the times. Unfortunately their spasmodic interference was guided by
no fixed principles, and acted upon a class of institutions not
organised upon any definite system. The general effect seems to have
been that the ratepayers, no longer allowed to 'depopulate,' sought to
turn the compulsory stream of charity partly into their own pockets. If
they were forced to support paupers, they could contrive to save the
payment of wages. They could use the labour of the rate-supported
pauper instead of employing independent workmen. The evils thus produced
led before long to most important discussions.[91] The ordinary view of
the poor-law was inverted. The prominent evil was the reckless increase
of a degraded population instead of the restriction of population.
Eden's own view is sufficiently indicative of the light in which the
facts showed themselves to intelligent economists. As a disciple of Adam
Smith, he accepts the rather vague doctrine of his master about the
'balance' between labour and capital. If labour exceeds capital, he
says, the labourer must starve 'in spite of all political
regulations.'[92] He therefore looks with disfavour upon the whole
poor-law system. It is too deeply rooted to be abolished, but he thinks
that the amount to be raised should not be permitted to exceed the sum
levied on an average of previous years. The only certain result of
Pitt's measure would be a vast expenditure upon a doubtful experiment:
and one main purpose of his publication was to point out the objections
to the plan. He desires what seemed at that time to be almost hopeless,
a national system of education; but his main doctrine is the wisdom of
reliance upon individual effort. The truth of the maxim '_pas trop
gouverner_,' he says,[93] has never been better illustrated than by the
contrast between friendly societies and the poor-laws. Friendly
societies had been known, though they were still on a humble scale, from
the beginning of the century, and had tended to diminish pauperism in
spite of the poor-laws. Eden gives many accounts of them. They seem to
have suggested a scheme proposed by the worthy Francis Maseres[94]
(1731-1824) in 1772 for the establishment of life annuities. A bill to
give effect to this scheme passed the House of Commons in 1773 with the
support of Burke and Savile, but was thrown out in the House of Lords.
In 1786 John Acland (died 1796), a Devonshire clergyman and justice of
the peace, proposed a scheme for uniting the whole nation into a kind of
friendly society for the support of the poor when out of work and in old
age. It was criticised by John Howlett (1731-1804), a clergyman who
wrote much upon the poor-laws. He attributes the growth of pauperism to
the rise of prices, and calculates that out of an increased expenditure
of £700,000, £219,000 had been raised by the rich, and the remainder
'squeezed out of the flesh, blood, and bones of the poor,' An act for
establishing Acland's crude scheme failed next year in parliament.[95]
The merit of the societies, according to Eden, was their tendency to
stimulate self-help; and how to preserve that merit, while making them
compulsory, was a difficult problem. I have said enough to mark a
critical and characteristic change of opinion. One source of evil
pointed out by contemporaries had been the absence of any central power
which could regulate and systematise the action of the petty local
bodies. The very possibility of such organisation, however, seems to
have been simply inconceivable. When the local bodies became lavish
instead of over-frugal, the one remedy suggested was to abolish the
system altogether.

NOTES:

[74] See _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[75] _Works_, i. 255.

[76] See Sir G. Nicholls's _History of the Poor-law_, 1854. A new
edition, with life by H. G. Willink, appeared in 1898.

[77] _History_, i. 175.

[78] M'Culloch's note to _Wealth of Nations_, p. 65. M'Culloch in his
appendix makes some sensible remarks upon the absence of any properly
constituted parochial 'tribunal.'

[79] _Wealth of Nations_, bk. i. ch. x.

[80] See passage quoted in Eden's _History_, i. 347.

[81] Thomas Firmin (1632-1677), a philanthropist, whose Socinianism did
not exclude him from the friendship of such liberal bishops as Tillotson
and Fowler, started a workhouse in 1676.

[82] Nicholls (1898), ii. 14.

[83] _Ibid._ (1898), ii. 123.

[84] _Report_, p. 67.

[85] William Hay, for example, carried resolutions in the House of
Commons in 1735, but failed to carry a bill which had this object. See
Eden's _History_, i. 396. Cooper in 1763 proposed to make the hundred
the unit.--Nicholls's _History_, i. 58. Fielding proposes a similar
change in London. Dean Tucker speaks of the evil of the limited area in
his _Manifold Causes of the Increase of the Poor_ (1760).

[86] Nicholls, ii. 88.

[87] _Parl. Hist._ xxxii. 710.

[88] A full abstract is given in Edens _History_, iii. ccclxiii. etc.

[89] Bentham observes (_Works_, viii. 448) that the cow will require the
three acres to keep it.

[90] Cobbett's _Political Works_, vi. 64

[91] I need only note here that the first edition of Malthus's _Essay_
appeared in 1798, the year after Eden's publication.

[92] Eden's _History_, i. 583.

[93] _Ibid._ i. 587.

[94] Maseres, an excellent Whig, a good mathematician, and a respected
lawyer, is perhaps best known at present from his portrait in Charles
Lamb's _Old Benchers_.

[95] It maybe noticed as an anticipation of modern schemes that in 1792
Paine proposed a system of 'old age pensions,' for which the necessary
funds were to be easily obtained when universal peace had abolished all
military charges. See _State Trials_, xxv. 175.


II. THE POLICE

The system of 'self-government' showed its weak side in this direction.
It meant that an important function was intrusted to small bodies, quite
incompetent of acting upon general principles, and perfectly capable of
petty jobbing, when unrestrained by any effective supervision. In
another direction the same tendency was even more strikingly
illustrated. Municipal institutions were almost at their lowest point of
decay. Manchester and Birmingham were two of the largest and most
rapidly growing towns. By the end of the century Manchester had a
population of 90,000 and Birmingham of 70,000. Both were ruled, as far
as they were ruled, by the remnants of old manorial institutions.
Aikin[96] observes that 'Manchester (in 1795) remains an open town;
destitute (probably to its advantage) of a corporation, and
unrepresented in parliament.' It was governed by a 'boroughreeve' and
two constables elected annually at the court-leet. William Hutton, the
quaint historian of Birmingham, tells us in 1783 that the town was still
legally a village, with a high and low bailiff, a 'high and low taster,'
two 'affeerers,' and two 'leather-sealers,' In 1752 it had been provided
with a 'court of requests' for the recovery of small debts, and in 1769
with a body of commissioners to provide for lighting the town. This was
the system by which, with some modifications, Birmingham was governed
till after the Reform Bill.[97] Hutton boasts[98] that no town was
better governed or had fewer officers. 'A town without a charter,' he
says, 'is a town without a shackle.' Perhaps he changed his opinions
when his warehouses were burnt in 1791, and the town was at the mercy of
the mob till a regiment of 'light horse' could be called in. Aikin and
Hutton, however, reflect the general opinion at a time when the town
corporations had become close and corrupt bodies, and were chiefly
'shackles' upon the energy of active members of the community. I must
leave the explanation of this decay to historians. I will only observe
that what would need explanation would seem to be rather the absence
than the presence of corruption. The English borough was not stimulated
by any pressure from a central government; nor was it a semi-independent
body in which every citizen had the strongest motives for combining to
support its independence against neighbouring towns or invading nobles.
The lower classes were ignorant, and probably would be rather hostile
than favourable to any such modest interference with dirt and disorder
as would commend themselves to the officials. Naturally, power was left
to the little cliques of prosperous tradesmen, who formed close
corporations, and spent the revenues upon feasts or squandered them by
corrupt practices. Here, as in the poor-law, the insufficiency of the
administrative body suggests to contemporaries, not its reform, but its
superfluity.

The most striking account of some of the natural results is in
Colquhoun's[99] _Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis_. Patrick
Colquhoun (1745-1820), an energetic Scot, was born at Dumbarton in 1745,
had been in business at Glasgow, where he was provost in 1782 and 1783,
and in 1789 settled in London. In 1792 he obtained through Dundas an
appointment to one of the new police magistracies created by an act of
that year. He took an active part in many schemes of social reform; and
his book gives an account of the investigations by which his schemes
were suggested and justified. It must be said, however, parenthetically,
that his statistics scarcely challenge implicit confidence. Like
Sinclair and Eden, he saw the importance of obtaining facts and figures,
but his statements are suspiciously precise and elaborate.[100] The
broad facts are clear enough.

London was, he says, three miles broad and twenty-five in circumference.
The population in 1801 was 641,000. It was the largest town, and
apparently the most chaotic collection of dwellings in the civilised
world. There were, as Colquhoun asserts[101] in an often-quoted passage,
20,000 people in it, who got up every morning without knowing how they
would get through the day. There were 5000 public-houses, and 50,000
women supported, wholly or partly, by prostitution. The revenues raised
by crime amounted, as he calculates, to an annual sum of, £2,000,000.
There were whole classes of professional thieves, more or less organised
in gangs, which acted in support of each other. There were gangs on the
river, who boarded ships at night, or lay in wait round the warehouses.
The government dockyards were systematically plundered, and the same
article often sold four times over to the officials. The absence of
patrols gave ample chance to the highwaymen then peculiar to England.
Their careers, commemorated in the _Newgate Calendar_, had a certain
flavour of Robin Hood romance, and their ranks were recruited from
dissipated apprentices and tradesmen in difficulty. The fields round
London were so constantly plundered that the rent was materially
lowered. Half the hackney coachmen, he says,[102] were in league with
thieves. The number of receiving houses for stolen goods had increased
in twenty years from 300 to 3000.[103] Coining was a flourishing trade,
and according to Colquhoun employed several thousand persons.[104]
Gambling had taken a fresh start about 1777 and 1778[105]; and the
keepers of tables had always money enough at command to make convictions
almost impossible. French refugees at the revolution had introduced
_rouge et noir_; and Colquhoun estimates the sums yearly lost in
gambling-houses at over £7,000,000. The gamblers might perhaps appeal
not only to the practices of their betters in the days of Fox, but to
the public lotteries. Colquhoun had various correspondents, who do not
venture to propose the abolition of a system which sanctioned the
practice, but who hope to diminish the facility for supplementary
betting on the results of the official drawing.

The war had tended to increase the number of loose and desperate
marauders who swarmed in the vast labyrinth of London streets. When we
consider the nature of the police by which these evils were to be
checked, and the criminal law which they administered, the wonder is
less that there were sometimes desperate riots (as in 1780) than that
London should have been ever able to resist a mob. Colquhoun, though a
patriotic Briton, has to admit that the French despots had at last
created an efficient police. The emperor, Joseph II., he says, inquired
for an Austrian criminal supposed to have escaped to Paris. You will
find him, replied the head of the French police, at No. 93 of such a
street in Vienna on the second-floor room looking upon such a church;
and there he was. In England a criminal could hide himself in a herd of
his like, occasionally disturbed by the inroad of a 'Bow Street runner,'
the emissary of the 'trading justices,' formerly represented by the two
Fieldings. An act of 1792 created seven new offices, to one of which
Colquhoun had been appointed. They had one hundred and eighty-nine paid
officers under them. There were also about one thousand constables.
These were small tradesmen or artisans upon whom the duty was imposed
without remuneration for a year by their parish, that is, by one of
seventy independent bodies. A 'Tyburn ticket,' given in reward for
obtaining the conviction of a criminal exempted a man from the discharge
of such offices, and could be bought for from £15 to £25. There were
also two thousand watchmen receiving from 8-1/2d. up to 2s. a night.
These were the true successors of Dogberry; often infirm or aged persons
appointed to keep them out of the workhouse. The management of this
distracted force thus depended upon a miscellaneous set of bodies; the
paid magistrates, the officials of the city, the justices of the peace
for Middlesex, and the seventy independent parishes.

The law was as defective as the administration. Colquhoun represents the
philanthropic impulse of the day, and notices[106] that in 1787 Joseph
II. had abolished capital punishment. His chief authority for more
merciful methods is Beccaria; and it is worth remarking, for reasons
which will appear hereafter, that he does not in this connection refer
to Bentham, although he speaks enthusiastically[107] of Bentham's model
prison, the Panopticon. Colquhoun shows how strangely the severity of
the law was combined with its extreme capaciousness. He quotes
Bacon[108] for the statement that the law was a 'heterogeneous mass
concocted too often on the spur of the moment,' and gives sufficient
proofs of its truth. He desires, for example, a law to punish receivers
of stolen goods, and says that there were excellent laws in existence.
Unfortunately one law applied exclusively to the case of pewter-pots,
and another exclusively to the precious metals; neither could be used as
against receivers of horses or bank notes.[109] So a man indicted under
an act against stealing from ships on navigable rivers escaped, because
the barge from which he stole happened to be aground. Gangs could afford
to corrupt witnesses or to pay knavish lawyers skilled in applying these
vagaries of legislation. Juries also disliked convicting when the
penalty for coining sixpence was the same as the penalty for killing a
mother. It followed, as he shows by statistics, that half the persons
committed for trial escaped by petty chicanery or corruption, or the
reluctance of juries to convict for capital offences. Only about
one-fifth of the capital sentences were executed; and many were pardoned
on condition of enlisting to improve the morals of the army. The
criminals, who were neither hanged nor allowed to escape, were sent to
prisons, which were schools of vice. After the independence of the
American colonies, the system of transportation to Australia had begun
(in 1787); but the expense was enormous, and prisoners were huddled
together in the hulks at Woolwich and Portsmouth, which had been used as
a temporary expedient. Thence they were constantly discharged, to return
to their old practices. A man, says Colquhoun,[110] would deserve a
statue who should carry out a plan for helping discharged prisoners. To
meet these evils, Colquhoun proposes various remedies, such as a
metropolitan police, a public prosecutor, or even a codification or
revision of the Criminal Code, which he sees is likely to be delayed. He
also suggested, in a pamphlet of 1799, a kind of charity organisation
society to prevent the waste of funds. Many other pamphlets of similar
tendencies show his active zeal in promoting various reforms. Colquhoun
was in close correspondence with Bentham from the year 1798,[111] and
Bentham helped him by drawing the Thames Police Act, passed in 1800, to
give effect to some of the suggestions in the _Treatise_.[112]

Another set of abuses has a special connection with Bentham's activity.
Bentham had been led in 1778 to attend to the prison question by reading
Howard's book on _Prisons_; and he refers to the 'venerable friend who
had lived an apostle and died a martyr.'[113] The career of John Howard
(1726-1790) is familiar. The son of a London tradesman, he had inherited
an estate in Bedfordshire. There he erected model cottages and village
schools; and, on becoming sheriff of the county in 1773, was led to
attend to abuses in the prisons. Two acts of parliament were passed in
1774 to remedy some of the evils exposed, and he pursued the inquiry at
home and abroad. His results are given in his _State of the Prisons in
England and Wales_ (1779, fourth edition, 1792), and his _Account of the
Principal Lazarettos in Europe_ (1789). The prisoners, he says, had
little food, sometimes a penny loaf a day, and sometimes nothing; no
water, no fresh air, no sewers, and no bedding. The stench was
appalling, and gaol fever killed more than died on the gallows. Debtors
and felons, men, women and children, were huddled together; often with
lunatics, who were shown by the gaolers for money. 'Garnish' was
extorted; the gaolers kept drinking-taps; gambling flourished: and
prisoners were often cruelly ironed, and kept for long periods before
trial. At Hull the assizes had only been held once in seven years, and
afterwards once in three. It is a comfort to find that the whole number
of prisoners in England and Wales amounted, in 1780, to about 4400, 2078
of whom were debtors, 798 felons, and 917 petty offenders. An act passed
in 1779 provided for the erection of two penitentiaries. Howard was to
be a supervisor. The failure to carry out this act led, as we shall see,
to one of Bentham's most characteristic undertakings. One peculiarity
must be noted. Howard found prisons on the continent where the
treatment was bad and torture still occasionally practised; but he
nowhere found things so bad as in England. In Holland the prisons were
so neat and clean as to make it difficult to believe that they were
prisons: and they were used as models for the legislation of 1779. One
cause of this unenviable distinction of English prisons had been
indicated by an earlier investigation. General Oglethorpe (1696-1785)
had been started in his philanthropic career by obtaining a committee of
the House of Commons in 1729 to inquire into the state of the gaols. The
foundation of the colony of Georgia as an outlet for the population was
one result of the inquiry. It led, in the first place, however, to a
trial of persons accused of atrocious cruelties at the Fleet
prison.[114] The trial was abortive. It appeared in the course of the
proceedings that the Fleet prison was a 'freehold,' A patent for
rebuilding it had been granted to Sir Jeremy Whichcot under Charles II.,
and had been sold to one Higgins, who resold it to other persons for
£5000. The proprietors made their investment pay by cruel ill-treatment
of the prisoners, oppressing the poor and letting off parts of the
prison to dealers in drink. This was the general plan in the prisons
examined by Howard, and helps to account for the gross abuses. It is one
more application of the general system. As the patron was owner of a
living, and the officer of his commission, the keeper of a prison was
owner of his establishment. The paralysis of administration which
prevailed throughout the country made it natural to farm out paupers to
the master of a workhouse, and prisoners to the proprietor of a gaol.
The state of prisoners may be inferred not only from Howard's authentic
record but from the fictions of Fielding, Smollett and Goldsmith; and
the last echoes of the same complaints may be found in _Pickwick_ and
_Little Dorrit_. The Marshalsea described in the last was also a
proprietary concern. We shall hereafter see how Bentham proposed to
treat the evils revealed by Oglethorpe and Howard.

NOTES:

[96] Aikin's _Country Round Manchester_.

[97] Bunce's _History of the Corporation of Birmingham_ (1878).

[98] _History of Birmingham_ (2nd edition), p. 327.

[99] The first edition, 1795, the sixth, from which I quote, in 1800. In
Benthams _Works_, x. 330, it is said that in 1798, 7500 copies of this
book had been sold.

[100] In 1814 Colquhoun published an elaborate account of the _Resources
of the British Empire_, showing similar qualities.

[101] _Police_, p. 310.

[102] _Police_, p. 105.

[103] _Ibid._ p. 13.

[104] _Ibid._ p. 211.

[105] _Ibid._ p. 136.

[106] _Police_, p. 60.

[107] _Ibid._ p. 481.

[108] _Ibid._ p. 7.

[109] _Ibid._ p. 298.

[110] _Police_, p. 99.

[111] Bentham's _Works_, x. 329 _seq._

[112] _Ibid._ v. 335.

[113] Bentham's _Works_, iv. 3, 121.

[114] Cobbett's _State Trials_, xvii. 297-626.


III. EDUCATION

Another topic treated by Colquhoun marks the initial stage of
controversies which were soon to grow warm. Colquhoun boasts of the
number of charities for which London was already conspicuous. A growing
facility for forming associations of all kinds, political, religious,
scientific, and charitable, is an obvious characteristic of modern
progress. Where in earlier times a college or a hospital had to be
endowed by a founder and invested by charter with corporate personality,
it is now necessary only to call a meeting, form a committee, and appeal
for subscriptions. Societies of various kinds had sprung up during the
century. Artists, men of science, agriculturists, and men of literary
tastes, had founded innumerable academies and 'philosophical
institutes.' The great London hospitals, dependent upon voluntary
subscriptions, had been founded during the first half of the century.
Colquhoun counts the annual revenue of various charitable institutions
at £445,000, besides which the endowments produced £150,000, and the
poor-rates £255,000.[115] Among these a considerable number were
intended to promote education. Here, as in some other cases, it seems
that people at the end of the century were often taking up an impulse
given a century before. So the Society for promoting Christian
Knowledge, founded in 1699, and the Society for the Propagation of the
Gospel, founded in 1701, were supplemented by the Church Missionary
Society and the Religious Tract Society, both founded in 1799. The
societies for the reformation of manners, prevalent at the end of the
seventeenth century, were taken as a model by Wilberforce and his
friends at the end of the eighteenth.[116] In the same way, the first
attempts at providing a general education for the poor had been made by
Archbishop Tenison, who founded a parochial school about 1680 in order
'to check the growth of popery.' Charity schools became common during
the early part of the eighteenth century and received various
endowments. They were attacked as tending to teach the poor too much--a
very needless alarm--and also by free thinkers, such as Mandeville, as
intended outworks of the established church. This last objection was a
foretaste of the bitter religious controversies which were to accompany
the growth of an educational system. Colquhoun says that there were 62
endowed schools in London, from Christ's Hospital downwards, educating
about 5000 children; 237 parish schools with about 9000 children, and
3730 'private schools.' The teaching was, of course, very imperfect, and
in a report of a committee of the House of Commons in 1818, it is
calculated that about half the children in a large district were
entirely uneducated. There was, of course, nothing in England deserving
the name of a system in educational more than in any other matters. The
grammar schools throughout the country provided more or less for the
classes which could not aspire to the public schools and universities.
About a third of the boys at Christ's Hospital were, as Coleridge tells
us, sons of clergymen.[117] The children of the poor were either not
educated, or picked up their letters at some charity school or such a
country dame's school as is described by Shenstone. A curious proof,
however, of rising interest in the question is given by the Sunday
Schools movement at the end of the century. Robert Raikes (1735-1811), a
printer in Gloucester and proprietor of a newspaper, joined with a
clergyman to set up a school in 1780 at a total cost of 1s. 6d. a week.
Within three or four years the plan was taken up everywhere, and the
worthy Raikes, whose newspaper had spread the news, found himself
revered as a great pioneer of philanthropy. Wesley took up the scheme
warmly; bishops condescended to approve; the king and queen were
interested, and within three or four years the number of learners was
reckoned at two or three hundred thousand. A Sunday School Association
was formed in 1785 with well known men of business at its head. Queen
Charlotte's friend, Mrs. Trimmer (1741-1810), took up the work near
London, and Hannah More (1745-1833) in Somersetshire. Hannah More gives
a strange account of the utter absence of any civilising agencies in the
district around Cheddar where she and her sisters laboured. She was
accused of 'methodism' and a leaning to Jacobinism, although her views
were of the most moderate kind. She wished the poor to be able to read
their Bibles and to be qualified for domestic duties, but not to write
or to be enabled to read Tom Paine or be encouraged to rise above their
position. The literary light of the Whigs, Dr. Parr (1747-1825), showed
his liberality by arguing that the poor ought to be taught, but admitted
that the enterprise had its limits. The 'Deity Himself had fixed a great
gulph between them and the poor.' A scanty instruction given on Sundays
alone was not calculated to facilitate the passage of that gulf. By the
end of the century, however, signs of a more systematic movement were
showing themselves. Bell and Lancaster, of whom I shall have to speak,
were rival claimants for the honour of initiating a new departure in
education. The controversy which afterwards raged between the supporters
of the two systems marked a complete revolution of opinion. Meanwhile,
although the need of schools was beginning to be felt, the appliances
for education in England were a striking instance of the general
inefficiency in every department which needed combined action. In
Scotland the system of parish schools was one obvious cause of the
success of so many of the Scotsmen which excited the jealousy of
southern competitors. Even in Ireland there appears to have been a more
efficient set of schools. And yet, one remark must be suggested. There
is probably no period in English history at which a greater number of
poor men have risen to distinction. The greatest beyond comparison of
self-taught poets was Burns (1759-1796). The political writer who was at
the time producing the most marked effect was Thomas Paine (1737-1809),
son of a small tradesman. His successor in influence was William Cobbett
(1762-1835), son of an agricultural labourer, and one of the pithiest of
all English writers. William Gifford (1756-1826), son of a small
tradesman in Devonshire, was already known as a satirist and was to lead
Conservatives as editor of the _The Quarterly Review_. John Dalton
(1766-1842), son of a poor weaver, was one of the most distinguished men
of science. Porson (1759-1808), the greatest Greek scholar of his time,
was son of a Norfolk parish clerk, though sagacious patrons had sent him
to Eton in his fifteenth year. The Oxford professor of Arabic, Joseph
White (1746-1814), was son of a poor weaver in the country and a man of
reputation for learning, although now remembered only for a rather
disreputable literary squabble. Robert Owen and Joseph Lancaster, both
sprung from the ranks, were leaders in social movements. I have already
spoken of such men as Watt, Telford, and Rennie; and smaller names might
be added in literature, science, and art. The individualist virtue of
'self-help' was not confined to successful money-making or to the
wealthier classes. One cause of the literary excellence of Burns, Paine,
and Cobbett may be that, when literature was less centralised, a writer
was less tempted to desert his natural dialect. I mention the fact,
however, merely to suggest that, whatever were then the difficulties of
getting such schooling as is now common, an energetic lad even in the
most neglected regions might force his way to the front.

NOTES:

[115] _Police_, p. 340.

[116] Wilberforce started on this plan a 'society for enforcing the
king's proclamation' in 1786, which was supplemented by the society for
'the Suppression of Vice' in 1802. I don't suppose that vice was much
suppressed. Sydney Smith ridiculed its performances in the _Edinburgh_
for 1809. The article is in his works. A more interesting society was
that for 'bettering the condition of the poor,' started by Sir Thomas
Bernard and Wilberforce in 1796.

[117] _Biographia Literaria_ (1847), ii. 327.


IV. THE SLAVE-TRADE

I have thus noticed the most conspicuous of the contemporary problems
which, as we shall see, provided the main tasks of Bentham and his
followers. One other topic must be mentioned as in more ways than one
characteristic of the spirit of the time. The parliamentary attack upon
the slave-trade began just before the outbreak of the revolution. It is
generally described as an almost sudden awakening of the national
conscience. That it appealed to that faculty is undeniable, and,
moreover, it is at least a remarkable instance of legislative action
upon purely moral grounds. It is true that in this case the conscience
was the less impeded because it was roused chiefly by the sins of men's
neighbours. The slave-trading class was a comparative excrescence. Their
trade could be attacked without such widespread interference with the
social order as was implied, for example, in remedying the grievances of
paupers or of children in factories. The conflict with morality, again,
was so plain as to need no demonstration. It seems to be a questionable
logic which assumes the merit of a reformer to be in proportion to the
flagrancy of the evil assailed. The more obvious the case, surely the
less the virtue needed in the assailant. However this may be, no one can
deny the moral excellence of such men as Wilberforce and Clarkson, nor
the real change in the moral standard implied by the success of their
agitation. But another question remains, which is indicated by a later
controversy. The followers of Wilberforce and of Clarkson were jealous
of each other. Each party tried to claim the chief merit for its hero.
Each was, I think, unjust to the other. The underlying motive was the
desire to obtain credit for the 'Evangelicals' or their rivals as the
originators of a great movement. Without touching the personal details
it is necessary to say something of the general sentiments implied. In
his history of the agitation,[118] Clarkson gives a quaint chart,
showing how the impulse spread from various centres till it converged
upon a single area, and his facts are significant.

That a great change had taken place is undeniable. Protestant England
had bargained with Catholic Spain in the middle of the century for the
right of supplying slaves to America, while at the peace of 1814 English
statesmen were endeavouring to secure a combination of all civilised
powers against the trade. Smollett, in 1748, makes the fortune of his
hero, Roderick Random, by placing him as mate of a slave-ship under the
ideal sailor, Bowling. About the same time John Newton (1725-1807),
afterwards the venerated teacher of Cowper and the Evangelicals, was in
command of a slaver, and enjoying 'sweeter and more frequent hours of
divine communion' than he had elsewhere known. He had no scruples,
though he had the grace to pray 'to be fixed in a more humane calling.'
In later years he gave the benefit of his experience to the
abolitionists.[119] A new sentiment, however, was already showing
itself. Clarkson collects various instances. Southern's Oroonoco,
founded on a story by Mrs. Behn, and Steele's story of Inkle and Yarico
in an early _Spectator_, Pope's poor Indian in the _Essay on Man_, and
allusions by Thomson, Shenstone, and Savage, show that poets and
novelists could occasionally turn the theme to account. Hutcheson, the
moralist, incidentally condemns slavery; and divines such as Bishops
Hayter and Warburton took the same view in sermons before the Society
for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge. Johnson, 'last of the
Tories' though he was, had a righteous hatred for the system.[120] He
toasted the next insurrection of negroes in the West Indies, and asked
why we always heard the 'loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of
negroes'? Thomas Day (1748-1789), as an ardent follower of Rousseau,
wrote the _Dying Negro_ in 1773, and, in the same spirit, denounced the
inconsistencies of slave-holding champions of American liberty.

Such isolated utterances showed a spreading sentiment. The honour of the
first victory in the practical application must be given to Granville
Sharp[121] (1735-1813), one of the most charming and, in the best sense,
'Quixotic' of men. In 1772 his exertions had led to the famous decision
by Lord Mansfield in the case of the negro Somerset.[122] Sharp in 1787
became chairman of the committee formed to attack the slave-trade by
collecting the evidence of which Wilberforce made use in parliament. The
committee was chiefly composed of Quakers; as indeed, Quakers are pretty
sure to be found in every philanthropic movement of the period. I must
leave the explanation to the historian of religious movements; but the
fact is characteristic. The Quakers had taken the lead in America. The
Quaker was both practical and a mystic. His principles put him outside
of the ordinary political interests, and of the military world. He
directed his activities to helping the poor, the prisoner, and the
oppressed. Among the Quakers of the eighteenth century were John Woolman
(1720-1772), a writer beloved by the congenial Charles Lamb and Antoine
Benezet (1713-1784), born in France, and son of a French refugee who
settled in Philadelphia. When Clarkson wrote the prize essay upon the
slave-trade (1785), which started his career, it was from Benezet's
writings that he obtained his information. By their influence the
Pennsylvanian Quakers were gradually led to pronounce against
slavery[123]; and the first anti-slavery society was founded in
Philadelphia in 1775, the year in which the skirmish at Lexington began
the war of independence. That suggests another influence. The
Rationalists of the eighteenth century were never tired of praising the
Quakers. The Quakers were, by their essential principles, in favour of
absolute toleration, and their attitude towards dogma was not
dissimilar. 'Rationalisation' and 'Spiritualisation' are in some
directions similar. The general spread of philanthropic sentiment,
which found its formula in the _Rights of Man_, fell in with the Quaker
hatred of war and slavery. Voltaire heartily admires Barclay, the Quaker
apologist. It is, therefore, not surprising to find the names of the
deists, Franklin and Paine, associated with Quakers in this movement.
Franklin was an early president of the new association, and Paine wrote
an article to support the early agitation.[124] Paine himself was a
Quaker by birth, who had dropped his early creed while retaining a
respect for its adherents. When the agitation began it was in fact
generally approved by all except the slave-traders. Sound Whig divines,
Watson and Paley and Parr; Unitarians such as Priestley and Gilbert
Wakefield and William Smith; and the great methodist, John Wesley, were
united on this point. Fox and Burke and Pitt rivalled each other in
condemning the system. The actual delay was caused partly by the
strength of the commercial interests in parliament, and partly by the
growth of the anti-Jacobin sentiment.

The attempt to monopolise the credit of the movement by any particular
sect is absurd. Wilberforce and his friends might fairly claim the glory
of having been worthy representatives of a new spirit of philanthropy;
but most certainly they did not create or originate it. The general
growth of that spirit throughout the century must be explained, so far
as 'explanation' is possible, by wider causes. It was, as I must venture
to assume, a product of complex social changes which were bringing
classes and nations into closer contact, binding them together by new
ties, and breaking up the old institutions which had been formed under
obsolete conditions. The true moving forces were the same whether these
representatives announced the new gospel of the 'rights of man'; or
appealed to the traditional rights of Englishmen; or rallied supporters
of the old order so far as it still provided the most efficient
machinery for the purpose. The revival of religion under Wesley and the
Evangelicals meant the direction of the stream into one channel. The
paralytic condition of the Church of England disqualified it for
appropriating the new energy. The men who directed the movements were
mainly stimulated by moral indignation at the gross abuses, and the
indolence of the established priesthood naturally gave them an
anti-sacerdotal turn. They simply accepted the old Protestant tradition.
They took no interest in the intellectual questions involved.
Rationalism, according to them, meant simply an attack upon the
traditional sanctions of morality; and it scarcely occurred to them to
ask for any philosophical foundation of their creed. Wilberforce's book,
_A Practical View_, attained an immense popularity, and is
characteristic of the position. Wilberforce turns over the infidel to be
confuted by Paley, whom he takes to be a conclusive reasoner. For
himself he is content to show what needed little proof, that the
so-called Christians of the day could act as if they had never heard of
the New Testament. The Evangelical movement had in short no distinct
relation to speculative movements. It took the old tradition for
granted, and it need not here be further considered.

One other remark is suggested by the agitation against the slave-trade.
It set a precedent for agitation of a kind afterwards familiar. The
committee appealed to the country, and got up petitions. Sound Tories
complained of them in the early slave-trade debates, as attempts to
dictate to parliament by democratic methods. Political agitators had
formed associations, and found a convenient instrument in the 'county
meetings,' which seems to have possessed a kind of indefinite legal
character.[125] Such associations of course depend for the great part of
their influence upon the press. The circulation of literature was one
great object. Paine's _Rights of Man_ was distributed by the
revolutionary party, and Hannah More wrote popular tracts to persuade
the poor that they had no grievances. It is said that two millions of
her little tracts, 'Village Politics by Will Chip,' the 'Shepherd of
Salisbury Plain,' and so forth were circulated. The demand, indeed,
showed rather the eagerness of the rich to get them read than the
eagerness of the poor to read them. They failed to destroy Paine's
influence, but they were successful enough to lead to the foundation of
the Religious Tract Society. The attempt to influence the poor by cheap
literature shows that these opinions were beginning to demand
consideration. Cobbett and many others were soon to use the new weapon.
Meanwhile the newspapers circulated among the higher ranks were passing
through a new phase, which must be noted. The great newspapers were
gaining power. The _Morning Chronicle_ was started by Woodfall in 1769,
the _Morning Post_ and _Morning Herald_ by Dudley Bate in 1772 and 1780,
and the _Times_ by Walter in 1788. The modern editor was to appear
during the war. Stoddart and Barnes of the _Times_, Perry and Black of
the _Morning Chronicle_, were to become important politically. The
revolutionary period marks the transition from the old-fashioned
newspaper, carried on by a publisher and an author, to the modern
newspaper, which represents a kind of separate organism, elaborately
'differentiated' and worked by a whole army of co-operating editors,
correspondents, reporters, and contributors. Finally, one remark may be
made. The literary class in England was not generally opposed to the
governing classes. The tone of Johnson's whole circle was conservative.
In fact, since Harley's time, government had felt the need of support in
the press, and politicians on both sides had their regular organs. The
opposition might at any time become the government; and their supporters
in the press, poor men who were only too dependent, had no motive for
going beyond the doctrines of their principals. They might be bought by
opponents, or they might be faithful to a patron. They did not form a
band of outcasts, whose hand would be against every one. The libel law
was severe enough, but there had been no licensing system since the
early days of William and Mary. A man could publish what he chose at his
own peril. When the current of popular feeling was anti-revolutionary,
government might obtain a conviction, but even in the worst times there
was a chance that juries might be restive. Editors had at times to go to
prison, but even then the paper was not suppressed. Cobbett, for
example, continued to publish his _Registrar_ during an imprisonment of
two years (1810-12). Editors had very serious anxieties, but they could
express with freedom any opinion which had the support of a party.
English liberty was so far a reality that a very free discussion of the
political problems of the day was permitted and practised. The English
author, therefore, as such, had not the bitterness of a French man of
letters, unless, indeed, he had the misfortune to be an uncompromising
revolutionist.

NOTES:

[118] _History of the Rise, Progress, and Accomplishment of the
Abolition of the Slave-trade by the British Parliament_ (1808). Second
enlarged edition 1839. The chart was one cause of the offence taken by
Wilberforce's sons.

[119] Cf. Sir J. Stephen's _Ecclesiastical Biography_ (The Evangelical
Succession).

[120] See passages collected in Birkbeck Hill's _Boswell_, ii. 478-80,
and cf. iii. 200-204. Boswell was attracted by Clarkson, but finally
made up his mind that the abolition of the slave-trade would 'shut the
gates of mercy on mankind.'

[121] See the account of G. Sharp in Sir J. Stephen's _Ecclesiastical
Biography_ (Clapham Sect).

[122] Cobbett's _State Trials_, xx. 1-82.

[123] The Society determined in 1760 'to disown' any Friend concerned in
the slave-trade.

[124] Mr. Conway, in his _Life of Paine_, attributes, I think, a little
more to his hero than is consistent with due regard to his predecessors;
but, in any case, he took an early part in the movement.

[125] See upon this subject Mr. Jephson's interesting book on _The
Platform_.


V. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

The English society which I have endeavoured to characterise was now to
be thrown into the vortex of the revolutionary wars. The surpassing
dramatic interest of the French Revolution has tended to obscure our
perception of the continuity of even English history. It has been easy
to ascribe to the contagion of French example political movements which
were already beginning in England and which were modified rather than
materially altered by our share in the great European convulsion. The
impression made upon Englishmen by the French Revolution is, however, in
the highest degree characteristic. The most vehement sympathies and
antipathies were aroused, and showed at least what principles were
congenial to the various English parties. To praise or blame the
revolution, as if it could be called simply good or bad, is for the
historian as absurd as to praise or blame an earthquake. It was simply
inevitable under the conditions. We may, of course, take it as an
essential stage in a social evolution, which if described as progress is
therefore to be blessed, or if as degeneration may provoke lamentation.
We may, if we please, ask whether superior statesmanship might have
attained the good results without the violent catastrophes, or whether a
wise and good man who could appreciate the real position would have
approved or condemned the actual policy. But to answer such problems
with any confidence would imply a claim to a quasi-omniscience.
Partisans at the time, however, answered them without hesitation, and
saw in the Revolution the dawn of a new era of reason and justice, or
the outburst of the fires of hell. Their view is at any rate indicative
of their own position. The extreme opinions need no exposition. They are
represented by the controversy between Burke and Paine. The general
doctrine of the 'Rights of Men'--that all men are by nature free and
equal--covered at least the doctrine that the inequality and despotism
of the existing order was hateful, and people with a taste for abstract
principles accepted this short cut to political wisdom. The 'minor'
premise being obviously true, they took the major for granted. To Burke,
who idealised the traditional element in the British Constitution, and
so attached an excessive importance to historical continuity, the new
doctrine seemed to imply the breaking up of the very foundations of
order and the pulverisation of society. Burke and Paine both assumed too
easily that the dogmas which they defended expressed the real and
ultimate beliefs, and that the belief was the cause, not the
consequence, of the political condition. Without touching upon the logic
of either position, I may notice how the problem presented itself to the
average English politician whose position implied acceptance of
traditional compromises and who yet prided himself on possessing the
liberties which were now being claimed by Frenchmen. The Whig could
heartily sympathise with the French Revolution so long as it appeared to
be an attempt to assimilate British principles. When Fox hailed the
fall of the Bastille as the greatest and best event that had ever
happened, he was expressing a generous enthusiasm shared by all the
ardent and enlightened youth of the time. The French, it seemed, were
abolishing an arbitrary despotism and adopting the principles of Magna
Charta and the 'Habeas Corpus' Act. Difficulties, however, already
suggested themselves to the true Whig. Would the French, as Young asked
just after the same event, 'copy the constitution of England, freed from
its faults, or attempt, from theory, to frame something absolutely
speculative'?[126] On that issue depended the future of the country. It
was soon decided in the sense opposed to Young's wishes. The reign of
terror alienated the average Whig. But though the argument from
atrocities is the popular one, the opposition was really more
fundamental. Burke put the case, savagely and coarsely enough, in his
'Letter to a noble Lord.' How would the duke of Bedford like to be
treated as the revolutionists were treating the nobility in France? The
duke might be a sincere lover of political liberty, but he certainly
would not be prepared to approve the confiscation of his estates. The
aristocratic Whigs, dependent for their whole property and for every
privilege which they prized upon ancient tradition and prescription,
could not really be in favour of sweeping away the whole complex social
structure, levelling Windsor Castle as Burke put it in his famous
metaphor, and making a 'Bedford level' of the whole country. The Whigs
had to disavow any approval of the Jacobins; Mackintosh, who had given
his answer to Burke's diatribes, met Burke himself on friendly terms
(9th July 1797), and in 1800 took an opportunity of public recantation.
He only expressed the natural awakening of the genuine Whig to the
aspects of the case which he had hitherto ignored. The effect upon the
middle-class Whigs is, however, more to my purpose. It may be
illustrated by the history of John Horne Tooke[127] (1736-1812), who at
this time represented what may be called the home-bred British
radicalism. He was the son of a London tradesman, who had distinguished
himself by establishing, and afterwards declining to enforce, certain
legal rights against Frederick Prince of Wales. The prince recognised
the tradesman's generosity by making his antagonist purveyor to his
household. A debt of some thousand pounds was thus run up before the
prince's death which was never discharged. Possibly the son's hostility
to the royal family was edged by this circumstance. John Horne, forced
to take orders in order to hold a living, soon showed himself to have
been intended by nature for the law. He took up the cause of Wilkes in
the early part of the reign; defended him energetically in later years;
and in 1769 helped to start the 'Society for supporting the Bill of
Rights.' He then attacked Wilkes, who, as he maintained, misapplied for
his own private use the funds subscribed for public purposes to this
society; and set up a rival 'Constitutional Society.' In 1775, as
spokesman of this body, he denounced the 'king's troops' for 'inhumanly
murdering' their fellow-subjects at Lexington for the sole crime of
'preferring death to slavery.' He was imprisoned for the libel, and thus
became a martyr to the cause. When the country associations were formed
in 1780 to protest against the abuses revealed by the war, Horne became
a member of the 'Society for Constitutional Information,' of which Major
Cartwright--afterwards the revered, but rather tiresome, patriarch of
the Radicals--was called the 'father.' Horne Tooke (as he was now
named), by these and other exhibitions of boundless pugnacity, became a
leader among the middle-class Whigs, who found their main support among
London citizens, such as Beckford, Troutbeck and Oliver; supported them
in his later days; and after the American war, preferred Pitt, as an
advocate of parliamentary reform, to Fox, the favourite of the
aristocratic Whigs. He denounced the Fox coalition ministry, and in
later years opposed Fox at Westminster. The 'Society for Constitutional
Information' was still extant in the revolutionary period, and Tooke, a
bluff, jovial companion, who had by this time got rid of his clerical
character, often took the chair at the taverns where they met to talk
sound politics over their port. The revolution infused new spirit into
politics. In March 1791[128] Tooke's society passed a vote of thanks to
Paine for the first part of his _Rights of Man_. Next year Thomas Hardy,
a radical shoemaker, started a 'Corresponding Society.' Others sprang up
throughout the country, especially in the manufacturing towns.[129]
These societies took Paine for their oracle, and circulated his writings
as their manifesto. They communicated occasionally with Horne Tooke's
society, which more or less sympathised with them. The Whigs of the
upper sphere started the 'Friends of the People' in April 1792, in order
to direct the discontent into safer channels. Grey, Sheridan and Erskine
were members; Fox sympathised but declined to join; Mackintosh was
secretary; and Sir Philip Francis drew up the opening address, citing
the authority of Pitt and Blackstone, and declaring that the society
wished 'not to change but to restore.'[130] It remonstrated cautiously
with the other societies, and only excited their distrust. Grey, as its
representative, made a motion for parliamentary reform which was
rejected (May 1793) by two hundred and eighty-two to forty-one. Later
motions in May 1797 and April 1800 showed that, for the present,
parliamentary reform was out of the question. Meanwhile the English
Jacobins got up a 'convention' which met at Edinburgh at the end of
1793. The very name was alarming: the leaders were tried and
transported; the cruelty of the sentences and the severity of the
judges, especially Braxfield, shocked such men as Parr and Jeffrey, and
unsuccessful appeals for mercy were made in parliament. The Habeas
Corpus Act was suspended in 1794: Horne Tooke and Hardy were both
arrested and tried for high treason in November. An English jury
fortunately showed itself less subservient than the Scottish; the judge
was scrupulously fair: and both Hardy and Horne Tooke were acquitted.
The societies, however, though they were encouraged for a time, were
attacked by severe measures passed by Pitt in 1795. The 'Friends of the
People' ceased to exist The seizure of the committee of the
Corresponding Societies in 1798 put an end to their activity. A report
presented to parliament in 1799[131] declares that the societies had
gone to dangerous lengths: they had communicated with the French
revolutionists and with the 'United Irishmen' (founded 1791); and
societies of 'United Englishmen' and 'United Scotsmen' had had some
concern in the mutinies of the fleet in 1797 and in the Irish rebellion
of 1798. Place says, probably with truth, that the danger was much
exaggerated: but in any case, an act for the suppression of the
Corresponding Societies was passed in 1799, and put an end to the
movement.

This summary is significant of the state of opinion. The genuine
old-fashioned Whig dreaded revolution, and guarded himself carefully
against any appearance of complicity. Jacobinism, on the other hand, was
always an exotic. Such men as the leading Nonconformists Priestley and
Price were familiar with the speculative movement on the continent, and
sympathised with the enlightenment. Young men of genius, like Wordsworth
and Coleridge, imbibed the same doctrines more or less thoroughly, and
took Godwin for their English representative. The same creed was
accepted by the artisans in the growing towns, from whom the
Corresponding Societies drew their recruits. But the revolutionary
sentiment was not so widely spread as its adherents hoped or its enemies
feared. The Birmingham mob of 1791 acted, with a certain unconscious
humour, on the side of church and king. They had perhaps an instinctive
perception that it was an advantage to plunder on the side of the
constable. In fact, however, the general feeling in all classes was
anti-Jacobin. Place, an excellent witness, himself a member of the
Corresponding Societies, declares that the repressive measures were
generally popular even among the workmen.[132] They were certainly not
penetrated with revolutionary fervour. Had it been otherwise, the
repressive measures, severe as they were, would have stimulated rather
than suppressed the societies, and, instead of silencing the
revolutionists, have provoked a rising.

At the early period the Jacobin and the home-bred Radical might combine
against government. A manifesto of the Corresponding Societies begins by
declaring that 'all men are by nature free and equal and independent of
each other,' and argues also that these are the 'original principles of
English government.'[133] Magna Charta is an early expression of the
Declaration of Rights, and thus pure reason confirms British tradition.
The adoption of a common platform, however, covered a profound
difference of sentiment. Horne Tooke represents the old type of
reformer. He was fully resolved not to be carried away by the enthusiasm
of his allies. 'My companions in a stage,' he said to Cartwright, 'may
be going to Windsor: I will go with them to Hounslow. But there I will
get out: no further will I go, by God!'[134] When Sheridan supported a
vote of sympathy for the French revolutionists, Tooke insisted upon
adding a rider declaring the content of Englishmen with their own
constitution.[135] He offended some of his allies by asserting that the
'main timbers' of the constitution were sound though the dry-rot had
got into the superstructure. He maintained, according to Godwin,[136]
that the best of all governments had been that of England under George
I. Though Cartwright said at the trial that Horne Tooke was taken to
'have no religion whatever,' he was, according to Stephens, 'a great
stickler for the church of England': and stood up for the House of Lords
as well as the church on grounds of utility.[137] He always ridiculed
Paine and the doctrine of abstract rights,[138] and told Cartwright that
though all men had an equal right to a share of property, they had not a
right to an equal share. Horne Tooke's Radicalism (I use the word by
anticipation) was that of the sturdy tradesman. He opposed the
government because he hated war, taxation and sinecures. He argued
against universal suffrage with equal pertinacity. A comfortable old
gentleman, with a good cellar of Madeira, and proud of his wall-fruit in
a well-tilled garden, had no desire to see George III. at the
guillotine, and still less to see a mob supreme in Lombard Street or
banknotes superseded by assignats. He might be jealous of the great
nobles, but he dreaded mob-rule. He could denounce abuses, but he could
not desire anarchy. He is said to have retorted upon some one who had
boasted that English courts of justice were open to all classes: 'So is
the London tavern--to all who can pay.'[139] That is in the spirit of
Bentham; and yet Bentham complains that Horne Tooke's disciple, Burdett,
believed in the common law, and revered the authority of Coke.[140] In
brief, the creed of Horne Tooke meant 'liberty' founded upon tradition.
I shall presently notice the consistency of this with what may be called
his philosophy. Meanwhile it was only natural that radicals of this
variety should retire from active politics, having sufficiently burnt
their fingers by flirtation with the more thoroughgoing party. How they
came to life again will appear hereafter. Horne Tooke himself took
warning from his narrow escape. He stayed quietly in his house at
Wimbledon.[141] There he divided his time between his books and his
garden, and received his friends to Sunday dinners. Bentham, Mackintosh,
Coleridge, and Godwin were among his visitors. Coleridge calls him a
'keen iron man,' and reports that he made a butt of Godwin as he had
done of Paine.[142] Porson and Boswell encountered him in drinking
matches and were both left under the table.[143] The house was thus a
small centre of intellectual life, though the symposia were not
altogether such as became philosophers. Horne Tooke was a keen and
shrewd disputant, well able to impress weaker natures. His neighbour,
Sir Francis Burdett, became his political disciple, and in later years
was accepted as the radical leader. Tooke died at Wimbledon 18th March
1812.

NOTES:

[126] _France_, p. 206 (20th July 1789).

[127] See the _Life of Horne Tooke_, by Alexander Stephens (2 vols. 8vo,
1813). John Horne added the name Tooke in 1782.

[128] _Parl. Hist._ xxxi. 751.

[129] The history of these societies may be found in the trials reported
in the twenty-third, twenty-fourth, and twenty-fifth volumes of
Cobbett's _State Trials_, and in the reports of the secret committees in
the thirty-first and thirty-fourth volumes of the _Parl. History_. There
are materials in Place's papers in the British Museum which have been
used in E. Smith's _English Jacobins_.

[130] _Parl. Hist._ xxix. 1300-1341.

[131] _Parl. Hist._ xxxiv. 574-655.

[132] Mr. Wallas's _Life of Place_, p. 25 _n._

[133] _State Trials_, xxiv. 575.

[134] _Ibid._ xxv. 330.

[135] _Ibid._ xxv. 390.

[136] Paul's _Godwin_, i. 147.

[137] Stephens, ii. 48, 477.

[138] _Ibid._ ii. 34-41, 323, 478-481.

[139] _Ibid._ ii. 483.

[140] Bentham's _Works_, x. 404.

[141] He was member for Old Sarum 1801-2; but his career ended by a
declaratory act disqualifying for a seat men who had received holy
orders.

[142] Bentham's _Works_, x. 404; _Life of Mackintosh_, i. 52; Paul's
_Godwin_, i. 71; Coleridge's _Table-Talk_, 8th May 1830 and 16th August
1833.

[143] Stephens, ii. 316, 334, 438.


VI. INDIVIDUALISM

The general tendencies which I have so far tried to indicate will have
to be frequently noticed in the course of the following pages. One
point may be emphasised before proceeding: a main characteristic of the
whole social and political order is what is now called its
'individualism.' That phrase is generally supposed to convey some
censure. It may connote, however, some of the most essential virtues
that a race can possess. Energy, self-reliance, and independence, a
strong conviction that a man's fate should depend upon his own character
and conduct, are qualities without which no nation can be great. They
are the conditions of its vital power. They were manifested in a high
degree by the Englishmen of the eighteenth century. How far they were
due to the inherited qualities of the race, to the political or social
history, or to external circumstances, I need not ask. They were the
qualities which had especially impressed foreign observers. The fierce,
proud, intractable Briton was elbowing his way to a high place in the
world, and showing a vigour not always amiable, but destined to bring
him successfully through tremendous struggles. In the earlier part of
the century, Voltaire and French philosophers admired English freedom of
thought and free speech, even when it led to eccentricity and brutality
of manners, and to barbarism in matters of taste. Englishmen, conscious
and proud of their 'liberty,' were the models of all who desired liberty
for themselves. Liberty, as they understood it, involved, among other
things, an assault upon the old restrictive system, which at every turn
hampered the rising industrial energy. This is the sense in which
'Individualism,' or the gospel according to Adam Smith--_laissez faire_,
and so forth--has been specially denounced in recent times. Without
asking at present how far such attacks are justifiable, I must be
content to assume that the old restrictive system was in its actual form
mischievous, guided by entirely false theories, and the great barrier to
the development of industry. The same spirit appeared in purely
political questions. 'Liberty,' as is often remarked, may be interpreted
in two ways; not necessarily consistent with each other. It means
sometimes simply the diminution of the sphere of law and the power of
legislators, or, again, the transference to subjects of the power of
legislating, and, therefore, not less control, but control by self-made
laws alone. The Englishman, who was in presence of no centralised
administrative power, who regarded the Government rather as receiving
power from individuals than as delegating the power of a central body,
took liberty mainly in the sense of restricting law. Government in
general was a nuisance, though a necessity; and properly employed only
in mediating between conflicting interests, and restraining the violence
of individuals forced into contact by outward circumstances. When he
demanded that a greater share of influence should be given to the
people, he always took for granted that their power would be used to
diminish the activity of the sovereign power; that there would be less
government and therefore less jobbery, less interference with free
speech and free action, and smaller perquisites to be bestowed in return
for the necessary services. The people would use their authority to tie
the hands of the rulers, and limit them strictly to their proper and
narrow functions.

The absence, again, of the idea of a state in any other sense implies
another tendency. The 'idea' was not required. Englishmen were concerned
rather with details than with first principles. Satisfied, in a general
way, with their constitution, they did not want to be bothered with
theories. Abstract and absolute doctrines of right, when imported from
France, fell flat upon the average Englishman. He was eager enough to
discuss the utility of this or that part of the machinery, but without
inquiring into first principles of mechanism. The argument from
'utility' deals with concrete facts, and presupposes an acceptance of
some common criterion of the useful. The constant discussion of
political matters in parliament and the press implied a tacit acceptance
on all hands of constitutional methods. Practical men, asking whether
this or that policy shall be adopted in view of actual events, no more
want to go back to right reason and 'laws of nature' than a surveyor to
investigate the nature of geometrical demonstration. Very important
questions were raised as to the rights of the press, for example, or the
system of representation. But everybody agreed that the representative
system and freedom of speech were good things; and argued the immediate
questions of fact. The order, only established by experience and
tradition, was accepted, subject to criticism of detail, and men turned
impatiently from abstract argument, and left the inquiry into 'social
contracts' to philosophers, that is, to silly people in libraries.
Politics were properly a matter of business, to be discussed in a
business-like spirit. In this sense, 'individualism' is congenial to
'empiricism,' because it starts from facts and particular interests, and
resents the intrusion of first principles.

The characteristic individualism, again, suggests one other remark.
Individual energy and sense of responsibility are good--as even extreme
socialists may admit--if they do not exclude a sense of duties to
others. It may be a question how far the stimulation of individual
enterprise and the vigorous spirit of industrial competition really led
to a disregard of the interests of the weaker. But it would be a
complete misunderstanding of the time if we inferred that it meant a
decline of humane feeling. Undoubtedly great evils had grown up, and
some continued to grow which were tolerated by the indifference, or even
stimulated by the selfish aims, of the dominant classes. But, in the
first place, many of the most active prophets of the individualist
spirit were acting, and acting sincerely, in the name of humanity. They
were attacking a system which they held, and to a great extent, I
believe, held rightly, to be especially injurious to the weakest
classes. Possibly they expected too much from the simple removal of
restrictions; but certainly they denounced the restrictions as unjust to
all, not simply as hindrances to the wealth of the rich. Adam Smith's
position is intelligible: it was, he thought, a proof of a providential
order that each man, by helping himself, unintentionally helped his
neighbours. The moral sense based upon sympathy was therefore not
opposed to, but justified, the economic principles that each man should
first attend to his own interest. The unintentional co-operation would
thus become conscious and compatible with the established order. And, in
the next place, so far from there being a want of humane feeling, the
most marked characteristic of the eighteenth century was precisely the
growth of humanity. In the next generation, the eighteenth century came
to be denounced as cold, heartless, faithless, and so forth. The
established mode of writing history is partly responsible for this
perversion. Men speak as though some great man, who first called
attention to an evil, was a supernatural being who had suddenly dropped
into the world from another sphere. His condemnation of evil is
therefore taken to be a proof that the time must be evil. Any century is
bad if we assume all the good men to be exceptions. But the great man is
really also the product of his time. He is the mouthpiece of its
prevailing sentiments, and only the first to see clearly what many are
beginning to perceive obscurely. The emergence of the prophet is a proof
of the growing demand of his hearers for sound teaching. Because he is
in advance of men generally, he sees existing abuses more clearly, and
we take his evidence against his contemporaries as conclusive. But the
fact that they listened shows how widely the same sensibility to evil
was already diffused. In fact, as I think, the humane spirit of the
eighteenth century, due to the vast variety of causes which we call
social progress or evolution--not to the teaching of any individual--was
permeating the whole civilised world, and showed itself in the
philosophic movement as well as in the teaching of the religious
leaders, who took the philosophers to be their enemies. I have briefly
noticed the various philanthropic movements which were characteristic of
the period. Some of them may indicate the growth of new evils; others,
that evils which had once been regarded with indifference were now
attracting attention and exciting indignation. But even the growth of
new evils does not show general indifference so much as the incapacity
of the existing system to deal with new conditions. It may, I think, be
safely said that a growing philanthropy was characteristic of the whole
period, and in particular animated the Utilitarian movement, as I shall
have to show in detail. Modern writers have often spoken of the Wesleyan
propaganda and the contemporary 'evangelical revival' as the most
important movements of the time. They are apt to speak, in conformity
with the view just described, as though Wesley or some of his
contemporaries had originated or created the better spirit. Without
asking what was good or bad in some aspects of these movements, I fully
believe that Wesley was essentially a moral reformer, and that he
deserves corresponding respect. But instead of holding that his
contemporaries were bad people, awakened by a stimulus from without, I
hold that the movement, so far as really indicating moral improvement,
must be set down to the credit of the century itself. It was one
manifestation of a general progress, of which Bentham was another
outcome. Though Bentham might have thought Wesley a fanatic or perhaps a
hypocrite, and Wesley would certainly have considered that Bentham's
heart was much in need of a change, they were really allies as much as
antagonists, and both mark a great and beneficial change.




CHAPTER IV

PHILOSOPHY


I. JOHN HORNE TOOKE

I have so far dwelt upon the social and political environment of the
early Utilitarian movement; and have tried also to point out some of the
speculative tendencies fostered by the position. If it be asked what
philosophical doctrines were explicitly taught, the answer must be a
very short one. English philosophy barely existed. Parr was supposed to
know something about metaphysics--apparently because he could write good
Latin. But the inference was hasty. Of one book, however, which had a
real influence, I must say something, for though it contained little
definite philosophy, it showed what kind of philosophy was congenial to
the common sense of the time.

The sturdy radical, Horne Tooke, had been led to the study of philology
by a characteristic incident. The legal question had arisen whether the
words, '_She, knowing that Crooke had been indicted for forgery_,' did
so and so, contained an averment that Crooke had been indicted. Tooke
argued in a letter to Dunning[144] that they did; because they were
equivalent to the phrase, 'Crooke had been indicted for forgery: she,
_knowing that_,' did so and so. This raises the question: What is the
meaning of 'that'? Tooke took up the study, thinking, as he says, that
it would throw light upon some philosophical questions. He learned some
Anglo-Saxon and Gothic to test his theory and, of course, confirmed
it.[145] The book shows ingenuity, shrewdness, and industry, and Tooke
deserves credit for seeing the necessity of applying a really historical
method to his problem, though his results were necessarily crude in the
pre-scientific stage of philology.

The book is mainly a long string of etymologies, which readers of
different tastes have found intolerably dull or an amusing collection of
curiosities. Tooke held, and surely with reason, that an investigation
of language, the great instrument of thought, may help to throw light
upon the process of thinking. He professes to be a disciple of Locke in
philosophy as in politics. Locke, he said,[146] made a lucky mistake in
calling his book an essay upon human understanding; for he thus
attracted many who would have been repelled had he called it what it
really was, 'a treatise upon words and language.' According to Tooke, in
fact,[147] what we call 'operations of mind' are only 'operations of
language.' The mind contemplates nothing but 'impressions,' that is,
'sensations or feelings,' which Locke called 'ideas,' Locke mistook
composition of terms for composition of ideas. To compound ideas is
impossible. We can only use one term as a sign of many ideas. Locke,
again, supposed that affirming and denying were operations of the mind,
whereas they are only artifices of language.[148]

The mind, then, can only contemplate, separately or together, aggregates
of 'ideas,' ultimate atoms, incapable of being parted or dissolved.
There are, therefore, only two classes of words, nouns and verbs; all
others, prepositions, conjunctions, and so forth, being abbreviations, a
kind of mental shorthand to save the trouble of enumerating the separate
items. Tooke, in short, is a thoroughgoing nominalist. The realities,
according to him, are sticks, stones, and material objects, or the
'ideas' which 'represent' them. They can be stuck together or taken
apart, but all the words which express relations, categories, and the
like, are in themselves meaningless. The special objects of his scorn
are 'Hermes' Harris, and Monboddo, who had tried to defend Aristotle
against Locke. Monboddo had asserted that 'every kind of relation' is a
pure 'idea of the intellect' not to be apprehended by sense.[149] If so,
according to Tooke, it would be a nonentity.

This doctrine gives a short cut to the abolition of metaphysics. The
word 'metaphysics,' says Tooke,[150] is nonsense. All metaphysical
controversies are 'founded on the grossest ignorance of words and the
nature of speech.' The greatest part of his second volume is concerned
with etymologies intended to prove that an 'abstract idea' is a mere
word. Abstract words, he says,[151] are generally 'participles without
a substantive and therefore in construction used as substantives.' From
a misunderstanding of this has arisen 'metaphysical jargon' and 'false
morality.' In illustration he gives a singular list of words, including
'fate, chance, heaven, hell, providence, prudence, innocence, substance,
fiend, angel, apostle, spirit, true, false, desert, merit, faith, etc.,
all of which are mere participles poetically embodied and substantiated
by those who use them.' A couple of specific applications, often quoted
by later writers, will sufficiently indicate his drift.

Such words, he remarks,[152] as 'right' and 'just' mean simply that
which is ordered or commanded. The chapter is headed 'rights of man,'
and Tooke's interlocutor naturally observes that this is a singular
result for a democrat. Man, it would seem, has no rights except the
rights created by the law. Tooke admits the inference to be correct, but
replies that the democrat in disobeying human law may be obeying the law
of God, and is obeying the law of God when he obeys the law of nature.
The interlocutor does not inquire what Tooke could mean by the 'law of
nature.' We can guess what Tooke would have said to Paine in the
Wimbledon garden. In fact, however, Tooke is here, as elsewhere,
following Hobbes, though, it seems, unconsciously. Another famous
etymology is that of 'truth' from 'troweth.'[153] Truth is what each man
thinks. There is no such thing, therefore, as 'eternal, immutable,
everlasting truth, unless mankind, _such as they are at present_, be
eternal, immutable, everlasting.' Two persons may contradict each other
and yet each may be speaking what is true for him. Truth may be a vice
as well as a virtue; for on many occasions it is wrong to speak the
truth.

These phrases may possibly be interpreted in a sense less paradoxical
than the obvious one. Tooke's philosophy, if so it is to be called, was
never fully expounded. He burned his papers before his death, and we do
not know what he would have said about 'verbs,' which must have led, one
would suppose, to some further treatment of relations, nor upon the
subject, which as Stephens tells us, was most fully treated in his
continuation, the value of human testimony.

If Tooke was not a philosopher he was a man of remarkably shrewd cynical
common sense, who thought philosophy idle foppery. His book made a great
success. Stephens tells us[154] that it brought him £4000 or £5000.
Hazlitt in 1810 published a grammar professing to incorporate for the
first time Horne Tooke's 'discoveries.' The book was admired by
Mackintosh,[155] who, of course, did not accept the principles, and had
a warm disciple in Charles Richardson (1775-1865), who wrote in its
defence against Dugald Stewart and accepted its authority in his
elaborate dictionary of the English language.[156] But its chief
interest for us is that it was a great authority with James Mill. Mill
accepts the etymologies, and there is much in common between the two
writers, though Mill had learned his main doctrines elsewhere,
especially from Hobbes. What the agreement really shows is how the
intellectual idiosyncrasy which is congenial to 'nominalism' in
philosophy was also congenial to Tooke's matter of fact radicalism and
to the Utilitarian position of Bentham and his followers.

NOTES:

[144] Published originally in 1778; reprinted in edition of EPEA
PTEROENTA or _Diversions of Purley_, by Richard Taylor (1829), to which
I refer. The first part of the _Diversions of Purley_ appeared in 1786;
and the second part (with a new edition of the first) in 1798.

[145] _Diversions of Purley_ (1829), i. 12, 131.

[146] _Ibid._ ii. 362. Locke's work, says Prof. Max Müller in his
_Science of Thought_, p. 295, 'is, as Lange in his _History of
Materialism_ rightly perceived, a critique of language which, together
with Kant's _Critique of the Pure Reason_, forms the starting-point of
modern philosophy.' _See_ Lange's _Materialism_, (1873), i. 271.

[147] _Ibid._ i. 49.

[148] _Diversions of Purley_, i. 36, 42.

[149] _Ibid._ i. 373.

[150] _Ibid._ i. 374.

[151] _Diversions of Purley_, ii. 18. Cf. Mill's statement in
_Analysis_, i. 304, that 'abstract terms are concrete terms with the
connotation dropped.'

[152] _Ibid._ ii. 9, etc.

[153] _Ibid._ ii. 399.

[154] Stephens, ii. 497.

[155] _Life of Mackintosh_, ii. 235-37.

[156] Begun for the _Encyclopædia Metropolitana_ in 1818; and published
in 1835-37. Dugald Stewart's chief criticism is in his Essays (_Works_,
v. 149-188). John Fearn published his _Anti-Tooke_ in 1820.


II. DUGALD STEWART

If English philosophy was a blank, there was still a leader of high
reputation in Scotland. Dugald Stewart (1753-1828) had a considerable
influence upon the Utilitarians. He represented, on the one hand, the
doctrines which they thought themselves specially bound to attack, and
it may perhaps be held that in some ways he betrayed to them the key of
the position. Stewart[157] was son of a professor of mathematics at
Edinburgh. He studied at Glasgow (1771-72) where he became Reid's
favourite pupil and devoted friend. In 1772 he became the assistant, and
in 1775 the colleague, of his father, and he appears to have had a
considerable knowledge of mathematics. In 1785 he succeeded Adam
Ferguson as professor of moral philosophy and lectured continuously
until 1810. He then gave up his active duties to Thomas Brown, devoting
himself to the completion and publication of the substance of his
lectures. Upon Brown's death in 1820, he resigned a post to which he was
no longer equal. A paralytic stroke in 1822 weakened him, though he was
still able to write. He died in 1828.

If Stewart now makes no great mark in histories of philosophy, his
personal influence was conspicuous. Cockburn describes him as of
delicate appearance, with a massive head, bushy eyebrows, gray
intelligent eyes, flexible mouth and expressive countenance. His voice
was sweet and his ear exquisite. Cockburn never heard a better reader,
and his manners, though rather formal, were graceful and dignified.
James Mill, after hearing Pitt and Fox, declared that Stewart was their
superior in eloquence. At Edinburgh, then at the height of its
intellectual activity, he held his own among the ablest men and
attracted the loyalty of the younger. Students came not only from
Scotland but from England, the United States, France and Germany.[158]
Scott won the professor's approval by an essay on the 'Customs of the
Northern Nations.' Jeffrey, Horner, Cockburn and Mackintosh were among
his disciples. His lectures upon Political Economy were attended by
Sydney Smith, Jeffrey and Brougham, and one of his last hearers was Lord
Palmerston. Parr looked up to him as a great philosopher, and
contributed to his works an essay upon the etymology of the word
'sublime,' too vast to be printed whole. Stewart was an upholder of Whig
principles, when the Scottish government was in the hands of the
staunchest Tories. The irreverent young Edinburgh Reviewers treated him
with respect, and to some extent applied his theory to politics.
Stewart was the philosophical heir of Reid; and, one may say, was a Whig
both in philosophy and in politics. He was a rationalist, but within the
limits fixed by respectability; and he dreaded the revolution in
politics, and believed in the surpassing merits of the British
Constitution as interpreted by the respectable Whigs.

Stewart represents the 'common sense' doctrine. That name, as he
observes, lends itself to an equivocation. Common sense is generally
used as nearly synonymous with 'mother wit,' the average opinion of
fairly intelligent men; and he would prefer to speak of the 'fundamental
laws of belief.'[159] There can, however, be no doubt that the doctrine
derived much of its strength from the apparent confirmation of the
'average opinion' by the 'fundamental laws.' On one side, said Reid, are
all the vulgar; on the other all the philosophers. 'In this division, to
my great humiliation, I find myself classed with the vulgar.'[160] Reid,
in fact, had opposed the theories of Hume and Berkeley because they led
to a paradoxical scepticism. If it be, as Reid held, a legitimate
inference from Berkeley that a man may as well run his head against a
post, there can be no doubt that it is shocking to common sense in every
acceptation of the word. The reasons, however, which Reid and Stewart
alleged for not performing that feat took a special form, which I am
compelled to notice briefly because they set up the mark for the whole
intellectual artillery of the Utilitarians. Reid, in fact, invented what
J. S. Mill called 'intuitions.' To confute intuitionists and get rid of
intuitions was one main purpose of all Mill's speculations. What, then,
is an 'intuition'? To explain that fully it would be necessary to write
once more that history of the philosophical movement from Descartes to
Hume, which has been summarised and elucidated by so many writers that
it should be as plain as the road from St. Paul's to Temple Bar. I am
forced to glance at the position taken by Reid and Stewart because it
has a most important bearing upon the whole Utilitarian scheme. Reid's
main service to philosophy was, in his own opinion,[161] that he refuted
the 'ideal system' of Descartes and his followers. That system, he says,
carried in its womb the monster, scepticism, which came to the birth in
1739,[162] the date of Hume's early _Treatise_. To confute Hume,
therefore, which was Reid's primary object, it was necessary to go back
to Descartes, and to show where he deviated from the right track. In
other words, we must trace the genealogy of 'ideas.' Descartes, as Reid
admitted, had rendered immense services to philosophy. He had exploded
the scholastic system, which had become a mere mass of logomachies and
an incubus upon scientific progress. He had again been the first to
'draw a distinct line between the material and the intellectual
world'[163]; and Reid apparently assumes that he had drawn it correctly.
One characteristic of the Cartesian school is obvious. Descartes, a
great mathematician at the period when mathematical investigations were
showing their enormous power, invented a mathematical universe.
Mathematics presented the true type of scientific reasoning and
determined his canons of inquiry. The 'essence' of matter, he said, was
space. The objective world, as we have learned to call it, is simply
space solidified or incarnate geometry. Its properties therefore could
be given as a system of deductions from first principles, and it forms a
coherent and self-subsistent whole. Meanwhile the essence of the soul is
thought. Thought and matter are absolutely opposed. They are contraries,
having nothing in common. Reality, however, seems to belong to the world
of space. The brain, too, belongs to that world, and motions in the
brain must be determined as a part of the material mechanism. In some
way or other 'ideas' correspond to these motions; though to define the
way tried all the ingenuity of Descartes' successors. In any case an
idea is 'subjective': it is a thought, not a thing. It is a shifting,
ephemeral entity not to be fixed or grasped. Yet, somehow or other, it
exists, and it 'represents' realities; though the divine power has to be
called in to guarantee the accuracy of the representation. The objective
world, again, does not reveal itself to us as simply made up of 'primary
qualities'; we know of it only as somehow endowed with 'secondary' or
sense-given qualities: as visible, tangible, audible, and so forth.
These qualities are plainly 'subjective'; they vary from man to man, and
from moment to moment: they cannot be measured or fixed; and must be
regarded as a product in some inexplicable way of the action of matter
upon mind; unreal or, at any rate, not independent entities.

In Locke's philosophy, the 'ideas,' legitimate or illegitimate
descendants of the Cartesian theories, play a most prominent part.
Locke's admirable common sense made him the leader who embodied a
growing tendency. The empirical sciences were growing; and Locke, a
student of medicine, could note the fallacies which arise from
neglecting observation and experiment, and attempting to penetrate to
the absolute essences and entities. Newton's great success was due to
neglecting impossible problems about the nature of force in
itself--'action at a distance' and so forth--and attention to the sphere
of visible phenomena. The excessive pretensions of the framers of
metaphysical systems had led to hopeless puzzles and merely verbal
solutions. Locke, therefore, insisted upon the necessity of ascertaining
the necessary limits of human knowledge. All our knowledge of material
facts is obviously dependent in some way upon our sensations--however
fleeting or unreal they may be. Therefore, the material sciences must
depend upon sense-given data or upon observation and experiment. Hume
gives the ultimate purpose, already implied in Locke's essay, when he
describes his first treatise (on the title page) as an 'attempt to
introduce the experimental mode of reasoning into moral subjects.' Now,
as Reid thinks, the effect of this was to construct our whole knowledge
out of the representative ideas. The empirical factor is so emphasised
that we lose all grasp of the real world. Locke, indeed, though he
insists upon the derivation of our whole knowledge from 'ideas,' leaves
reality to the 'primary qualities' without clearly expounding their
relation to the secondary. But Berkeley, alarmed by the tendency of the
Cartesian doctrines to materialism and mechanical necessity, reduces the
'primary' to the level of the 'secondary,' and proceeds to abolish the
whole world of matter. We are thus left with nothing but 'ideas,' and
the ideas are naturally 'subjective' and therefore in some sense
unreal. Finally Hume gets rid of the soul as well as the outside world;
and then, by his theory of 'causation,' shows that the ideas themselves
are independent atoms, cohering but not rationally connected, and
capable of being arbitrarily joined or separated in any way whatever.
Thus the ideas have ousted the facts. We cannot get beyond ideas, and
yet ideas are still purely subjective. The 'real' is separated from the
phenomenal, and truth divorced from fact. The sense-given world is the
whole world, and yet is a world of mere accidental conjunctions and
separation. That is Hume's scepticism, and yet according to Reid is the
legitimate development of Descartes' 'ideal system.' Reid, I take it,
was right in seeing that there was a great dilemma. What was required to
escape from it? According to Kant, nothing less than a revision of
Descartes' mode of demarcation between object and subject. The 'primary
qualities' do not correspond in this way to an objective world radically
opposed to the subjective. Space is not a form of things, but a form
imposed upon the data of experience by the mind itself. This, as Kant
says, supposes a revolution in philosophy comparable to the revolution
made by Copernicus in astronomy. We have completely to invert our whole
system of conceiving the world. Whatever the value of Kant's doctrine,
of which I need here say nothing, it was undoubtedly more prolific than
Reid's. Reid's was far less thoroughgoing. He does not draw a new line
between object and subject, but simply endeavours to show that the
dilemma was due to certain assumptions about the nature of 'ideas.'

The real had been altogether separated from the phenomenal, or truth
divorced from fact. You can only have demonstrations by getting into a
region beyond the sensible world; while within that world--that is, the
region of ordinary knowledge and conduct--you are doomed to hopeless
uncertainty. An escape, therefore, must be sought by some thorough
revision of the assumed relation, but not by falling back upon the
exploded philosophy of the schools. Reid and his successors were quite
as much alive as Locke to the danger of falling into mere scholastic
logomachy. They, too, will in some sense base all knowledge upon
experience. Reid constantly appeals to the authority of Bacon, whom he
regards as the true founder of inductive science. The great success of
Bacon's method in the physical sciences, encouraged the hope, already
expressed by Newton, that a similar result might be achieved in 'moral
philosophy.'[164] Hume had done something to clear the way, but Reid
was, as Stewart thinks, the first to perceive clearly and justly the
'analogy between these two different branches of human knowledge.' The
mind and matter are two co-ordinate things, whose properties are to be
investigated by similar methods. Philosophy thus means essentially
psychology. The two inquiries are two 'branches' of inductive science,
and the problem is to discover by a perfectly impartial examination what
are the 'fundamental laws of mind' revealed by an accurate analysis of
the various processes of thought. The main result of Reid's
investigations is given most pointedly in his early _Inquiry_, and was
fully accepted by Stewart. Briefly it comes to this. No one can doubt
that we believe, as a fact, in an external world. We believe that there
are sun and moon, stones, sticks, and human bodies. This belief is
accepted by the sceptic as well as by the dogmatist, although the
sceptic reduces it to a mere blind custom or 'association of ideas.' Now
Reid argues that the belief, whatever its nature, is not and cannot be
derived from the sensations. We do not construct the visible and
tangible world, for example, simply out of impressions made upon the
senses of sight and touch. To prove this, he examines what are the
actual data provided by these senses, and shows, or tries to show, that
we cannot from them alone construct the world of space and geometry.
Hence, if we consider experience impartially and without preconception,
we find that it tells us something which is not given by the senses. The
senses are not the material of our perceptions, but simply give the
occasions upon which our belief is called into activity. The sensation
is no more like the reality in which we believe than the pain of a wound
is like the edge of the knife. Perception tells us directly and
immediately, without the intervention of ideas, that there is, as we all
believe, a real external world.

Reid was a vigorous reasoner, and credit has been given to him by some
disciples of Kant's doctrine of time and space. Schopenhauer[165] says
that Reid's 'excellent work' gives a complete 'negative proof of the
Kantian truths'; that is to say, that Reid proves satisfactorily that we
cannot construct the world out of the sense-given data alone. But,
whereas Kant regards the senses as supplying the materials moulded by
the perceiving mind, Reid regards them as mere stimuli exciting certain
inevitable beliefs. As a result of Reid's method, then, we have
'intuitions.' Reid's essential contention is that a fair examination of
experience will reveal certain fundamental beliefs, which cannot be
explained as mere manifestations of the sensations, and which, by the
very fact that they are inexplicable, must be accepted as an
'inspiration.'[166] Reid professes to discover these beliefs by
accurately describing facts. He finds them there as a chemist finds an
element. The 'intuition' is made by substituting for 'ideas' a
mysterious and inexplicable connection between the mind and matter.[167]
The chasm exists still, but it is somehow bridged by a quasi-miracle.
Admitting, therefore, that Reid shows a gap to exist in the theory, his
result remains 'negative.' The philosopher will say that it is not
enough to assert a principle dogmatically without showing its place in a
reasoned system of thought. The psychologist, on the other hand, who
takes Reid's own ground, may regard the statement only as a useful
challenge to further inquiry. The analysis hitherto given may be
insufficient, but where Reid has failed, other inquirers may be more
successful. As soon, in fact, as we apply the psychological method, and
regard the 'philosophy of mind' as an 'inductive science,' it is
perilous, if not absolutely inconsistent, to discover 'intuitions' which
will take us beyond experience. The line of defence against empiricism
can only be provisional and temporary. In his main results, indeed, Reid
had the advantage of being on the side of 'common sense.' Everybody was
already convinced that there were sticks and stones, and everybody is
prepared to hear that their belief is approved by philosophy. But a
difficulty arises when a similar method is applied to a doctrine
sincerely disputed. To the statement, 'this is a necessary belief,' it
is a sufficient answer to reply, 'I don't believe it,' In that case, an
intuition merely amounts to a dogmatic assumption that I am infallible,
and must be supported by showing its connection with beliefs really
universal and admittedly necessary.

Dugald Stewart followed Reid upon this main question, and with less
force and originality represents the same point of view. He accepts
Reid's view of the two co-ordinate departments of knowledge; the science
of which mind, and the science of which body, is the object. Philosophy
is not a 'theory of knowledge' or of the universe; but, as it was then
called, 'a philosophy of the human mind.' 'Philosophy' is founded upon
inductive psychology; and it only becomes philosophy in a wider sense in
so far as we discover that as a fact we have certain fundamental
beliefs, which are thus given by experience, though they take us in a
sense beyond experience. Jeffrey, reviewing Stewart's life of Reid, in
the _Edinburgh Review_ of 1804, makes a significant inference from this.
Bacon's method, he said, had succeeded in the physical sciences, because
there we could apply experiment. But experiment is impossible in the
science of mind; and therefore philosophy will never be anything but a
plaything or a useful variety of gymnastic. Stewart replied at some
length in his _Essays_,[168] fully accepting the general conception, but
arguing that the experimental method was applicable to the science of
mind. Jeffrey observes that it was now admitted that the 'profoundest
reasonings' had brought us back to the view of the vulgar, and this,
too, is admitted by Stewart so far as the cardinal doctrine of 'the
common sense' philosophy, the theory of perception, is admitted.

From this, again, it follows that the 'notions we annex to the words
Matter and Mind are merely relative.'[169] We know that mind exists as
we know that matter exists; or, if anything, we know the existence of
mind more certainly because more directly. The mind is suggested by 'the
subjects of our consciousness'; the body by the objects 'of our
perception.' But, on the other hand, we are totally 'ignorant of the
essence of either.'[170] We can discover the laws either of mental or
moral phenomena; but a law, as he explains, means in strictness nothing
but a 'general fact.'[171] It is idle, therefore, to explain the nature
of the union between the two unknowable substances; we can only discover
that they are united and observe the laws according to which one set of
phenomena corresponds to the other. From a misunderstanding of this
arise all the fallacies of scholastic ontology, 'the most idle and
absurd speculation that ever employed the human faculties.'[172] The
destruction of that pseudo-science was the great glory of Bacon and
Locke; and Reid has now discovered the method by which we may advance to
the establishment of a truly inductive 'philosophy of mind.'

It is not surprising that Stewart approximates in various directions to
the doctrines of the empirical school. He leans towards them whenever he
does not see the results to which he is tending. Thus, for example, he
is a thoroughgoing nominalist;[173] and on this point he deserts the
teaching of Reid. He defends against Reid the attack made by Berkeley
and Hume upon 'abstract ideas.' Rosmini,[174] in an elaborate criticism,
complains that Stewart did not perceive the inevitable tendency of
nominalism to materialism.[175] Stewart, in fact, accepts a good deal of
Horne Tooke's doctrine,[176] though calling Tooke an 'ingenious
grammarian, not a very profound philosopher,' but holds, as we shall
see, that the materialistic tendency can be avoided. As becomes a
nominalist, he attacks the syllogism upon grounds more fully brought out
by J. S. Mill. Upon another essential point, he agrees with the pure
empiricists. He accepts Hume's view of causation in all questions of
physical science. In natural philosophy, he declares causation means
only conjunction. The senses can never give us the 'efficient' cause of
any phenomenon. In other words, we can never see a 'necessary
connection' between any two events. He collects passages from earlier
writers to show how Hume had been anticipated; and holds that Bacon's
inadequate view of this truth was a main defect in his theories.[177]
Hence we have a characteristic conclusion. He says, when discussing the
proofs of the existence of God,[178] that we have an 'irresistible
conviction of the _necessity_ of a cause' for every change. Hume,
however, has shown that this can never be a logical necessity. It must
then, argues Stewart, be either a 'prejudice' or an 'intuitive
judgment.' Since it is shown by 'universal consent' not to be a
prejudice, it must be an intuitive judgment. Thus Hume's facts are
accepted; but his inference denied. The actual causal nexus is
inscrutable. The conviction that there must be a connection between
events attributed by Hume to 'custom' is attributed by Stewart to
intuitive belief. Stewart infers that Hume's doctrine is really
favourable to theology. It implies that God gives us the conviction, and
perhaps, as Malebranche held, that God is 'the constantly operating
efficient Cause in the material world.'[179] Stewart's successor, Thomas
Brown, took up this argument on occasion of the once famous 'Leslie
controversy'; and Brown's teaching was endorsed by James Mill and by
John Stuart Mill.

According to J. S. Mill, James Mill and Stewart represented opposite
poles of philosophic thought. I shall have to consider this dictum
hereafter. On the points already noticed Stewart must be regarded as an
ally rather than an opponent of the Locke and Hume tradition. Like them
he appeals unhesitatingly to experience, and cannot find words strong
enough to express his contempt for 'ontological' and scholastic methods.
His 'intuitions' are so far very harmless things, which fall in with
common sense, and enable him to hold without further trouble the beliefs
which, as a matter of fact, are held by everybody. They are an excuse
for not seeking any ultimate explanation in reason. He is, indeed,
opposed to the school which claimed to be the legitimate successor to
Locke, but which evaded Hume's scepticism by diverging towards
materialism. The great representative of this doctrine in England had
been Hartley, and in Stewart's day Hartley's lead had been followed by
Priestley, who attacked Reid from a materialist point of view, by
Priestley's successor, Thomas Belsham, and by Erasmus Darwin. We find
Stewart, in language which reminds us of later controversy, denouncing
the 'Darwinian School'[180] for theories about instinct incompatible
with the doctrine of final causes. It might appear that a philosopher
who has re-established the objective existence of space in opposition to
Berkeley, was in danger of that materialism which had been Berkeley's
bugbear. But Stewart escapes the danger by his assertion that our
knowledge of matter is 'relative' or confined to phenomena. Materialism
is for him a variety of ontology, involving the assumption that we know
the essence of matter. To speak with Hartley of 'vibrations,' animal
spirits, and so forth, is to be led astray by a false analogy. We can
discover the laws of correspondence of mind and body, but not the
ultimate nature of either.[181] Thus he regards the 'physiological
metaphysics of the present day' as an 'idle waste of labour and
ingenuity on questions to which the human mind is altogether
incompetent.'[182] The principles found by inductive observation are as
independent of these speculations as Newton's theory of gravitation of
an ultimate mechanical cause of gravitation.

Hartley's followers, however, could drop the 'vibration' theory; and
their doctrine then became one of 'association of ideas.' To this famous
theory, which became the sheet-anchor of the empirical school, Stewart
is not altogether opposed. We find him speaking of 'indissoluble
association' in language which reminds us of the Mills.[183] Hume had
spoken of association as comparable to gravitation--the sole principle
by which our 'ideas' and 'impressions' are combined into a whole; a
theory, of course, corresponding to his doctrine of 'belief' as a mere
custom of associating. Stewart uses the principle rather as Locke had
done, as explaining fallacies due to 'casual associations.' It supposes,
as he says, the previous existence of certain principles, and cannot be
an ultimate explanation. The only question can be at what point we have
reached an 'original principle,' and are therefore bound to stop our
analysis.[184] Over this question he glides rather too lightly, as is
his custom; but from his point of view the belief, for example, in an
external world, cannot be explained by association, inasmuch as it
reveals itself as an ultimate datum.

In regard to the physical sciences, then, Stewart's position
approximates very closely to the purely 'empirical' view. When we come
to a different application of his principles, we find him taking a
curiously balanced position between different schools. 'Common sense'
naturally wishes to adapt itself to generally accepted beliefs; and with
so flexible a doctrine as that of 'intuitions' it is not difficult to
discover methods of proving the ordinary dogmas. Stewart's theology is
characteristic of this tendency. He describes the so-called _a priori_
proof, as formulated by Clarke. But without denying its force, he does
not like to lay stress upon it. He dreads 'ontology' too much. He
therefore considers that the argument at once most satisfactory to the
philosopher and most convincing to ordinary men is the argument from
design. The belief in God is not 'intuitive,' but follows immediately
from two first principles: the principle that whatever exists has a
cause, and the principle that a 'combination of means implies a
designer.'[185] The belief in a cause arises on our perception of change
as our belief in the external world arises upon our sensations. The
belief in design must be a 'first principle' because it includes a
belief in 'necessity' which cannot arise from mere observation of
'contingent truths.'[186] Hence Stewart accepts the theory of final
causes as stated by Paley. Though Paley's ethics offended him, he has
nothing but praise for the work upon _Natural Theology_.[187] Thus,
although 'common sense' does not enable us to lay down the central
doctrine of theology as a primary truth, it does enable us to interpret
experience in theological terms. In other words, his theology is of the
purely empirical kind, which was, as we shall see, the general
characteristic of the time.

In Stewart's discussion of ethical problems the same doctrine of 'final
causes' assumes a special importance. Stewart, as elsewhere, tries to
hold an intermediate position; to maintain the independence of morality
without committing himself to the 'ontological' or purely logical view;
and to show that virtue conduces to happiness without allowing that its
dictates are to be deduced from its tendency to produce happiness. His
doctrine is to a great extent derived from the teaching of Hutcheson and
Bishop Butler. He really approximates most closely to Hutcheson, who
takes a similar view of Utilitarianism, but he professes the warmest
admiration of Butler. He explicitly accepts Butler's doctrine of the
'supremacy of the conscience'--a doctrine which as he says, the bishop,
'has placed in the strongest and happiest light.'[188] He endeavours,
again, to approximate to the 'intellectual school,' of which Richard
Price (1723-1791) was the chief English representative at the time. Like
Kant, Price deduces the moral law from principles of pure reason. The
truth of the moral law, 'Thou shalt do to others as you wish that they
should do to you,' is as evident as the truth of the law in geometry,
'things which are equal to the same thing are equal to each other.'
Stewart so far approves that he wishes to give to the moral law what is
now called all possible 'objectivity,' while the 'moral sense' of
Hutcheson apparently introduced a 'subjective' element. He holds,
however, that our moral perceptions 'involve a feeling of the heart,' as
well as a 'judgment of the understanding,'[189] and ascribes the same
view to Butler. But then, by using the word 'reason' so as to include
the whole nature of a rational being, we may ascribe to it the 'origin
of those simple ideas which are not excited in the mind by the operation
of the senses, but which arise in consequence of the operation of the
intellectual powers among the various objects.'[190] Hutcheson, he says,
made his 'moral sense' unsatisfactory by taking his illustrations from
the 'secondary' instead of the 'primary qualities,'[191] and thus with
the help of intuitive first principles, Stewart succeeds in believing
that it would be as hard for a man to believe that he ought to sacrifice
another man's happiness to his own as to believe that three angles of a
triangle are equal to one right angle.[192] It is true that a feeling
and a judgment are both involved; but the 'intellectual judgment' is the
groundwork of the feeling, not the feeling of the judgment.[193] In
spite, however, of this attempt to assimilate his principles to those of
the intellectual school, the substance of Stewart's ethics is
essentially psychological. It rests, in fact, upon his view that
philosophy depends upon inductive psychology, and, therefore,
essentially upon experience subject to the cropping up of convenient
'intuitions.'

This appears from the nature of his argument against the Utilitarians.
In his time, this doctrine was associated with the names of Hartley,
Tucker, Godwin, and especially Paley. He scarcely refers to
Bentham.[194] Paley is the recognised anvil for the opposite school. Now
he agrees, as I have said, with Paley's view of natural theology and
entirely accepts therefore the theory of 'final causes.' The same theory
becomes prominent in his ethical teaching. We may perhaps say that
Stewart's view is in substance an inverted Utilitarianism. It may be
best illustrated by an argument familiar in another application. Paley
and his opponents might agree that the various instincts of an animal
are so constituted that in point of fact they contribute to his
preservation and his happiness. But from one point of view this appears
to be simply to say that the conditions of existence necessitate a
certain harmony, and that the harmony is therefore to be a consequence
of his self-preservation. From the opposite point of view, which Stewart
accepts, it appears that the self-preservation is the consequence of a
pre-established harmony, which has been divinely appointed in order that
he may live. Stewart, in short, is a 'teleologist' of the Paley variety.
Psychology proves the existence of design in the moral world, as anatomy
or physiology proves it in the physical.

Stewart therefore fully agrees that virtue generally produces happiness.
If it be true (a doctrine, he thinks, beyond our competence to decide)
that 'the sole principle of action in the Deity' is benevolence, it may
be that he has commanded us to be virtuous because he sees virtue to be
useful. In this case utility may be the final cause of morality; and the
fact that virtue has this tendency gives the plausibility to utilitarian
systems.[195] But the key to the difficulty is the distinction between
'final' and 'efficient' causes; for the efficient cause of morality is
not the desire for happiness, but a primitive and simple instinct,
namely, the moral faculty.

Thus he rejects Paley's notorious doctrine that virtue differs from
prudence only in regarding the consequences in another world instead of
consequences in this.[196] Reward and punishment 'presuppose the notions
of right and wrong' and cannot be the source of those notions. The
favourite doctrine of association, by which the Utilitarians explained
unselfishness, is only admissible as accounting for modifications, such
as are due to education and example, but 'presupposes the existence of
certain principles which are common to all mankind.' The evidence of
such principles is established by a long and discursive psychological
discussion. It is enough to say that he admits two rational principles,
'self-love' and the 'moral faculty,' the coincidence of which is learned
only by experience. The moral faculty reveals simple 'ideas' of right
and wrong, which are incapable of any further analysis. But besides
these, there is a hierarchy of other instincts or desires, which he
calls 'implanted' because 'for aught we know' they may be of 'arbitrary
appointment.'[197] Resentment, for example, is an implanted instinct, of
which the 'final cause' is to defend us against 'sudden violence.'[198]
Stewart's analysis is easygoing and suggests more problems than it
solves. The general position, however, is clear enough, and not, I
think, without much real force as against the Paley form of
utilitarianism.

The acceptance of the doctrine of 'final causes' was the inevitable
course for a philosopher who wishes to retain the old creeds and yet to
appeal unequivocally to experience. It suits the amiable optimism for
which Stewart is noticeable. To prove the existence of a perfect deity
from the evidence afforded by the world, you must of course take a
favourable view of the observable order. Stewart shows the same tendency
in his Political Economy, where he is Adam Smith's disciple, and fully
shares Smith's beliefs that the harmony between the interests of the
individual and the interests of the society is an evidence of design in
the Creator of mankind. In this respect Stewart differs notably from
Butler, to whose reasonings he otherwise owed a good deal. With Butler
the conscience implies a dread of divine wrath and justifies the
conception of a world alienated from its maker. Stewart's 'moral
faculty' simply recognises or reveals the moral law; but carries no
suggestion of supernatural penalties. The doctrines by which Butler
attracted some readers and revolted others throw no shadow over his
writings. He is a placid enlightened professor, whose real good feeling
and frequent shrewdness should not be overlooked in consequence of the
rather desultory and often superficial mode of reasoning. This, however,
suggests a final remark upon Stewart's position.

In the preface[199] to his _Active and Moral Powers_ (1828) Stewart
apologises for the large space given to the treatment of Natural
Religion. The lectures, he says, which form the substance of the book,
were given at a time when 'enlightened zeal for liberty' was associated
with the 'reckless boldness of the uncompromising freethinker.' He
wished, therefore, to show that a man could be a liberal without being
an atheist. This gives the position characteristic of Stewart and his
friends. The group of eminent men who made Edinburgh a philosophical
centre was thoroughly in sympathy with the rationalist movement of the
eighteenth century. The old dogmatic system of belief could be held very
lightly even by the more educated clergy. Hume's position is
significant. He could lay down the most unqualified scepticism in his
writings; but he always regarded his theories as intended for the
enlightened; he had no wish to disturb popular beliefs in theology, and
was a strong Tory in politics. His friends were quite ready to take him
upon that footing. The politeness with which 'Mr. Hume's' speculations
are noticed by men like Stewart and Reid is in characteristic contrast
to the reception generally accorded to more popular sceptics. They were
intellectual curiosities not meant for immediate application. The real
opinion of such men as Adam Smith and Stewart was probably a rather
vague and optimistic theism. In the professor's chair they could talk to
lads intended for the ministry without insulting such old Scottish
prejudice (there was a good deal of it) as survived: and could cover
rationalising opinions under language which perhaps might have a
different meaning for their hearers. The position was necessarily one of
tacit compromise. Stewart considers himself to be an inductive
philosopher appealing frankly to experience and reason; and was in
practice a man of thoroughly liberal and generous feelings. He was
heartily in favour of progress as he understood it. Only he will not
sacrifice common sense; that is to say, the beliefs which are in fact
prevalent and congenial to existing institutions. Common sense, of
course, condemns extremes: and if logic seems to be pushing a man
towards scepticism in philosophy or revolution in practice, he can
always protest by the convenient device of intuitions.

I have gone so far in order to illustrate the nature of the system which
the Utilitarians took to be the antithesis of their own. It may be
finally remarked that at present both sides were equally ignorant of
contemporary developments of German thought. When Stewart became aware
that there was such a thing as Kant's philosophy, he tried to read it in
a Latin version. Parr, I may observe, apparently did not know of this
version, and gave up the task of reading German. Stewart's example was
not encouraging. He had abandoned the 'undertaking in despair' partly
from the scholastic barbarism of the style, partly 'my utter inability
to comprehend the author's meaning.' He recognises similarity between
Kant and Reid, but thinks Reid's simple statement of the fact that space
cannot be derived from the senses more philosophical than Kant's
'superstructure of technical mystery.'[200]

I have dwelt upon the side in which Stewart's philosophy approximates to
the empirical school, because the Utilitarians were apt to misconceive
the position. They took Stewart to be the adequate representative of all
who accepted one branch of an inevitable dilemma. The acceptance of
'intuitions,' that is, was the only alternative to thoroughgoing
acceptance of 'experience.' They supposed, too, that persons vaguely
described as 'Kant and the Germans' taught simply a modification of the
'intuitionist' view. I have noticed how emphatically Stewart claimed to
rely upon experience and to base his philosophy upon inductive
psychology, and was so far admitting the first principles and the
general methods of his opponents. The Scottish philosophy, however,
naturally presented itself as an antagonistic force to the Utilitarians.
The 'intuitions' represented the ultimate ground taken, especially in
religious and ethical questions, by men who wished to be at once liberal
philosophers and yet to avoid revolutionary extremes. 'Intuitions' had
in any case a negative value, as protests against the sufficiency of the
empirical analysis. It might be quite true, for example, that Hume's
analysis of certain primary mental phenomena--of our belief in the
external world or of the relation of cause and effect--was radically
insufficient. He had not given an adequate explanation of the facts. The
recognition of the insufficiency of his reasoning was highly important
if only as a stimulus to inquiry. It was a warning to his and to
Hartley's followers that they had not thoroughly unravelled the
perplexity but only cut the knot. But when the insufficiency of the
explanation was interpreted as a demonstration that all explanation was
impossible, and the 'intuition' an ultimate 'self-evident' truth, it
became a refusal to inquire just where inquiry was wanted; a positive
command to stop analysis at an arbitrary point; and a round assertion
that the adversary could not help believing precisely the doctrine which
he altogether declined to believe. Naturally the empiricists refused to
bow to an authority which was simply saying, 'Don't inquire further,'
without any ground for the prohibition except the '_ipse dixitism_'
which declared that inquiry must be fruitless. Stewart, in fact, really
illustrated the equivocation between the two meanings of 'common sense.'
If by that name he understood, as he professed to understand, ultimate
'laws of thought,' his position was justifiable as soon as he could
specify the laws and prove that they were ultimate. But so far as he
virtually took for granted that the average beliefs of intelligent
people were such laws, and on that ground refused to examine the
evidence of their validity, he was inconsistent, and his position only
invited assault. As a fact, I believe that his 'intuitions' covered many
most disputable propositions; and that the more clearly they were
stated, the more they failed to justify his interpretations. He was not
really answering the most vital and critical questions, but implicitly
reserving them, and putting an arbitrary stop to investigations
desirable on his own principles.

The Scottish philosophy was, however, accepted in England, and made a
considerable impression in France, as affording a tenable barrier
against scepticism. It was, as I have said, in philosophy what
Whiggism was in politics. Like political Whiggism it included a large
element of enlightened and liberal rationalism; but like Whiggism it
covered an aversion to thoroughgoing logic. The English politician was
suspicious of abstract principles, but could cover his acceptance of
tradition and rule of thumb by general phrases about liberty and
toleration. The Whig in philosophy equally accepted the traditional
creed, sufficiently purified from cruder elements, and sheltered his
doctrine by speaking of 'intuitions and laws of thought.' In both
positions there was really, I take it, a great deal of sound practical
wisdom; but they also implied a marked reluctance to push inquiry too
far, and a tacit agreement to be content with what the Utilitarians
denounced as 'vague generalities'--phrases, that is, which might be
used either to conceal an underlying scepticism, or really to stop
short in the path which led to scepticism. In philosophy as in
politics, the Utilitarians boasted of being thoroughgoing Radicals,
and hated compromises which to them appeared to be simply obstructive.
I need not elaborate a point which will meet us again. If I were
writing a history of thought in general I should have to notice other
writers, though there were none of much distinction, who followed the
teaching of Stewart or of his opponents of the Hartley and Darwin
school. It would be necessary also to insist upon the growing interest
in the physical sciences, which were beginning not only to make
enormous advances, but to attract popular attention. For my purpose,
however, it is I think sufficient to mention these writers, each of
whom had a very special relation to the Utilitarians. I turn,
therefore, to Bentham.

NOTES:

[157] Nine volumes of Dugald Stewart's works, edited by Sir W. Hamilton,
appeared from 1854 to 1856; a tenth, including a life of Stewart by J.
Veitch, appeared in 1858, and an eleventh, with an index to the whole,
in 1860. The chief books are the _Elements of the Philosophy of the
Human Mind_ (in vols. ii., iii. and iv., originally in 1792, 1814,
1827); _Philosophical Essays_ (in vol. v., originally 1810); _Philosophy
of the Active and Moral Powers of Man_ (vols. vi. and vii., originally
in 1828); _Dissertation on the Progress of Philosophy_ (in vol. i.;
originally in _Encyclopædia Britannica_, in 1815 and 1821). The lectures
on Political Economy first appeared in the _Works_, vols. viii. and ix.

[158] _Works_, vi. ('Preface').

[159] _Works_ (Life of Reid), x. 304-8.

[160] Reid's _Works_ (Hamilton), p. 302.

[161] Reid's _Works_ (Hamilton), p. 88.

[162] _Ibid._ 206.

[163] _Ibid._ 267.

[164] Stewart's remarks on his life of Reid: Reid's _Works_, p. 12, etc.

[165] _The World as Will and Idea_ (Haldane & Kemp), ii. 186. Reid's
'_Inquiry_,' he adds, is ten times better worth reading than all the
philosophy together which has been written since Kant.

[166] 'We are inspired with the sensation, as we are inspired with the
corresponding perception, by means unknown.'--Reid's _Works_, 188.
'This,' says Stewart, 'is a plain statement of fact.'--Stewart's
_Works_, ii. 111-12.

[167] See Rosmini's _Origin of Ideas_ (English translation), i. p. 91,
where, though sympathising with Reid's aim, he admits a 'great blunder.'

[168] Stewart's _Works_, v. 24-53. Hamilton says in a note (p. 41) that
Jeffrey candidly confessed Stewart's reply to be satisfactory.

[169] _Ibid._ ii. 46.

[170] _Ibid._ ii. 45-67.

[171] _Ibid._ ii. 159.

[172] _Ibid._ v. 21.

[173] Stewart's _Works_, ii. 165-93; iii. 81-97. Schopenhauer (_The
World as Will and Idea_, ii. 240) admires Reid's teaching upon this
point, and recommends us not 'to waste an hour over the scribblings of
this shallow writer' (Stewart).

[174] Rosmini's _Origin of Ideas_ (English translation), i. 96-176.

[175] _Ibid._ i. 147 _n._

[176] Stewart's _Works_, iv. 29, 35, 38, and v. 149-88.

[177] _Ibid._ ii. 97, etc., and iii. 235, 389, 417.

[178] _Works_, vii. 13-34.

[179] _Ibid._ vii. 26, etc.

[180] _Works_, iv. 265.

[181] _Ibid._ ii. 52.

[182] _Ibid._ v. 10.

[183] _Works_, ii. 155.

[184] _Ibid._ ii. 337.

[185] _Works_, vi. 46; vii. 11.

[186] _Ibid._ vii. 46.

[187] _Ibid._ i. 357.

[188] _Works_, vi. 320.

[189] _Ibid._ vi. 279.

[190] _Ibid._ vi. 297.

[191] _Works_, vi. 295. Cf. v. 83.

[192] _Ibid._ vi. 298-99.

[193] _Ibid._ v. 84.

[194] In _Works_, vi. 205-6, he quotes Dumont's _Bentham_; but his
general silence is the more significant, as in the lectures on Political
Economy he makes frequent and approving reference to Bentham's tract
upon usury.

[195] _Works_, vii. 236-38.

[196] _Ibid._ vi. 221.

[197] _Works_, vi. 213.

[198] _Ibid._ vi. 199.

[199] _Works_, vi. 111.

[200] _Works_, v. 117 18. I have given some details as to Stewart's
suffering under an English proselyte of Kant in my _Studies of a
Biographer_.




CHAPTER V

BENTHAM'S LIFE


I. EARLY LIFE

Jeremy Bentham,[201] the patriarch of the English Utilitarians, sprang
from the class imbued most thoroughly with the typical English
prejudices. His first recorded ancestor, Brian Bentham, was a
pawnbroker, who lost money by the stop of the Exchequer in 1672, but was
neither ruined, nor, it would seem, alienated by the king's dishonesty.
He left some thousands to his son, Jeremiah, an attorney and a strong
Jacobite. A second Jeremiah, born 2nd December 1712, carried on his
father's business, and though his clients were not numerous, increased
his fortune by judicious investments in houses and lands. Although
brought up in Jacobite principles, he transferred his attachment to the
Hanoverian dynasty when a relation of his wife married a valet of George
II. The wife, Alicia Grove, was daughter of a tradesman who had made a
small competence at Andover. Jeremiah Bentham had fallen in love with
her at first sight, and wisely gave up for her sake a match with a
fortune of £10,000. The couple were fondly attached to each other and to
their children. The marriage took place towards the end of 1744, and the
eldest son, Jeremy, was born in Red Lion Street, Houndsditch, 4th
February 1747-48 (o.s.) The only other child who grew up was Samuel,
afterwards Sir Samuel Bentham, born 11th January 1757. When eighty years
old, Jeremy gave anecdotes of his infancy to his biographer, Bowring,
who says that their accuracy was confirmed by contemporary documents,
and proved his memory to be as wonderful as his precocity. Although the
child was physically puny, his intellectual development was amazing.
Before he was two he burst into tears at the sight of his mother's
chagrin upon his refusal of some offered dainty. Before he was
'breeched,' an event which happened when he was three and a quarter, he
ran home from a dull walk, ordered a footman to bring lights and place a
folio _Rapin_ upon the table, and was found plunged in historical
studies when his parents returned to the house. In his fourth year he
was imbibing the Latin grammar, and at the age of five years nine months
and nineteen days, as his father notes, he wrote a scrap of Latin,
carefully pasted among the parental memoranda. The child was not always
immured in London. His parents spent their Sundays with the grandfather
Bentham at Barking, and made occasional excursions to the house of Mrs.
Bentham's mother at Browning Hill, near Reading. Bentham remembered the
last as a 'paradise,' and a love of flowers and gardens became one of
his permanent passions.

Jeremy cherished the memory of his mother's tenderness. The father,
though less sympathetic, was proud of his son's precocity, and
apparently injudicious in stimulating the unformed intellect. The boy
was almost a dwarf in size. When sixteen he grew ahead,[202] and was so
feeble that he could scarcely drag himself upstairs. Attempts to teach
him dancing failed from the extreme weakness of his knees.[203] He
showed a taste for music, and could scrape a minuet on the fiddle at six
years of age. He read all such books as came in his way. His parents
objected to light literature, and he was crammed with such solid works
as _Rapin_, Burnet's _Theory of the Earth_, and Cave's _Lives of the
Apostles_. Various accidents, however, furnished him with better food
for the imagination. He wept for hours over _Clarissa Harlowe_, studied
_Gulliver's Travels_ as an authentic document, and dipped into a variety
of such books as then drifted into middle-class libraries. A French
teacher introduced him to some remarkable books. He read _Télémaque_,
which deeply impressed him, and, as he thought, implanted in his mind
the seeds of later moralising. He attacked unsuccessfully some of
Voltaire's historical works, and even read _Candide_, with what emotions
we are not told. The servants meanwhile filled his fancy with ghosts and
hobgoblins. To the end of his days he was still haunted by the imaginary
horrors in the dark,[204] and he says[205] that they had been among the
torments of his life. He had few companions of his own age, and though
he was 'not unhappy' and was never subjected to corporal punishment, he
felt more awe than affection for his father. His mother, to whom he was
strongly attached, died on 6th January 1759.

Bentham was thus a strangely precocious, and a morbidly sensitive child,
when it was decided in 1755 to send him to Westminster. The headmaster,
Dr. Markham, was a friend of his father's. Westminster, he says,
represented 'hell' for him when Browning Hill stood for paradise. The
instruction 'was wretched,' The fagging system was a 'horrid despotism.'
The games were too much for his strength. His industry, however, enabled
him to escape the birch, no small achievement in those days,[206] and he
became distinguished in the studies such as they were. He learned the
catechism by heart, and was good at Greek and Latin verses, which he
manufactured for his companions as well as himself. He had also the
rarer accomplishment, acquired from his early tutor, of writing more
easily in French than English. Some of his writings were originally
composed in French. He was, according to Bowring, elected to one of the
King's scholarships when between nine and ten, but as 'ill-usage was
apprehended' the appointment was declined.[207] He was at a
boarding-house, and the life of the boys on the foundation was probably
rougher. In June 1760 his father took him to Oxford, and entered him as
a commoner at Queen's College. He came into residence in the following
October, when only twelve years old. Oxford was not more congenial than
Westminster. He had to sign the Thirty-nine Articles in spite of
scruples suppressed by authority. The impression made upon him by this
childish compliance never left him to the end of his life.[208] His
experience resembled that of Adam Smith and Gibbon. Laziness and vice
were prevalent. A gentleman commoner of Queen's was president of a
'hellfire club,' and brutal horseplay was still practised upon the
weaker lads. Bentham, still a schoolboy in age, continued his schoolboy
course. He wrote Latin verses, and one of his experiments, an ode upon
the death of George II., was sent to Johnson, who called it 'a very
pretty performance for a young man.' He also had to go through the form
of disputation in the schools. Queen's College had some reputation at
this time for teaching logic.[209] Bentham was set to read Watt's
_Logic_ (1725), Sanderson's _Compendium artis Logicae_ (1615), and
Rowning's _Compendious System of Natural Philosophy_ (1735-42). Some
traces of these studies remained in his mind.

In 1763 Bentham took his B.A. degree, and returned to his home. It is
significant that when robbed of all his money at Oxford he did not
confide in his father. He was paying by a morbid reserve for the
attempts made to force him into premature activity. He accepted the
career imposed by his father's wishes, and in November 1763 began to eat
his dinners in Lincoln's Inn. He returned, however, to Oxford in
December to hear Blackstone's lectures. These lectures were then a
novelty at an English university. The Vinerian professorship had been
founded in 1758 in consequence of the success of a course voluntarily
given by Blackstone; and his lectures contained the substance of the
famous Commentaries, first published 1765-1769. They had a great effect
upon Bentham. He says that he 'immediately detected Blackstone's fallacy
respecting natural rights,' thought other doctrines illogical, and was
so much occupied by these reflections as to be unable to take notes.
Bentham's dissatisfaction with Blackstone had not yet made him an
opponent of the constituted order. He was present at some of the
proceedings against Wilkes, and was perfectly bewitched by Lord
Mansfield's '_Grim-gibber_,' that is, taken in by his pompous
verbiage.[210]

In 1765 his father married Mrs. Abbot, the mother of Charles Abbot,
afterwards Lord Colchester. Bentham's dislike of his step-mother
increased the distance between him and his father. He took his M.A.
degree in 1766 and in 1767 finally left Oxford for London to begin, as
his father fondly hoped, a flight towards the woolsack. The lad's
diffidence and extreme youth had indeed prevented him from forming the
usual connections which his father anticipated as the result of a
college life. His career as a barrister was short and grievously
disappointing to the parental hopes. His father, like the Elder Fairford
in _Redgauntlet_, had 'a cause or two at nurse' for the son. The son's
first thought was to 'put them to death,' A brief was given to him in a
suit, upon which £50 depended. He advised that the suit should be
dropped and the money saved. Other experiences only increased his
repugnance to his profession.[211] A singularly strong impression had
been made upon him by the _Memoirs_ of Teresa Constantia Phipps, in
which there is an account of vexatious legal proceedings as to the
heroine's marriage. He appears to have first read this book
in 1759. Then, he says, the 'Demon of Chicane appeared to me
in all his hideousness. I vowed war against him. My vow has been
accomplished!'[212] Bentham thus went to the bar as a 'bear to the
stake.' He diverged in more than one direction. He studied chemistry
under Fordyce (1736-1802), and hankered after physical science. He was
long afterwards (1788) member of a club to which Sir Joseph Banks, John
Hunter, R. L. Edgeworth, and other men of scientific reputation
belonged.[213] But he had drifted into a course of speculation, which,
though more germane to legal studies, was equally fatal to professional
success. The father despaired, and he was considered to be a 'lost
child.'

NOTES:

[201] The main authority for Bentham's Life is Bowring's account in the
two last volumes of the _Works_. Bain's _Life of James Mill_ gives some
useful facts as to the later period. There is comparatively little
mention of Bentham in contemporary memoirs. Little is said of him in
Romilly's _Life_. Parr's _Works_, i. and viii., contains some letters.
See also R. Dale Owen's _Threading my Way_ pp. 175-78. A little book
called _Utilitarianism Unmasked_, by the Rev. J. F. Colls, D.D. (1844),
gives some reminiscences by Colls, who had been Bentham's amanuensis for
fourteen years. Colls, who took orders, disliked Bentham's religious
levity, and denounces his vanity, but admits his early kindness.
Voluminous collections of the papers used by Bowring are at University
College, and at the British Museum.

[202] _Works_, x. 33.

[203] _Ibid._ x. 31.

[204] _Ibid._ ix. 84.

[205] _Ibid._ x. 18.

[206] Southey was expelled from Westminster in 1792 for attacking the
birch in a schoolboy paper.

[207] _Works_, x. 38. Bowring's confused statement, I take it, means
this. Bentham, in any case, was not on the foundation. See Welsh's
_Alumni West_.

[208] _Works_, x. 37.

[209] _Ibid._ viii. 113, 217.

[210] _Works_, x. 45.

[211] _Ibid._ x. 51, 78, 83.

[212] _Works_, x. 35, 77. References are given to this book in _Works_,
vii. 219-20 ('Rationale of Evidence'). Several editions appeared from
1725 to 1761. See _Works_, vi. 465, for a recollection of similar
experiences.

[213] _Ibid._ viii. 148 _n._; x. 183.


II. FIRST WRITINGS

Though lost to the bar, he had really found himself. He had taken the
line prescribed by his idiosyncrasy. His father's injudicious forcing
had increased his shyness at the bar, and he was like an owl in
daylight. But no one, as we shall see, was less diffident in
speculation. Self-confidence in a philosopher is often the private
credit which he opens with his imagination to compensate for his
incapacity in the rough struggles of active life. Bentham shrank from
the world in which he was easily browbeaten to the study in which he
could reign supreme. He had not the strong passions which prompt
commonplace ambition, and cared little for the prizes for which most men
will sacrifice their lives. Nor, on the other hand, can he be credited
with that ardent philanthropy or vehement indignation which prompts to
an internecine struggle with actual wrongdoers. He had not the ardour
which led Howard to devote a life to destroy abuses, or that which
turned Swift's blood to gall in the struggle against triumphant
corruption. He was thoroughly amiable, but of kindly rather than
energetic affections. He, therefore, desired reform, but so far from
regarding the ruling classes with rancour, took their part against the
democrats. 'I was a great reformist,' he says, 'but never suspected that
the "people in power" were against reform. I supposed they only wanted
to know what was good in order to embrace it.'[214] The most real of
pleasures for him lay in speculating upon the general principles by
which the 'people in power' should be guided. To construct a general
chart for legislation, to hunt down sophistries, to explode mere noisy
rhetoric, to classify and arrange and re-classify until his whole
intellectual wealth was neatly arranged in proper pigeon-holes, was a
delight for its own sake. He wished well to mankind; he detested abuses,
but he hated neither the corrupted nor the corruptors; and it might
almost seem that he rather valued the benevolent end, because it gave
employment to his faculties, than valued the employment because it led
to the end. This is implied in his remark made at the end of his life.
He was, he said, as selfish as a man could be; but 'somehow or other'
selfishness had in him taken the form of benevolence.[215] He was at any
rate in the position of a man with the agreeable conviction that he has
only to prove the wisdom of a given course in order to secure its
adoption. Like many mechanical inventors, he took for granted that a
process which was shown to be useful would therefore be at once adopted,
and failed to anticipate the determined opposition of the great mass of
'vested interests' already in possession.

At this period he made the discovery, or what he held to be the
discovery, which governed his whole future career. He laid down the
principle which was to give the clue to all his investigations; and, as
he thought, required only to be announced to secure universal
acceptance. When Bentham revolted against the intellectual food provided
at school and college, he naturally took up the philosophy which at that
period represented the really living stream of thought. To be a man of
enlightenment in those days was to belong to the school of Locke. Locke
represented reason, free thought, and the abandonment of prejudice.
Besides Locke, he mentions Hume, Montesquieu, Helvétius, Beccaria, and
Barrington. Helvétius especially did much to suggest to him his leading
principle, and upon country trips which he took with his father and
step-mother, he used to lag behind studying Helvétius' _De
l'Esprit_.[216] Locke, he says in an early note (1773-1774), should give
the principles, Helvétius the matter, of a complete digest of the law.
He mentions with especial interest the third volume of Hume's _Treatise
on Human Nature_ for its ethical views: 'he felt as if scales fell from
his eyes' when he read it.[217] Daines Barrington's _Observations on the
Statutes_ (1766) interested him by miscellaneous suggestions. The book,
he says,[218] was a 'great treasure.' 'It is everything, _à propos_ of
everything; I wrote volumes upon this volume.' Beccaria's treatise upon
crimes and punishments had appeared in 1764, and had excited the
applause of Europe. The world was clearly ready for a fundamental
reconstruction of legislative theories. Under the influence of such
studies Bentham formulated his famous principle--a principle which to
some seemed a barren truism, to others a mere epigram, and to some a
dangerous falsehood. Bentham accepted it not only as true, but as
expressing a truth of extraordinary fecundity, capable of guiding him
through the whole labyrinth of political and legislative speculation.
His 'fundamental axiom' is that 'the greatest happiness of the greatest
number is the measure of right and wrong.'[219] Bentham himself[220]
attributes the authorship of the phrase to Beccaria or Priestley. The
general order of thought to which this theory belongs was of course not
the property of any special writer or any particular period. Here I need
only observe that this embodiment of the general doctrine of utility or
morality had been struck out by Hutcheson in the attempt (as his title
says) 'to introduce a mathematical calculation on subjects of morality.'
This defines the exact reason which made it acceptable to Bentham. For
the vague reference to utility which appears in Hume and other writers
of his school, he substituted a formula, the terms of which suggest the
possibility of an accurate quantitative comparison of different sums of
happiness. In Bentham's mind the difference between this and the more
general formula was like the difference between the statement that the
planets gravitate towards the sun, and the more precise statement that
the law of gravitation varies inversely as the square of the distance.
Bentham hoped for no less an achievement than to become the Newton of
the moral world.

Bentham, after leaving Oxford, took chambers in Lincoln's Inn. His
father on his second marriage had settled some property upon him, which
brought in some £90 a year. He had to live like a gentleman upon this,
and to give four guineas a year to the laundress, four to his barber,
and two to his shoeblack. In spite of Jeremy's deviation from the path
of preferment, the two were on friendly terms, and when the hopes of the
son's professional success grew faint, the father showed sympathy with
his literary undertakings. Jeremy visited Paris in 1770, but made few
acquaintances, though he was already regarded as a 'philosopher.' In
1778 he was in correspondence with d'Alembert, the abbé Morellet, and
other philanthropic philosophers, but it does not appear at what time
this connection began.[221] He translated Voltaire's _Taureau
Blanc_[222]--a story which used to 'convulse him with laughter.' A
reference to it will show that Bentham by this time took the Voltairean
view of the Old Testament. Bentham, however, was still on the side of
the Tories. His first publication was a defence of Lord Mansfield in
1770 against attacks arising out of the prosecution of Woodfall for
publishing Junius's letter to the king. This defence, contained in two
letters, signed Irenæus, was published in the _Gazetteer_. Bentham's
next performance was remarkable in the same sense. Among the few friends
who drifted to his chambers was John Lind (1737-1781), who had been a
clergyman, and after acting as tutor to a prince in Poland, had returned
to London and become a writer for the press. He had business relations
with the elder Bentham, and the younger Bentham was to some extent his
collaborator in a pamphlet[223] which defended the conduct of ministers
to the American colonies. Bentham observes that he was prejudiced
against the Americans by the badness of their arguments, and thought
from the first, as he continued to think, that the Declaration of
Independence was a hodge-podge of confusion and absurdity, in which the
thing to be proved is all along taken for granted.[224] Two other
friendships were formed by Bentham about this time: one with James
Trail, an unsuccessful barrister, who owed a seat in Parliament and
some minor offices to Lord Hertford, and is said by Romilly to have been
a man of great talent; and one with George Wilson, afterwards a leader
of the Norfolk circuit, who had become known to him through a common
interest in Dr. Fordyce's lectures upon chemistry. Wilson became a bosom
friend, and was one of Bentham's first disciples, though they were
ultimately alienated.[225]

At this time, Bentham says, that his was 'truly a miserable life.'[226]
Yet he was getting to work upon his grand project. He tells his father
on 1st October 1776 that he is writing his _Critical Elements of
Jurisprudence_, the book of which a part was afterwards published as the
_Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation_.[227] In the
same year he published his first important work, the _Fragment on
Government_. The year was in many ways memorable. The Declaration of
Independence marked the opening of a new political era. Adam Smith's
_Wealth of Nations_ and Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_ formed landmarks in
speculation and in history; and Bentham's volume, though it made no such
impression, announced a serious attempt to apply scientific methods to
problems of legislation. The preface contained the first declaration of
his famous formula which was applied to the confutation of Blackstone.
Bentham was apparently roused to this effort by recollections of the
Oxford lectures. The _Commentaries_ contained a certain quantity of
philosophical rhetoric; and as Blackstone was much greater in a literary
than in a philosophical sense, the result was naturally unsatisfactory
from a scientific point of view. He had vaguely appealed to the sound
Whig doctrine of social compact, and while disavowing any strict
historical basis had not inquired too curiously what was left of his
supposed foundation. Bentham pounced upon the unfortunate bit of
verbiage; insisted upon asking for a meaning when there was nothing but
a rhetorical flourish, and tore the whole flimsy fabric to rags and
tatters. A more bitter attack upon Blackstone, chiefly, as Bowring says,
upon his defence of the Jewish law, was suppressed for fear of the law
of libel.[228] The _Fragment_ was published anonymously, but Bentham had
confided the secret to his father by way of suggesting some slight
set-off against his apparent unwillingness to emerge from obscurity. The
book was at first attributed to Lord Mansfield, Lord Camden, and to
Dunning. It was pirated in Dublin; and most of the five hundred copies
printed appear to have been sold, though without profit to the author.
The father's indiscretion let out the secret; and the sale, when the
book was known to be written by a nobody, fell off at once, or so
Bentham believed. The anonymous writer, however, was denounced and
accused of being the author of much ribaldry, and among other
accusations was said to be not only the translator but the writer of the
_White Bull_.[229]

Bentham had fancied that all manner of 'torches from the highest
regions' would come to light themselves at his 'farthing candle.' None
of them came, and he was left for some years in obscurity, though still
labouring at the great work which was one day to enlighten the world.
At last, however, partial recognition came to him in a shape which
greatly influenced his career. Lord Shelburne, afterwards marquis of
Lansdowne, had been impressed by the _Fragment_, and in 1781 sought out
Bentham at his chambers. Shelburne's career was to culminate in the
following year with his brief tenure of the premiership (3rd July 1782
to 24th February 1783). Rightly or wrongly his contemporaries felt the
distrust indicated by his nickname 'Malagrida,' which appears to have
been partly suggested by a habit of overstrained compliment. He incurred
the dislike not unfrequently excited by men who claim superiority of
intellect without possessing the force of character which gives a
corresponding weight in political affairs. Although his education had
been bad, he had something of that cosmopolitan training which enabled
many members of the aristocracy to look beyond the narrow middle-class
prejudices and share in some degree the wider philosophical movements of
the day. He had enjoyed the friendship of Franklin, and had been the
patron of Priestley, who made some of his chemical discoveries at
Bowood, and to whom he allowed an annuity. He belonged to that section
of the Whigs which had most sympathy with the revolutionary movement.
His chief political lieutenants were Dunning and Barré, who at the time
sat for his borough Calne. He now rapidly formed an intimacy with
Bentham, who went to stay at Bowood in the autumn of 1781. Bentham now
and then in later years made some rather disparaging remarks upon
Shelburne, whom he apparently considered to be rather an amateur than a
serious philosopher, and who in the House of Lords talked 'vague
generalities'--the sacred phrase by which the Utilitarians denounced all
preaching but their own--in a way to impose upon the thoughtless. He
respected Shelburne, however, as one who trusted the people, and was
distrusted by the Whig aristocracy. He felt, too, a real affection and
gratitude for the patron to whom he owed so much. Shelburne had done him
a great service.[230] 'He raised me from the bottomless pit of
humiliation. He made me feel I was something.' The elder Bentham was
impressed by his son's acquaintance with a man in so eminent a position,
and hoped that it might lead by a different path to the success which
had been missed at the bar. At Bowood Bentham stayed over a month upon
his first visit, and was treated in the manner appropriate to a
philosopher. The men showed him friendliness, dashed with occasional
contempt, and the ladies petted him. He met Lord Camden and Dunning and
young William Pitt, and some minor adherents of the great man. Pitt was
'very good-natured and a little raw.' I was monstrously 'frightened at
him,' but, when I came to talk with him, he seemed 'frightened at
me.'[231] Bentham, however, did not see what ideas they were likely to
have in common. In fact there was the usual gulf between the speculative
thinker and the practical man. 'All the statesmen,' so thought the
philosopher, 'were wanting in the great elements of statesmanship': they
were always talking about 'what was' and seldom or never about 'what
ought to be.'[232] Occasionally, it would seem, they descended lower,
and made a little fun of the shy and over-sensitive intruder.[233] The
ladies, however, made it up to him. Shelburne made him read his 'dry
metaphysics' to them,[234] and they received it with feminine docility.
Lord Shelburne had lately (1779) married his second wife, Louisa,
daughter of the first earl of Upper Ossory. Her sister, Lady Mary
Fitz-Patrick, married in 1766 to Stephen Fox, afterwards Lord Holland,
was the mother of the Lord Holland of later days and of Miss Caroline
Fox, who survived till 1845, and was at this time a pleasant girl of
thirteen or fourteen. Lady Shelburne had also two half-sisters,
daughters of her mother's second marriage to Richard Vernon. Lady
Shelburne took a fancy to Bentham, and gave him the 'prodigious
privilege' of admission to her dressing-room. Though haughty in manner,
she was mild in reality, and after a time she and her sister indulged in
'innocent gambols.' In her last illness, Bentham was one of the only two
men whom she would see, and upon her death in 1789, he was the only male
friend to whom her husband turned for consolation. Miss Fox seems to
have been the only woman who inspired Bentham with a sentiment
approaching to passion. He wrote occasional letters to the ladies in the
tone of elephantine pleasantry natural to one who was all his life both
a philosopher and a child.[235] He made an offer of marriage to Miss Fox
in 1805, when he was nearer sixty than fifty, and when they had not met
for sixteen years. The immediate occasion was presumably the death of
Lord Lansdowne. She replied in a friendly letter, regretting the pain
which her refusal would inflict. In 1827 Bentham, then in his eightieth
year, wrote once more, speaking of the flower she had given him 'in the
green lane,' and asking for a kind answer. He was 'indescribably hurt
and disappointed' by a cold and distant reply. The tears would come into
the old man's eyes as he dealt upon the cherished memories of
Bowood.[236] It is pleasant to know that Bentham was once in love;
though his love seems to have been chiefly for a memory associated with
what he called the happiest time of his life.

Shelburne had a project for a marriage between Bentham and the widow of
Lord Ashburton (Dunning), who died in 1783.[237] He also made some
overtures of patronage. 'He asked me,' says Bentham,[238] 'what he could
do for me? I told him, nothing,' and this conduct--so different from
that of others, 'endeared me to him.' Bentham declined one offer in
1788; but in 1790 he suddenly took it into his head that Lansdowne had
promised him a seat in parliament; and immediately set forth his claims
in a vast argumentative letter of sixty-one pages.[239] Lansdowne
replied conclusively that he had not made the supposed promise, and had
had every reason to suppose that Bentham preferred retirement to
politics. Bentham accepted the statement frankly, though a short
coolness apparently followed. The claim, in fact, only represented one
of those passing moods to which Bentham was always giving way at odd
moments.

Bentham's intimacy at Bowood led to more important results. In 1788 he
met Romilly and Dumont at Lord Lansdowne's table.[240] He had already
met Romilly in 1784 through Wilson, but after this the intimacy became
close. Romilly had fallen in love with the _Fragment_, and in later
life he became Bentham's adviser in practical matters, and the chief if
not the sole expounder of Bentham's theories in parliament.[241] The
alliance with Dumont was of even greater importance. Dumont, born at
Geneva in 1759, had become a Protestant minister; he was afterwards
tutor to Shelburne's son, and in 1788 visited Paris with Romilly and
made acquaintance with Mirabeau. Romilly showed Dumont some of Bentham's
papers written in French. Dumont offered to rewrite and to superintend
their publication. He afterwards received other papers from Bentham
himself, with whom he became personally acquainted after his return from
Paris.[242] Dumont became Bentham's most devoted disciple, and laboured
unweariedly upon the translation and condensation of his master's
treatise. One result is odd enough. Dumont, it is said, provided
materials for some of Mirabeau's 'most splendid' speeches; and some of
these materials came from Bentham.[243] One would like to see how
Bentham's prose was transmuted into an oratory by Mirabeau. In any case,
Dumont's services to Bentham were invaluable. It is painful to add that
according to Bowring the two became so much alienated in the end, that
in 1827 Bentham refused to see Dumont, and declared that his chief
interpreter did 'not understand a word of his meaning.' Bowring
attributes this separation to a remark made by Dumont about the
shabbiness of Bentham's dinners as compared with those at Lansdowne
House--a comparison which he calls 'offensive, uncalled-for, and
groundless.'[244] Bentham apparently argued that a man who did not like
his dinners could not appreciate his theories: a fallacy excusable only
by the pettishness of old age. Bowring, however, had a natural dulness
which distorted many anecdotes transmitted through him; and we may hope
that in this case there was some exaggeration.

Bentham's emergence was, meanwhile, very slow. The great men whom he met
at Lord Lansdowne's were not specially impressed by the shy philosopher.
Wedderburn, so he heard, pronounced the fatal word 'dangerous' in regard
to the _Fragment_.[245] How, thought Bentham, can utility be dangerous?
Is this not self-contradictory? Later reflection explained the puzzle.
What is useful to the governed need not be therefore useful to the
governors. Mansfield, who was known to Lind, said that in some parts the
author of the _Fragment_ was awake and in others was asleep. In what
parts? Bentham wondered. Awake, he afterwards considered, in the parts
where Blackstone, the object of Mansfield's personal 'heart-burning,'
was attacked; asleep where Mansfield's own despotism was threatened.
Camden was contemptuous; Dunning only 'scowled' at him; and Barré, after
taking in his book, gave it back with the mysterious information that he
had 'got into a scrape.'[246] The great book, therefore, though printed
in 1781,[247] 'stuck for eight years,'[248] and the writer continued his
obscure existence in Lincoln's Inn.[249] An opinion which he gave in
some question as to the evidence in Warren Hastings's trial made, he
says, an impression in his favour. Before publication was achieved,
however, a curious episode altered Bentham's whole outlook. His brother
Samuel (1757-1831), whose education he had partly superintended,[250]
had been apprenticed to a shipwright at Woolwich, and in 1780 had gone
to Russia in search of employment. Three years later he was sent by
Prince Potemkin to superintend a great industrial establishment at
Kritchev on a tributary of the Dnieper. There he was to be
'Jack-of-all-trades--building ships, like Harlequin, of odds and ends--a
rope-maker, a sail-maker, a distiller, brewer, malster, tanner,
glass-man, glass-grinder, potter, hemp-spinner, smith, and
coppersmith.'[251] He was, that is, to transplant a fragment of
ready-made Western civilisation into Russia. Bentham resolved to pay a
visit to his brother, to whom he was strongly attached. He left England
in August 1785, and stayed some time at Constantinople, where he met
Maria James (1770-1836), the wife successively of W. Reveley and of John
Gisborne, and the friend of Shelley. Thence he travelled by land to
Kritchev, and settled with his brother at the neighbouring estate of
Zadobras. Bentham here passed a secluded life, interested in his
brother's occupations and mechanical inventions, and at the same time
keeping up his own intellectual labours. The most remarkable result was
the _Defence of Usury_, written in the beginning of 1787. Bentham
appends to it a respectful letter to Adam Smith, who had supported the
laws against usury inconsistently with his own general principles. The
disciple was simply carrying out those principles to the logical
application from which the master had shrunk. The manuscript was sent to
Wilson, who wished to suppress it.[252] The elder Bentham obtained it,
and sent it to the press. The book met Bentham as he was returning. It
was highly praised by Thomas Reid,[253] and by the _Monthly Review_; it
was translated into various languages, and became one of the sacred
books of the Economists. Wilson is described as 'cold and cautious,' and
he suppressed another pamphlet upon prison discipline.[254] In a letter
to Bentham, dated 26th February 1787, however, Wilson disavows any
responsibility for the delay in the publication of the great book. 'The
cause,' he says, 'lies in your constitution. With one-tenth part of your
genius, and a common degree of steadiness, both Sam and you would long
since have risen to great eminence. But your history, since I have known
you, has been to be always running from a good scheme to a better. In
the meantime life passes away and nothing is completed.' He entreated
Bentham to return, and his entreaties were seconded by Trail, who
pointed out various schemes of reform, especially of the poor-laws, in
which Bentham might be useful. Wilson had mentioned already another
inducement to publication. 'There is,' he says, on 24th September 1786,
'a Mr. Paley, a parson and archdeacon of Carlisle, who has written a
book called _Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy_, in quarto,
and it has gone through two editions with prodigious applause.' He fears
that Bentham will be charged with stealing from Paley, and exhorts him
to come home and 'establish a great literary reputation in your own
language, and in this country which you despise.'[255] Bentham at last
started homewards. He travelled through Poland, Germany, and Holland,
and reached London at the beginning of February 1788. He settled at a
little farmhouse at Hendon, bought a 'superb harpsichord,' resumed his
occupations, and saw a small circle of friends. Wilson urged him to
publish his _Introduction_ without waiting to complete the vast scheme
to which it was to be a prologue. Copies of the printed book were
already abroad, and there was a danger of plagiarism. Thus urged,
Bentham at last yielded, and the _Introduction to the Principles of
Morals and Legislation_ appeared in 1789. The preface apologised for
imperfections due to the plan of his work. The book, he explained, laid
down the principles of all his future labours, and was to stand to him
in the relation of a treatise upon pure mathematics to a treatise upon
the applied sciences. He indicated ten separate departments of
legislation, each of which would require a treatise in order to the
complete execution of his scheme.

The book gives the essence of Bentham's theories, and is the one large
treatise published by himself. The other works were only brought to
birth by the help of disciples. Dumont, in the discourse prefixed to the
_Traités_, explains the reason. Bentham, he says, would suspend a whole
work and begin a new one because a single proposition struck him as
doubtful. A problem of finance would send him to a study of Political
Economy in general. A question of procedure would make him pause until
he had investigated the whole subject of judicial organisation. While at
work, he felt only the pleasure of composition. When his materials
required form and finish, he felt only the fatigue. Disgust succeeded to
charm; and he could scarcely be induced to interrupt his labours upon
fresh matter in order to give to his interpreter the explanations
necessary for the elucidation of his previous writings. He was without
the literary vanity or the desire for completion which may prompt to
premature publication, but may at least prevent the absolute waste of
what has been already achieved. His method of writing was
characteristic. He began by forming a complete logical scheme for the
treatment of any subject, dividing and subdividing so as to secure an
exhaustive classification of the whole matter of discussion. Then taking
up any subdivision, he wrote his remarks upon sheets, which were put
aside after being marked with references indicating their place in the
final treatise. He never turned to these again. In time he would exhaust
the whole subject, and it would then be the duty of his disciples simply
to put together the bricks according to the indications placed upon each
in order to construct the whole edifice.[256] As, however, the plan
would frequently undergo a change, and as each fragment had been written
without reference to the others, the task of ultimate combination and
adaptation of the ultimate atoms was often very perplexing. Bentham, as
we shall see, formed disciples ardent enough to put together these
scattered documents as the disciples of Mahomet put together the Koran.
Bentham's revelation was possibly less influential than Mahomet's; but
the logical framework was far more coherent.

Bentham's mind was for the present distracted. He had naturally returned
full of information about Russia. The English ministry were involved in
various negotiations with Russia, Sweden, and Denmark, the purpose of
which was to thwart the designs of Russia in the East. Bentham wrote
three letters to the _Public Advertiser_, signed Anti-Machiavel,[257]
protesting against the warlike policy. Bentham himself believed that the
effect was decisive, and that the 'war was given up' in consequence of
his arguments. Historians[258] scarcely sanction this belief, which is
only worth notice because it led to another belief, oddly characteristic
of Bentham. A letter signed 'Partizan' in the _Public Advertiser_
replied to his first two letters. Who was 'Partizan'? Lord Lansdowne
amused himself by informing Bentham that he was no less a personage than
George III. Bentham, with even more than his usual simplicity, accepted
this hoax as a serious statement. He derived no little comfort from the
thought; for to the antipathy thus engendered in the 'best of kings' he
attributed the subsequent failure of his Panopticon scheme.[259]

NOTES:

[214] _Works_, x. 66.

[215] _Ibid._ xi. 95.

[216] _Works_, x. 54.

[217] _Ibid._ i. 268 _n._

[218] _Works_, x. 121.

[219] _Ibid._ i. 227.

[220] _Ibid._ x. 79, 142. See also _Deontology_, i. 298-302, where
Bentham speaks of discovering the phrase in Priestley's _Essay on
Government_ in 1768. Priestley says (p. 17) that 'the good and happiness
of the members, that is of the majority of the members, of any state is
the great standard by which everything relating to that state must be
finally determined.' So Le Mercier de la Rivière says, in 1767, that the
ultimate end of society is _assurer le plus grand bonheur possible à la
plus grande population possible_ (Daire's _Économistes_, p. 470).
Hutcheson's _Enquiry concerning Moral Good and Evil_, 1725, see iii. §
8, says 'that action is best which secures the greatest happiness of the
greatest number.' Beccaria, in the preface to his essay, speaks of _la
massima felicità divisa nel maggior numero_. J. S. Mill says that he
found the word 'Utilitarian' in Galt's _Annals of the Parish_, and gave
the name to the society founded by him in 1822-1823 (_Autobiography_, p.
79). The word had been used by Bentham himself in 1781, and he suggested
it to Dumont in 1802 as the proper name of the party, instead of
'Benthamite' (_Works_, x. 92, 390). He afterwards thought it a bad name,
because it gave a 'vague idea' (_Works_, x. 582), and substituted
'greatest happiness principle' for 'principle of utility' (_Works_, i.
'Morals and Legislation').

[221] A letter in the Additional MSS. 33, 537, shows that Bentham sent
his 'Fragment' and his 'Hard Labour' pamphlet to d'Alembert in 1778,
apparently introducing himself for the first time. Cf. _Works_, x.
87-88, 193-94.

[222] The translation of 1774. See Lowndes' _Manual_ under Voltaire,
_Works_, x. 83 _n._

[223] _Review of the Acts of the Thirteenth Parliament, etc._ (1775).

[224] _Works_, x. 57, 63.

[225] _Works_, x. 133-35.

[226] _Ibid._ x. 84.

[227] _Ibid._ x. 77.

[228] _Works_, x. 82.

[229] _Works_, x. 77-82. Blackstone took no notice of the work, except
by some allusions in the preface to his next edition. Bentham criticised
Blackstone respectfully in the pamphlet upon the Hard Labour Bill
(1778). Blackstone sent a courteous but 'frigidly cautious' reply to the
author.--_Works_, i. 255.

[230] _Works_, x. 115-17, 186

[231] _Ibid._ x. 100.

[232] _Ibid._ x. 122.

[233] _Ibid._ x. 118; i. 253.

[234] _Works_, x. 97; i. 252.

[235] _Ibid._ x. 219, 265.

[236] _Works_, x. 118, 419, 558.

[237] _Ibid._ i. 253.

[238] _Ibid._ x. 116, 182.

[239] _Ibid._ x. 228-42.

[240] _Ibid._ x. 186.

[241] _Works_, v. 370.

[242] _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_ (preface).

[243] _Works_, x. 185.

[244] _Works_, x. 185. Colls (p. 41) tells the same story.

[245] _Works_ ('Fragment, etc.'), i. 245, and _Ibid._ ii. 463 _n._

[246] _Ibid._ i. 246, 250, 251.

[247] _Ibid._ i. 252.

[248] _Ibid._ x. 185.

[249] Bentham says (_Works_, i. 240) that he was a member of a club of
which Johnson was the despot. The only club possible seems to be the
Essex Street Club, of which Daines Barrington was a member. If so, it
was in 1783, though Bentham seems to imply an earlier date.

[250] _Works_, x. 77.

[251] _Ibid._ x. 147.

[252] _Works_, x. 176.

[253] Reid's _Works_ (Hamilton), p. 73.

[254] _Works_, x. 171.

[255] _Works_, x. 163-64. Cf. _Ibid._ x. 195, where Wilson is often
'tempted to think'--erroneously, of course--that Paley must have known
something of Bentham's work. Paley's chief source was Abraham Tucker.

[256] See J. H. Burton in _Works_, i. 11.

[257] Given in _Works_, x. 201-12.

[258] See Lecky's _Eighteenth Century_, x. 210-97, for an account of
these transactions.

[259] Bowring tells this gravely, and declares that George III. also
wrote letters to the _Gazette de Leyde_. George III. certainly
contributed some letters to Arthur Young's _Annals of Agriculture_, and
is one of the suggested authors of Junius.


III. THE PANOPTICON

The crash of the French revolution was now to change the whole course of
European politics, and to bring philosophical jurists face to face with
a long series of profoundly important problems. Bentham's attitude
during the early stages of the revolution and the first war period is
significant, and may help to elucidate some characteristics of the
Utilitarian movement. Revolutions are the work of passion: the product
of a social and political condition in which the masses are permeated
with discontent, because the social organs have ceased to discharge
their functions. They are not ascribable to the purely intellectual
movement alone, though it is no doubt an essential factor. The
revolution came in any case because the social order was out of joint,
not simply because Voltaire or Rousseau or Diderot had preached
destructive doctrines. The doctrines of the 'rights of man' are obvious
enough to have presented themselves to many minds at many periods. The
doctrines became destructive because the old traditions were shaken, and
the traditions were shaken because the state of things to which they
corresponded had become intolerable. The French revolution meant (among
other things) that in the mind of the French peasant there had
accumulated a vast deposit of bitter enmity against the noble who had
become a mere parasite upon the labouring population, retaining, as
Arthur Young said, privileges for himself, and leaving poverty to the
lower classes. The peasant had not read Rousseau; he had read nothing.
But when his discontent began to affect the educated classes, men who
had read Rousseau found in his works the dialect most fitted to express
the growing indignation. Rousseau's genius had devised the appropriate
formula; for Rousseau's sensibility had made him prescient of the rising
storm. What might be a mere commonplace for speculative students
suddenly became the warcry in a social upheaval. In England, as I have
tried to show, there was no such popular sentiment behind the political
theories: and reformers were content with measures which required no
appeal to absolute rights and general principles. Bentham was no
Rousseau; and the last of men to raise a warcry. Passion and
sentimentalism were to him a nuisance. His theories were neither
suggested nor modified by the revolution. He looked on with curious
calmness, as though the revolutionary disturbances were rather a
transitory interruption to the progress of reform than indicative of a
general convulsion. His own position was isolated. He had no strong
reforming party behind him. The Whigs, his main friends, were powerless,
discredited, and themselves really afraid to support any vigorous
policy. They had in the main to content themselves with criticising the
warlike policy which, for the time, represented the main current of
national sentiment. Bentham shared many of their sympathies. He hated
the abstract 'rights of man' theory as heartily as Burke. It was to him
a 'hodge-podge' of fallacies. On the other hand, he was absolutely
indifferent to the apotheosis of the British Constitution constructed by
Burke's imagination. He cared nothing for history in general, or
regarded it, from a Voltairean point of view, as a record of the follies
and crimes of mankind. He wished to deal with political, and especially
with legal, questions in a scientific spirit--but 'scientific' would
mean not pure mathematics but pure empiricism. He was quite as far from
Paine's abstract methods as from Burke's romantic methods. Both of
them, according to him, were sophists: though one might prefer logical
and the other sentimental sophistries. Dumont, when he published (1802)
his versions of Bentham, insisted upon this point. Nothing, he says, was
more opposed to the trenchant dogmatism of the abstract theorists about
'rights of man' and 'equality' than Bentham's thoroughly scientific
procedure (_Discours Préliminaire_). Bentham's intellectual position in
this respect will require further consideration hereafter. All his
prejudices and sympathies were those of the middle class from which he
sprang. He was no democrat: he had no particular objection to the
nobility, though he preferred Shelburne to the king's friends or to the
Whig aristocracy. The reforms which he advocated were such as might be
adopted by any enlightened legislator, not only by Shelburne but even by
Blackstone. He had only, he thought, to convert a few members of
parliament to gain the acceptance for a rational criminal code. It had
hardly even occurred to him that there was anything wrong in the general
political order, though he was beginning to find out that it was not so
modifiable as he could have wished by the new ideas which he propounded.

Bentham's activity during the first revolutionary war corresponded to
this position. The revolution, whatever else it might do, obviously gave
a chance to amateur legislators. There was any amount of work to be done
in the way of codifying and reforming legislative systems. The deviser
of Utopias had such an opening as had never occurred in the world's
history. Lord Lansdowne, on the 3rd January 1789, expresses his pleasure
at hearing that Bentham intends to 'take up the cause of the people in
France.'[260] Bentham, as we have seen, was already known to some of the
French leaders, and he was now taking time by the forelock. He sent to
the abbé Morellet a part of his treatise on Political Tactics, hoping to
have it finished by the time of the meeting of the States General.[261]
This treatise, civilly accepted by Morellet, and approved with some
qualifications by Bentham's counsellors, Romilly, Wilson, and Trail, was
an elaborate account of the organisation and procedure of a legislative
assembly, founded chiefly on the practice of the House of Commons. It
was published in 1816 by Dumont in company with _Anarchic Fallacies_, a
vigorous exposure of the _Declaration of Rights_, which Bentham had
judiciously kept on his shelf. Had the French known of it, he remarks
afterwards, they would have been little disposed to welcome him.[262] An
elaborate scheme for the organisation of the French judiciary was
suggested by a report to the National Assembly, and published in March
1790. In 1791, Bentham offered to go to France himself in order to
establish a prison on his new scheme (to be mentioned directly), and
become 'gratuitously the gaoler thereof.'[263] The Assembly acknowledged
his 'ardent love of humanity,' and ordered an extract from his scheme to
be printed for their instruction. The tactics actually adopted by the
French revolutionists for managing assemblies and their methods of
executing justice form a queer commentary on the philosopher who, like
Voltaire's Mamres in the _White Bull_, continued to 'meditate
profoundly' in placid disregard of facts. He was in fact proposing that
the lava boiling up in a volcanic eruption should arrange itself
entirely according to his architectural designs. But his proposal to
become a gaoler during the revolution reaches the pathetic by its
amiable innocence. On 26th August 1792, Bentham was one of the men upon
whom the expiring Assembly, anxious to show its desire of universal
fraternity, conferred the title of citizen. With Bentham were joined
Priestley, Paine, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Washington, and others. The
September massacres followed. On 18th October the honour was
communicated to Bentham. He replied in a polite letter, pointing out
that he was a royalist in London for the same reason which would make
him a republican in France. He ended by a calm argument against the
proscription of refugees.[264] The Convention, if it read the letter,
and had any sense of humour, must have been amused. The war and the
Reign of Terror followed. Bentham turned the occasion to account by
writing a pamphlet (not then published) exhorting the French to
'emancipate their colonies.' Colonies were an aimless burthen, and to
get rid of them would do more than conquest to relieve their finances.
British fleets and the insurrection of St. Domingo were emancipating by
very different methods.

Bentham was, of course, disgusted by the divergence of his clients from
the lines chalked out by proper respect for law and order. On 31st
October 1793 he writes to a friend, expressing his wish that Jacobinism
could be extirpated; no price could be too heavy to pay for such a
result: but he doubts whether war or peace would be the best means to
the end, and protests against the policy of appropriating useless and
expensive colonies instead of 'driving at the heart of the
monster.'[265] Never was an adviser more at cross-purposes with the
advised. It would be impossible to draw a more striking portrait of the
abstract reasoner, whose calculations as to human motives omit all
reference to passion, and who fancied that all prejudice can be
dispelled by a few bits of logic.

Meanwhile a variety of suggestions more or less important and connected
with passing events were seething in his fertile brain. He wrote one of
his most stinging pamphlets, '_Truth versus Ashhurst_' in December 1792,
directed against a judge who, in the panic suggested by the September
massacres, had eulogised the English laws. Bentham's aversion to Jacobin
measures by no means softened his antipathy to English superstitions;
and his attack was so sharp that Romilly advised and obtained its
suppression for the time. Projects as to war-taxes suggested a couple of
interesting pamphlets written in 1793, and published in 1795. In
connection with this, schemes suggested themselves to him for improved
systems of patents, for limited liability companies and other
plans.[266] His great work still occupied him at intervals. In 1793 he
offers to Dundas to employ himself in drafting Statutes, and remarks
incidentally that he could legislate for Hindostan, should legislation
be wanted there, as easily as for his own parish.[267] In 1794, Dumont
is begging him to 'conquer his repugnance' to bestowing a few hints upon
his interpreter.[268] In 1796, Bentham writes long letters suggesting
that he should be sent to France with Wilberforce, in order to
re-establish friendly relations.[269] In 1798 he is corresponding at
great length with Patrick Colquhoun upon plans for improving the
Metropolitan police.[270] In 1801 he says[271] that for two years and a
half 'he has thought of scarce anything else' than a plan for
interest-bearing notes, which he carefully elaborated and discussed with
Nicholas Vansittart and Dr. Beeke. In September 1800, however, he had
found time to occupy himself with a proposed _frigidarium_ or ice-house
for the preservation of fish, fruits, and vegetables; and invited Dr.
Roget, a nephew of Romilly, to come to his house and carry out the
necessary experiments.[272] In January 1802 he writes to Dumont[273]
proposing to send him a trifling specimen of the Panopticon, a set of
hollow fire-irons invented by his brother, which may attract the
attention of Buonaparte and Talleyrand. He proceeds to expound the
merits of Samuel's invention for making wheels by machinery. Dumont
replies, that fire-irons are 'superfluities'--(fire-arms might have been
more to Buonaparte's taste)--and that the Panopticon itself was coldly
received.

This Panopticon was to be Bentham's masterpiece. It occupied his chief
attention from his return to England until the peace of Amiens. His
brother had returned from Russia in 1791. Their father died 28th March
1792, dividing his property equally between his sons. Jeremy's share
consisted of the estate at Queen's Square Place, Westminster, and of
landed property producing £500 or £600 a year. The father, spite of the
distance between them, had treated his son with substantial kindness,
and had learned to take a pride in achievements very unlike those which
he had at first desired.[274] Bentham's position, however, was improved
by the father's death. The Westminster estate included the house in
which he lived for the rest of his life. There was a garden in which he
took great delight, though London smoke gradually destroyed the plants:
and in the garden was the small house where Milton had once lived.[275]
Here, with the co-operation of his brother and his increased income, he
had all the means necessary for launching his grand scheme.

The Panopticon, as defined by its inventor to Brissot, was a 'mill for
grinding rogues honest, and idle men industrious.'[276] It was suggested
by a plan designed by his brother in Russia for a large house to be
occupied by workmen, and to be so arranged that they could be under
constant inspection. Bentham was working on the old lines of
philanthropic reform. He had long been interested in the schemes of
prison reform, to which Howard's labours had given the impetus.
Blackstone, with the help of William Eden, afterwards Lord Auckland, had
prepared the 'Hard Labour Bill,' which Bentham had carefully criticised
in 1778. The measure was passed in 1779, and provided for the management
of convicts, who were becoming troublesome, as transportation to America
had ceased to be possible. Howard, whose relation to Bentham I have
already noticed, was appointed as one of the commissioners to carry out
the provisions of the Act. The commissioners disagreed; Howard resigned;
and though at last an architect (William Blackburn) was appointed who
possessed Howard's confidence, and who constructed various prisons in
the country, the scheme was allowed to drop. Bentham now hoped to solve
the problem with his Panopticon. He printed an account of it in 1791. He
wrote to his old antagonist, George III., describing it, together with
another invention of Samuel's for enabling armies to cross rivers, which
might be more to his Majesty's taste.[277] In March 1792 he made a
proposal to the government offering to undertake the charge of a
thousand convicts upon the Panopticon system.[278] After delays
suspicious in the eyes of Bentham, but hardly surprising at such a
period, an act of parliament was obtained in 1794 to adopt his schemes.
Bentham had already been making preparations. He says[279] (14th
September 1794) that he has already spent £6000, and is spending at the
rate of £2000 a year, while his income was under £600 a year. He
obtained, however, £2000 from the government. He had made models and
architectural plans, in which he was helped by Reveley, already known to
him at Constantinople. This sum, it appears, was required in order to
keep together the men whom he employed. The nature of their employment
is remarkable.[280] Samuel, a man of singular mechanical skill, which
was of great use to the navy during the war, had devised machinery for
work in wood and metal. Bentham had joined his brother, and they were
looking out for a steam-engine. It had now occurred to them to employ
convicts instead of steam, and thus to combine philanthropy with
business. Difficulties of the usual kind arose as to the procurement of
a suitable site. The site secured under the provisions of the 'Hard
Labour Bill' was for some reason rejected; and Bentham was almost in
despair. It was not until 1799 that he at last acquired for £12,000 an
estate at Millbank, which seemed to be suitable. Meanwhile Bentham had
found another application for his principle. The growth of pauperism was
alarming statesmen. Whitbread proposed in February 1796 to fix a minimum
rate of wages. The wisest thing that government could do, he said, was
to 'offer a liberal premium for the encouragement of large families.'
Pitt proceeded to prepare the abortive Poor-law Bill,[281] upon which
Bentham (in February 1797) sent in some very shrewd criticisms. They
were not published, but are said to have 'powerfully contributed to the
abandonment of the measure.'[282] They show Bentham's power of incisive
criticism, though they scarcely deal with the general principle. In the
following autumn Bentham contributed to Arthur Young's _Annals of
Agriculture_ upon the same topic. It had struck him that an application
of his Panopticon would give the required panacea. He worked out details
with his usual zeal, and the scheme attracted notice among the
philanthropists of the time. It was to be a 'succedaneum' to Pitt's
proposal. Meanwhile the finance committee, appointed in 1797, heard
evidence from Bentham's friend, Patrick Colquhoun, upon the Panopticon,
and a report recommending it was proposed by R. Pole Carew, a friend of
Samuel Bentham. Although this report was suppressed, the scheme
apparently received an impetus. The Millbank estate was bought in
consequence of these proceedings, and a sum of only £1000 was wanted to
buy out the tenant of one piece of land. Bentham was constantly in
attendance at a public office, expecting a final warrant for the money.
It never came, and, as Bentham believed, the delay was due to the malice
of George III. Had any other king been on the throne, Panopticon in both
'the prisoner branch and the pauper branch' would have been set at
work.[283] Such are the consequences of newspaper controversies with
monarchs! After this, in any case, the poor Panopticon, as the old
lawyers said, 'languishing did live,' and at last 'languishing did die.'
Poor Bentham seems to have struggled vainly for a time. He appealed to
Pitt's friend, Wilberforce; he appealed to his step-brother Abbot; he
wrote to members of parliament, but all was in vain.

Romilly induced him in 1802 to suppress a statement of his grievances
which could only have rendered ministers implacable.[284] But he found
out what would hardly have been a discovery to most people, that
officials can be dilatory and evasive; and certain discoveries about the
treatment of convicts in New South Wales convinced him that they could
even defy the laws and the Constitution when they were beyond
inspection. He published (1803) a _Plea for the Constitution_, showing
the enormities committed in the colony, 'in breach of Magna Charta, the
Petition of Right, the Habeas Corpus Act, and the Bill of Rights.'
Romilly in vain told him that the attorney-general could not recommend
the author of such an effusion to be keeper of a Panopticon.[285] The
actual end did not come till 1811. A committee then reported against the
scheme. They noticed one essential and very characteristic weakness. The
whole system turned upon the profit to be made from the criminals'
labour by Bentham and his brother. The committee observed that, however
unimpeachable might be the characters of the founders, the scheme might
lead to abuses in the hands of their successors. The adoption of this
principle of 'farming' had in fact led to gross abuses both in gaols and
in workhouses; but it was, as I have said, in harmony with the whole
'individualist' theory. The committee recommended a different plan; and
the result was the foundation of Millbank penitentiary, opened in
1816.[286] Bentham ultimately received £23,000 by way of compensation in
1813.[287] The objections of the committee would now be a commonplace,
but Bentham saw in them another proof of the desire to increase
government patronage. He was well out of the plan. There were probably
few men in England less capable of managing a thousand convicts, in
spite of his theories about 'springs of action.' If anything else had
been required to ensure failure, it would have been association with a
sanguine inventor of brilliant abilities.

Bentham's agitation had not been altogether fruitless. His plan had been
partly adopted at Edinburgh by one of the Adams,[288] and his work
formed an important stage in the development of the penal system.

Bentham, though he could not see that his failure was a blessing in
disguise, had learned one lesson worth learning. He was ill-treated,
according to impartial observers. 'Never,' says Wilberforce,[289] 'was
any one worse used. I have seen the tears run down the cheeks of that
strong-minded man through vexation at the pressing importunity of his
creditors, and the indolence of official underlings when day after day
he was begging at the Treasury for what was indeed a mere matter of
right.' Wilberforce adds that Bentham was 'quite soured,' and attributes
his later opinions to this cause. When the _Quarterly Review_ long
afterwards taunted him as a disappointed man, Bentham declared himself
to be in 'a state of perpetual and unruffled gaiety,' and the
'mainspring' of the gaiety of his own circle.[290] No one, indeed, could
be less 'soured' so far as his habitual temper was concerned. But
Wilberforce's remark contained a serious truth. Bentham had made a
discovery. He had vowed war in his youth against the 'demon of chicane.'
He had now learned that the name of the demon was 'Legion.' To cast him
out, it would be necessary to cast out the demon of officialism; and we
shall see what this bit of knowledge presently implied.

NOTES:

[260] _Works_, x. 195.

[261] _Ibid._ x. 198-99.

[262] _Ibid._ x. 317.

[263] _Ibid._ x. 270.

[264] _Works_, x. 282.

[265] _Works_, x. 296.

[266] _Ibid._ x. 304.

[267] _Ibid._ x. 292.

[268] _Ibid._ x. 300.

[269] _Works_, x. 315.

[270] _Ibid._ x. 329.

[271] _Ibid._ x. 366.

[272] _Ibid._ x. 346.

[273] _Ibid._ x. 381.

[274] See his letter to Lansdowne, sending a portrait to
Jeremy.--_Works_, x. 224.

[275] _Works_, xi. 81.

[276] _Ibid._ x. 226.

[277] _Works_, x. 260. It is doubtful whether the letter was sent.

[278] The Panopticon story is confusedly told in Bowring's life. The
_Panopticon Correspondence_, in the eleventh volume, gives fragments
from a 'history of the war between Jeremy Bentham and George III.,'
written by Bentham in 1830-31, and selections from a voluminous
correspondence.

[279] _Works_, x. 301.

[280] _Ibid._ xi. 167.

[281] The plan, according to Bentham (_Works_, xi. 102), was suggested
by Ruggles, author of the work upon the poor-laws, first printed in
Young's _Annals_.

[282] _Works_, viii. 440.

[283] _Works_, xi. 102-3.

[284] _Ibid._ x. 400.

[285] _Works_, xi. 144.

[286] For its later history see _Memorials of Millbank_, by Arthur
Griffiths. 2 vols., 1875.

[287] _Works_, xi. 106.

[288] _Ibid._ x. 294.

[289] Wilberforce's _Life_, ii. 71.

[290] _Works_, x. 541.


IV. THE UTILITARIAN PROPAGANDA

Bentham in 1802 had reached the respectable age of fifty-four. He had
published his first work twenty-six years, and his most elaborate
treatise thirteen years, previously. He had been brought into contact
with many of the eminent politicians and philanthropists of the day.
Lansdowne had been a friendly patron: his advice had been treated with
respect by Pitt, Dundas, and even by Blackstone; he was on friendly
terms with Colquhoun, Sir F. Eden, Arthur Young, Wilberforce, and others
interested in philanthropic movements, and his name at least was known
to some French politicians. But his reputation was still obscure; and
his connections did not develop into intimacies. He lived as a recluse
and avoided society. His introduction to great people at Bowood had
apparently rather increased than softened his shyness. The little circle
of intimates, Romilly and Wilson and his own brother, must have
satisfied his needs for social intercourse. It required an elaborate
negotiation to bring about a meeting between him and Dr. Parr, the great
Whig prophet, although they had been previously acquainted, and Parr
was, as Romilly said by way of introduction, a profound admirer and
universal panegyrist.[291] He refused to be introduced by Parr to Fox,
because he had 'nothing particular to say' to the statesman, and
considered that to be 'always a sufficient reason for declining
acquaintance.'[292]

But, at last, Bentham's fame was to take a start. Bentham, I said, had
long before found himself. Dumont had now found Bentham. After long and
tedious labours and multiplied communications between the master and the
disciple, Dumont in the spring of 1802 brought out his _Traités de
Législation de M. Jérémie Bentham_. The book was partly a translation
from Bentham's published and unpublished works,[293] and partly a
statement of the pith of the new doctrine in Dumont's own language. It
had the great merit of putting Bentham's meaning vigorously and
compactly, and free from many of the digressions, minute discussions of
minor points and arguments requiring a special knowledge of English law,
which had impeded the popularity of Bentham's previous works.

The Jacobin controversies were passing into the background: and Bentham
began to attain a hearing as a reformer upon different lines. In 1803
Dumont visited St. Petersburg, and sent home glowing reports of
Bentham's rising fame. As many copies of the _Traités_ had been sold
there as in London. Codes were wanted; laws were being digested; and
Bentham's work would supply the principles and the classification. A
magnificent translation was ordered, and Russian officials wrote glowing
letters in which Bentham was placed in a line with Bacon, Newton, and
Adam Smith--each the founder of a new science.[294] At home the new book
was one of the objects of what Dumont calls the 'scandalous irreverence'
of the _Edinburgh Review_.[295] This refers to a review of the _Traités_
in the _Edinburgh Review_ of April 1804. Although patronising in tone,
and ridiculing some of Bentham's doctrines as commonplace and condemning
others as criminal, it paid some high compliments to his ability. The
irreverence meant at least that Bentham had become one of the persons
worth talking about, and that he was henceforth to influence the rising
generation. In January 1807 the _Edinburgh_ itself (probably Jeffrey)
suggested that Bentham should be employed in a proposed reform of the
Scottish judicial system. His old friend, Lansdowne, died on 7th May
1805, and in one of his last letters expresses a hope that Bentham's
principles are at last beginning to spread.[296] The hope was
fulfilled.

During the eighteenth century Benthamism had gone through its period of
incubation. It was now to become an active agency, to gather proselytes,
and to have a marked influence not only upon legislative but upon
political movements. The immediate effect upon Bentham of the decline of
the Panopticon, and his consequent emancipation from immediately
practical work, was apparently his return to his more legitimate
employment of speculative labour. He sent to Dumont at St.
Petersburg[297] part of the treatise upon Political Economy, which had
been naturally suggested by his later work: and he applied himself to
the Scottish judiciary question, to which many of his speculations had a
close application. He published a work upon this subject in 1808. To the
period between 1802 and 1812 belongs also the book, or rather the
collection of papers, afterwards transformed into the book, upon
Evidence, which is one of his most valuable performances.

A letter, dated 1st November 1810, gives a characteristic account of his
position. He refers to hopes of the acceptance of some of his principles
in South America. In Spain Spaniards are prepared to receive his laws
'as oracles.' 'Now at length, when I am just ready to drop into the
grave' (he had still twenty years of energetic work before him), 'my
fame has spread itself all over the civilised world.' Dumont's
publication of 1802 is considered to have superseded all previous
writings on legislation. In Germany and France codes have been prepared
by authorised lawyers, who have 'sought to do themselves credit by
references to that work.'[298] It has been translated into Russian. Even
in England he is often mentioned in books and in parliament. 'Meantime I
am here scribbling on in my hermitage, never seeing anybody but for some
special reason, always bearing relation to the service of mankind.'[299]
Making all due allowance for the deceptive views of the outer world
which haunt every 'hermitage,' it remains true that Bentham's fame was
emerging from obscurity.

The end of this period, moreover, was bringing him into closer contact
with English political life. Bentham, as we have seen, rejected the
whole Jacobin doctrine of abstract rights. So long as English politics
meant either the acceptance of a theory which, for whatever reason,
gathered round it no solid body of support, or, on the other hand, the
acceptance of an obstructive and purely conservative principle, to which
all reform was radically opposed, Bentham was necessarily in an isolated
position. He had 'nothing particular to say' to Fox. He was neither a
Tory nor a Jacobin, and cared little for the paralysed Whigs. He allied
himself therefore, so far as he was allied with any one, with the
philanthropic agitators who stood, like him, outside the lines of party.
The improvement of prisons was not a party question. A marked
change--not always, I think, sufficiently emphasised by historians--had
followed the second war. The party-divisions began to take the form
which was to become more marked as time went on. The old issues between
Jacobin and Anti-Jacobin no longer existed. Napoleon had become the heir
of the revolution. The great struggle was beginning in which England
commanded the ocean, while the Continent was at the feet of the empire.
For a time the question was whether England, too, should be invaded.
After Trafalgar invasion became hopeless. The Napoleonic victories
threatened to exclude English trade from the Continent: while England
retorted by declaring that the Continent should trade with nobody else.
Upon one side the war was now appealing to higher feelings. It was no
longer a crusade against theories, but a struggle for national existence
and for the existence of other nations threatened by a gigantic
despotism. Men like Wordsworth and Coleridge, who could not be
Anti-Jacobins, had been first shocked by the Jacobin treatment of
Switzerland, and now threw themselves enthusiastically into the cause
which meant the rescue of Spain and Germany from foreign oppression. The
generous feeling which had resented the attempt to forbid Frenchmen to
break their own bonds, now resented the attempts of Frenchmen to impose
bonds upon others. The patriotism which prompted to a crusade had seemed
unworthy, but the patriotism which was now allied with the patriotism of
Spain and Germany involved no sacrifice of other sentiment. Many men had
sympathised with the early revolution, not so much from any strong
sentiment of evils at home as from a belief that the French movement was
but a fuller development of the very principles which were partially
embodied in the British Constitution. They had no longer to choose
between sympathising with the enemies of England and sympathising with
the suppressors of the old English liberties.

But, on the other hand, an opposite change took place. The
disappearance of the Jacobin movement allowed the Radicalism of home
growth to display itself more fully. English Whigs of all shades had
opposed the war with certain misgivings. They had been nervously anxious
not to identify themselves with the sentiments of the Jacobins. They
desired peace with the French, but had to protest that it was not for
love of French principles. That difficulty was removed. There was no
longer a vision--such as Gillray had embodied in his caricatures--of a
guillotine in St. James's Street: or of a Committee of Public Safety
formed by Fox, Paine, and Horne Tooke. Meanwhile Whig prophecies of the
failure of the war were not disproved by its results. Though the English
navy had been victorious, English interference on the Continent had been
futile. Millions of money had been wasted: and millions were flowing
freely. Even now we stand astonished at the reckless profusion of the
financiers of the time. And what was there to show for it? The French
empire, so far from being destroyed, had been consolidated. If we
escaped for the time, could we permanently resist the whole power of
Europe? When the Peninsular War began we had been fighting, except for
the short truce of Amiens, for sixteen years; and there seemed no reason
to believe that the expedition to Portugal in 1808 would succeed better
than previous efforts. The Walcheren expedition of 1809 was a fresh
proof of our capacity for blundering. Pauperism was still increasing
rapidly, and forebodings of a war with America beginning to trouble men
interested in commerce. The English Opposition had ample texts for
discourses; and a demand for change began to spring up which was no
longer a reflection of foreign sympathies. An article in the _Edinburgh_
of January 1808, which professed to demonstrate the hopelessness of the
Peninsular War, roused the wrath of the Tories. The _Quarterly Review_
was started by Canning and Scott, and the _Edinburgh_, in return, took a
more decidedly Whig colour. The Radicals now showed themselves behind
the Whigs. Cobbett, who had been the most vigorous of John Bull
Anti-Jacobins, was driven by his hatred of the tax-gatherer and the
misery of the agricultural labourers into the opposite camp, and his
_Register_ became the most effective organ of Radicalism. Demands for
reform began again to make themselves heard in parliament. Sir Francis
Burdett, who had sat at the feet of Horne Tooke, and whose return with
Cochrane for Westminster in 1807 was the first parliamentary triumph of
the reformers, proposed a motion on 15th June 1809, which was, of
course, rejected, but which was the first of a series, and marked the
revival of a serious agitation not to cease till the triumph of 1832.

Meanwhile Bentham, meditating profoundly upon the Panopticon, had at
last found out that he had begun at the wrong end. His reasoning had
been thrown away upon the huge dead weight of official indifference, or
worse than indifference. Why did they not accept the means for producing
the greatest happiness of the greatest number? Because statesmen did not
desire the end. And why not? To answer that question, and to show how a
government could be constructed which should desire it, became a main
occupation of Bentham's life. Henceforward, therefore, instead of merely
treating of penal codes and other special reforms, his attention is
directed to the previous question of political organisation; while at
times he diverges to illustrate incidentally the abuses of what he
ironically calls the 'matchless constitution.' Bentham's principal
occupation, in a word, was to provide political philosophy for radical
reformers.[300]

Bentham remained as much a recluse as ever. He seldom left Queen's
Square Place except for certain summer outings. In 1807 he took a house
at Barrow Green, near Oxted, in Surrey, lying in a picturesque hollow at
the foot of the chalk hills.[301] It was an old-fashioned house,
standing in what had been a park, with a lake and a comfortable kitchen
garden. Bentham pottered about in the grounds and under the old
chestnut-trees, codifying, gardening, and talking to occasional
disciples. He returned thither in following years; but in 1814, probably
in consequence of his compensation for the Panopticon, took a larger
place, Ford Abbey, near Chard in Somersetshire. It was a superb
residence,[302] with chapel, cloisters, and corridors, a hall eighty
feet long by thirty high, and a great dining parlour. Parts of the
building dated from the twelfth century or the time of the Commonwealth,
or had undergone alterations attributed to Inigo Jones. No Squire
Western could have cared less for antiquarian associations, but Bentham
made a very fair monk. The place, for which he paid £315 a year, was
congenial. He rode his favourite hobby of gardening, and took his
regular 'ante-jentacular' and 'post-prandial' walks, and played
battledore and shuttlecock in the intervals of codification. He liked it
so well that he would have taken it for life, but for the loss of £8000
or £10,000 in a Devonshire marble-quarry.[303] In 1818 he gave it up,
and thenceforward rarely quitted Queen's Square Place. His life was
varied by few incidents, although his influence upon public affairs was
for the first time becoming important. The busier journalists and
platform orators did not trouble themselves much about philosophy. But
they were in communication with men of a higher stamp, Romilly, James
Mill, and others, who formed Bentham's innermost council. Thus the
movements in the outside world set up an agitation in Bentham's study;
and the recluse was prompted to set himself to work upon elaborating his
own theories in various directions, in order to supply the necessary
substratum of philosophical doctrine. If he had not the power of gaining
the public ear, his oracles were transmitted through the disciples who
also converted some of his raw materials into coherent books.

The most important of Bentham's disciples for many years was James Mill,
and I shall have to say what more is necessary in regard to the active
agitation when I speak of Mill himself. For the present, it is enough to
say that Mill first became Bentham's proselyte about 1808. Mill stayed
with Bentham at Barrow Green and at Ford Abbey. Though some differences
caused superficial disturbances of their harmony, no prophet could have
had a more zealous, uncompromising, and vigorous disciple. Mill's force
of character qualified him to become the leader of the school; but his
doctrine was always essentially the doctrine of Bentham, and for the
present he was content to be the transmitter of his master's message to
mankind. He was at this period a contributor to the _Edinburgh Review_;
and in October 1809 he inserted some praises of Bentham in a review of a
book upon legislation by S. Scipion Bexon. The article was cruelly
mangled by Jeffrey, according to his custom, and Jeffrey's most powerful
vassal, Brougham, thought that the praises which remained were
excessive.[304]

Obviously the orthodox Whigs were not prepared to swear allegiance to
Bentham. He was drawing into closer connection with the Radicals. In
1809 Cobbett was denouncing the duke of York in consequence of the Mrs.
Clarke scandal. Bentham wrote to him, but anonymously and cautiously, to
obtain documents in regard to a previous libel case,[305] and proceeded
to write a pamphlet on the _Elements of the Art of Packing (as applied
to Special Juries)_, so sharp that his faithful adviser, Romilly,
procured its suppression for the time.[306] Copies, however, were
printed and privately given to a few who could be trusted. Bentham next
wrote (1809) a 'Catechism of Parliamentary Reform,' which he
communicated to Cobbett (16th November 1810), with a request for its
publication in the _Register_.[307] Cobbett was at this time in prison
for his attack upon flogging militia men; and, though still more hostile
to government, was bound to be more cautious in his line of assault. The
plan was not published, whether because too daring or too dull; but it
was apparently printed. Bentham's opinion of Cobbett was anything but
flattering. Cobbett, he thought in 1812, was a 'vile rascal,' and was
afterwards pronounced to be 'filled with the _odium humani generis_--his
malevolence and lying beyond everything.'[308] Cobbett's radicalism, in
fact, was of the type most hostile to the Utilitarians. John Hunt, in
the _Examiner_, was 'trumpeting' Bentham and Romilly in 1812, and was
praised accordingly.[309] Bentham formed an alliance with another
leading Radical. He had made acquaintance by 1811 with Sir F. Burdett,
to whom he then appealed for help in an attack upon the delays of
Chancery.[310] Burdett, indeed, appeared to him to be far inferior to
Romilly and Brougham, but he thought that so powerful a 'hero of the
mob' ought to be turned to account in the good cause.[311] Burdett seems
to have courted the old philosopher; and a few years later a closer
alliance was brought about. The peace of 1815 was succeeded by a period
of distress, the more acutely felt from the disappointment of natural
hopes of prosperity; and a period of agitation, met by harsh repression,
followed. Applications were made, to Bentham for permission to use his
'Catechism,' which was ultimately published (1818) in a cheap form by
Wooler, well known as the editor of the democratic _Black Dwarf_.[312]
Burdett applied for a plan of parliamentary reform. Henry Bickersteth
(1783-1851), afterwards Lord Langdale and Master of the Rolls, at this
time a rising barrister of high character, wrote an appeal to Bentham
and Burdett to combine in setting forth a scheme which, with such
authority, must command general acceptance. The result was a series of
resolutions moved by Burdett in the House of Commons on 2nd June
1818,[313] demanding universal suffrage, annual parliaments, and vote by
ballot. Bentham had thus accepted the conclusions reached in a different
way by the believers in that 'hodge-podge' of absurdities, the
declaration of the rights of man. Curiously enough, his assault upon
that document appeared in Dumont's French version in the year 1816, at
the very time when he was accepting its practical conclusions.

The schemes in which Mill was interested at this time drew Bentham's
attention in other directions. In 1813 the Quaker, William Allen, who
had been a close ally of Mill, induced Bentham to invest money in the
New Lanark establishment. Owen, whose benevolent schemes had been
hampered by his partners, bought them out, the new capital being partly
provided by Allen, Bentham, and others. Bentham afterwards spoke
contemptuously of Owen, who, as he said, 'began in vapour and ended in
smoke,'[314] and whose disciples came in after years into sharp conflict
with the Utilitarians. Bentham, however, took pleasure, it seems, in
Owen's benevolent schemes for infant education, and made money by his
investment, for once combining business with philanthropy
successfully.[315] Probably he regarded New Lanark as a kind of
Panopticon. Owen had not as yet become a prophet of Socialism.

Another set of controversies in which Mill and his friends took an
active part, started Bentham in a whole series of speculations. A plan
(which I shall have to mention in connection with Mill), was devised in
1815 for a 'Chrestomathic school,' which was to give a sound education
of proper Utilitarian tendencies to the upper and middle classes.
Brougham, Mackintosh, Ricardo, William Allen, and Place were all
interested in this undertaking.[316] Bentham offered a site at Queen's
Square Place, and though the scheme never came to the birth, it set him
actively at work. He wrote a series of papers during his first year at
Ford Abbey[317] upon the theory of education, published in 1816 as
_Chrestomathia_; and to this was apparently due a further excursion
beyond the limits of jurisprudence. Educational controversy in that
ignorant day was complicated by religious animosity; the National
Society and the 'British and Foreign' Society were fighting under the
banners of Bell and Lancaster, and the war roused excessive bitterness.
Bentham finding the church in his way, had little difficulty in
discovering that the whole ecclesiastical system was part of the general
complex of abuse against which he was warring. He fell foul of the
Catechism; he exposed the abuses of non-residence and episcopal wealth;
he discovered that the Thirty-nine Articles contained gross fallacies;
he went on to make an onslaught upon the Apostle St Paul, whose evidence
as to his conversion was exposed to a severe cross-examination; and,
finally, he wrote, or supplied the materials for, a remarkable _Analysis
of Natural Religion_, which was ultimately published by Grote under the
pseudonym 'Philip Beauchamp,' in 1822. This procedure from the
particular case of the Catechism in schools up to the general problem of
the utility of religion in general, is curiously characteristic of
Bentham.

Bentham's mind was attracted to various other schemes by the disciples
who came to sit at his feet, and professed, with more or less sincerity,
to regard him as a Solon. Foreigners had been resorting to him from all
parts of the world, and gave him hopes of new fields for codifying. As
early as 1808 he had been visited at Barrow Green by the strange
adventurer, politician, lawyer, and filibuster, Aaron Burr, famous for
the duel in which he killed Alexander Hamilton, and now framing wild
schemes for an empire in Mexico. Unscrupulous, restlessly active and
cynical, he was a singular contrast to the placid philosopher, upon whom
his confidences seem to have made an impression of not unpleasing
horror. Burr's conversation suggested to Bentham a singular scheme for
emigrating to Mexico. He applied seriously for introductions to Lord
Holland, who had passed some time in Spain, and to Holland's friend,
Jovellanos (1749-1812), a member of the Spanish Junta, who had written
treatises upon legislation (1785), of which Bentham approved.[318] The
dream of Mexico was succeeded by a dream of Venezuela. General Miranda
spent some years in England, and had become well known to James Mill. He
was now about to start upon an unfortunate expedition to Venezuela, his
native country. He took with him a draft of a law for the freedom of the
press, which Bentham drew up, and he proposed that when his new state
was founded, Bentham should be its legislator.[319] Miranda was betrayed
to the Spanish government in 1812, and died (1816) in the hands of the
Inquisition. Bolivar, who was also in London in 1810 and took some
notice of Joseph Lancaster, applied in flattering terms to Bentham. Long
afterwards, when dictator of Columbia, he forbade the use of Bentham's
works in the schools, to which, however, the privilege of reading him
was restored, and, let us hope, duly valued, in 1835.[320] Santander,
another South American hero, was also a disciple, and encouraged the
study of Bentham. Bentham says in 1830 that forty thousand copies of
Dumont's _Traités_ had been sold in Paris for the South American
trade.[321] What share Bentham may have had in modifying South American
ideas is unknown to me. In the United States he had many disciples of a
more creditable kind than Burr. He appealed in 1811 to Madison, then
President, for permission to construct a 'Pannomion' or complete body of
law, for the use of the United States; and urged his claims both upon
Madison and the Governor of Pennsylvania in 1817, when peace had been
restored. He had many conversations upon this project with John Quincy
Adams, who was then American minister in England.[322] This, of course,
came to nothing, but an eminent American disciple, Edward Livingston
(1764-1836), between 1820 and 1830 prepared codes for the State of
Louisiana, and warmly acknowledged his obligations to Bentham.[323] In
1830 Bentham also acknowledges a notice of his labours, probably
resulting from this, which had been made in one of General Jackson's
presidential messages.[324] In his later years the United States became
his ideal, and he never tired of comparing its cheap and honest
enactment with the corruption and extravagance at home.

NOTES:

[291] _Works_, x. 403.

[292] _Ibid._ x. 62.

[293] Bentham had himself written some of his papers in French.

[294] _Works_, x. 407, 410, 413, 419.

[295] _Ibid._ x. 415.

[296] Lord E. Fitzmaurice's _Life of Shelburne_.

[297] _Works_, x. 413.

[298] This statement, I believe, refers to a complimentary reference to
Bentham in the preface to the French Code.

[299] _Works_, x. 458.

[300] Bentham says that he reached these conclusions some time before
1809: _Works_, iii. 435. Cf. _Ibid._ v. 278.

[301] _Works_, x. 425.

[302] See description in Bain's _James Mill_, 129-36.

[303] _Works_, x. 479, 573.

[304] _Works_, x. 452-54.; Bain's _James Mill_, 104.

[305] The case of the 'King _v._ Cobbett,' (1804), which led to the
proceedings against Mr. Justice Johnson in 1805.--Cobbett's _State
Trials_, xxix.

[306] _Works_, x. 448-49.

[307] _Ibid._ x. 458.

[308] _Works_, x. 471, 570.

[309] _Ibid._ x. 471.

[310] _Ibid._ x. 461.

[311] _Ibid._ x. 471.

[312] _Ibid._ x. 490.

[313] Printed in _Works_, x. 495-97.

[314] _Ibid._ x. 570.

[315] _Ibid._ x. 476.

[316] _Works_, x. 485.

[317] Bain's _James Mill_, 136. _Church of Englandism_ and _Not Paul but
Jesus_ were also written at Ford Abbey.

[318] _Works_, x. 433, 448.

[319] _Ibid._ x. 457-58; Bain's _James Mill_, 79.

[320] _Works_, 553-54, 565.

[321] _Ibid._ xi. 53.

[322] See _Memoirs of J. Q. Adams_ (1874), iii. 511, 520, 532, 535-39,
540, 544, 560, 562-63. and Bentham's letter to Adams in _Works_, x. 554.

[323] _Works_, xi. 23.

[324] _Ibid._ xi. 40.


V. CODIFICATION

The unsettled conditions which followed the peace in various European
countries found Bentham other employment. In 1809 Dumont did some
codifying for the Emperor of Russia, and in 1817 was engaged to do the
same service for Geneva. He was employed for some years, and is said to
have introduced a Benthamite Penal Code and Panopticon, and an
application of the Tactics.[325] In 1820 and 1821 Bentham was consulted
by the Constitutional party in Spain and Portugal, and wrote elaborate
tracts for their enlightenment. He made an impression upon at least one
Spaniard. Borrow, when travelling in Spain some ten years after
Bentham's death, was welcomed by an Alcalde on Cape Finisterre, who had
upon his shelves all the works of the 'grand Baintham,' and compared him
to Solon, Plato, and even Lope de Vega.[326] The last comparison
appeared to Borrow to be overstrained. Bentham even endeavoured in
1822-23 to administer some sound advice to the government of Tripoli,
but his suggestions for 'remedies against misrule' seem never to have
been communicated.[327] In 1823 and 1824 he was a member of the Greek
Committee; he corresponded with Mavrocordato and other leaders; and he
begged Parr to turn some of his admonitions into 'Parrian' Greek for the
benefit of the moderns.[328] Blaquière and Stanhope, two ardent members
of the committee, were disciples; and Stanhope carried with him to
Greece Bentham's _Table of the Springs of Action_, with which he tried
to indoctrinate Byron. The poet, however, thought with some plausibility
that he was a better judge of human passions than the philosopher.
Parry, the engineer, who joined Byron at the same time, gives a queer
account of the old philosopher trotting about London in the service of
the Greeks.[329] The coarse and thoughtless might laugh, and perhaps
some neither coarse nor thoughtless might smile. But Bowring tells us
that these were days of boundless happiness for Bentham.[330] Tributes
of admiration were pouring in from all sides, and the true Gospel was
spreading across the Atlantic and along the shores of the Mediterranean.

At home the Utilitarian party was consolidating itself; and the struggle
which resulted in the Reform Bill was slowly beginning. The veteran
Cartwright, Bentham's senior by eight years, tried in 1821 to persuade
him to come out as one of a committee of 'Guardians of Constitutional
Reform,' elected at a public meeting.[331] Bentham wisely refused to be
drawn from his privacy. He left it to his friends to agitate, while he
returned to labour in his study. The demand for legislation which had
sprung up in so many parts of the world encouraged Bentham to undertake
the last of his great labours. The Portuguese Cortes voted in December
1821 that he should be invited to prepare an 'all-comprehensive code';
and in 1822 he put out a curious 'Codification proposal,' offering to do
the work for any nation in need of a legislator, and appending
testimonials to his competence for the work. He set to work upon a
'Constitutional Code,' which occupied him at intervals during the
remainder of his life, and embodied the final outcome of his
speculations. He diverged from this main purpose to write various
pamphlets upon topics of immediate interest; and was keenly interested
in the various activities of his disciples. The Utilitarians now thought
themselves entitled to enter the field of politics as a distinct body.
An organ to defend their cause was desirable, and Bentham supplied the
funds for the _Westminster Review_, of which the first number appeared
in April 1824.

The editorship fell chiefly into the hands of Bowring (1792-1872).
Bowring had travelled much upon the Continent for a commercial house,
and his knowledge of Spanish politics had brought him into connection
with Bentham, to whom Blaquière recommended him in 1820.[332] A strong
attachment sprang up between the two. Bentham confided all his thoughts
and feelings to the young man, and Bowring looked up to his teacher with
affectionate reverence. In 1828 Bentham says that Bowring is 'the most
intimate friend he has.'[333] Bowring complains of calumnies, by which
he was assailed, though they failed to alienate Bentham. What they may
have been matters little; but it is clear that a certain jealousy arose
between this last disciple and his older rivals. James Mill's stern and
rigid character had evidently produced some irritation at intervals; and
to him it would naturally appear that Bowring was the object of a senile
favouritism. In any case it is to be regretted that Bentham thus became
partly alienated from his older friends[334]. Mill was too proud to
complain; and never wavered in his allegiance to the master's
principles. But one result, and to us the most important, was that the
new attachment led to the composition of one of the worst biographies in
the language, out of materials which might have served for a
masterpiece. Bowring was a great linguist, and an energetic man of
business. He wrote hymns, and one of them, 'In the cross of Christ I
glory,' is said to have 'universal fame.' A Benthamite capable of so
singular an eccentricity judiciously agreed to avoid discussions upon
religious topics with his master. To Bowring we also owe the
_Deontology_, which professes to represent Bentham's dictation. The
Mills repudiated this version, certainly a very poor one, of their
teacher's morality, and held that it represented less Bentham than such
an impression of Bentham as could be stamped upon a muddle-headed
disciple.[335]

The last years of his life brought Bentham into closer connection with
more remarkable men. The Radicals had despised the Whigs as trimmers and
half-hearted reformers, and James Mill expressed this feeling very
frankly in the first numbers of the _Westminster Review_. Reform,
however, was now becoming respectable, and the Whigs were gaining the
courage to take it up seriously. Foremost among the Edinburgh Reviewers
was the great Henry Brougham, whose fame was at this time almost as
great as his ambition could desire, and who considered himself to be the
natural leader of all reform. He had shown eagerness to distinguish
himself in lines fully approved by Bentham. His admirers regarded him
as a giant; and his opponents, if they saw in him a dash of the
charlatan, could not deny his amazing energy and his capacity as an
orator. The insatiable vanity which afterwards ruined his career already
made it doubtful whether he fought for the cause or the glory. But he
was at least an instrument worth having. He was a kind of half-disciple.
If in 1809 he had checked Mill's praise of Bentham, he was soon
afterwards in frequent communication with the master. In July 1812
Bentham announces that Brougham is at last to be admitted to a dinner,
for which he had been 'intriguing any time this six months,' and expects
that his proselyte will soon be the first man in the House of Commons,
and eclipse even Romilly.[336] In later years they had frequent
communications; and when in 1827 Brougham was known to be preparing an
utterance upon law reform, Bentham's hopes rose high. He offered to his
disciple 'some nice little sweet pap of my own making,' sound teaching
that is, upon evidence, judicial establishments and codification.
Brougham thanks his 'dear grandpapa,' and Bentham offers further
supplies to his 'dear, sweet little poppet.'[337] But when the orator
had spoken Bentham declares (9th February 1828) that the mountain has
been delivered of a mouse. Brougham was 'not the man to set up' simple
and rational principles. He was the sham adversary but the real
accomplice of Peel, pulling up lies by the root to plant others equally
noxious.[338] In 1830 Bentham had even to hold up 'Master Peel' as a
'model good boy' to the self-styled reformer. Brougham needs a dose of
jalap instead of pap, for he cannot even spell the 'greatest happiness
principle' properly.[339] Bentham went so far as to write what he fondly
took to be an epigram upon Brougham:

    'So foolish and so wise, so great, so small,
     Everything now, to-morrow nought at all.'[340]

In September 1831 Brougham as Chancellor announced a scheme for certain
changes in the constitution of the courts. The proposal called forth
Bentham's last pamphlet, _Lord Brougham displayed_.[341] Bentham laments
that his disciple has 'stretched out the right hand of fellowship to
jobbers of all sorts.'[342] In vain had Brougham in his speech called
Bentham 'one of the great sages of the law.' Bentham acknowledges his
amiability and his genius; but laments over the untrustworthy character
of a man who could only adopt principles so far as they were subservient
to his own vanity.

Another light of the _Edinburgh Review_, who at this time took Brougham
at his own valuation, did an incidental service to Bentham. Upon the
publication of the _Book of Fallacies_ in 1825, Sydney Smith reviewed or
rather condensed it in the _Edinburgh Review_, and gave the pith of the
whole in his famous _Noodle's Oration_. The noodle utters all the
commonplaces by which the stupid conservatives, with Eldon at their
head, met the demands of reformers. Nothing could be wittier than
Smith's brilliant summary. Whigs and Radicals for the time agreed in
ridiculing blind prejudice. The day was to come when the Whigs at least
would see that some principles might be worse than prejudice. All the
fools, said Lord Melbourne, 'were against Catholic Emancipation, and
the worst of it is, the fools were in the right.' Sydney Smith was glad
to be Bentham's mouthpiece for the moment: though, when Benthamism was
applied to church reform, Smith began to perceive that Noodle was not so
silly as he seemed.

One other ally of Bentham deserves notice. O'Connell had in 1828, in
speaking of legal abuses, called himself 'an humble disciple of the
immortal Bentham.'[343] Bentham wrote to acknowledge the compliment. He
invited O'Connell to become an inmate of his hermitage at Queen's Square
Place, and O'Connell responded warmly to the letters of his 'revered
master.' Bentham's aversion to Catholicism was as strong as his
objection to Catholic disqualifications, and he took some trouble to
smooth down the difficulties which threatened an alliance between ardent
believers and thoroughgoing sceptics. O'Connell had attacked some who
were politically upon his side. 'Dan, dear child,' says Bentham, 'whom
in imagination I am at this moment pressing to my fond bosom, put off,
if it be possible, your intolerance.'[344] Their friendship, however,
did not suffer from this discord, and their correspondence is in the
same tone till the end. In one of Bentham's letters he speaks of a
contemporary correspondence with another great man, whom he does not
appear to have met personally. He was writing long letters, entreating
the duke of Wellington to eclipse Cromwell by successfully attacking the
lawyers. The duke wrote 'immediate answers in his own hand,' and took
good-humouredly a remonstrance from Bentham upon the duel with Lord
Winchilsea in 1829.[345] Bentham was ready to the end to seek allies in
any quarter. When Lord Sidmouth took office in 1812, Bentham had an
interview with him, and had some hopes of being employed to prepare a
penal code.[346] Although experience had convinced him of the futility
of expectations from the Sidmouths and Eldons, he was always on the look
out for sympathy; and the venerable old man was naturally treated with
respect by people who had little enough of real interest in his
doctrines.

During the last ten years of his life, Bentham was cheered by symptoms
of the triumph of his creed. The approach of the millennium seemed to be
indicated by the gathering of the various forces which carried Roman
Catholic Emancipation and the Reform Bill. Bentham still received
testimonies of his fame abroad. In 1825 he visited Paris to consult some
physicians. He was received with the respect which the French can always
pay to intellectual eminence.[347] All the lawyers in a court of justice
rose to receive him, and he was placed at the president's right hand. On
the revolution of 1830, he addressed some good advice to the country of
which he had been made a citizen nearly forty years before. In 1832,
Talleyrand, to whom he had talked about the Panopticon in 1792, dined
with him alone in his hermitage.[348] When Bowring observed to the
prince that Bentham's works had been plundered, the polite diplomatist
replied, _et pillé de tout le monde, il est toujours riche_. Bentham was
by this time failing. At eighty-two he was still, as he put it,
'codifying like any dragon.'[349] On 18th May 1832 he did his last bit
of his lifelong labour, upon the 'Constitutional Code.' The great
reform agitation was reaching the land of promise, but Bentham was to
die in the wilderness. He sank without a struggle on 6th June 1832, his
head resting on Bowring's bosom. He left the characteristic direction
that his body should be dissected for the benefit of science. An
incision was formally made; and the old gentleman, in his clothes as he
lived, his face covered by a wax mask, is still to be seen at University
College in Gower Street.

Bentham, as we are told, had a strong personal resemblance to Benjamin
Franklin. Sagacity, benevolence, and playfulness were expressed in both
physiognomies. Bentham, however, differed from the man whose intellect
presents many points of likeness, in that he was not a man of the
market-place or the office. Bentham was in many respects a child through
life:[350] a child in simplicity, good humour, and vivacity; his health
was unbroken; he knew no great sorrow; and after emerging from the
discouragement of his youth, he was placidly contemplating a continuous
growth of fame and influence. He is said to have expressed the wish that
he could awake once in a century to contemplate the prospect of a world
gradually adopting his principles and so making steady progress in
happiness and wisdom.

No man could lead a simpler life. His chief luxuries at table were
fruit, bread, and tea. He had a 'sacred teapot' called Dick, with
associations of its own, and carefully regulated its functions. He
refrained from wine during the greatest part of his life, and was never
guilty of a single act of intemperance. In later life he took a daily
half-glass of Madeira. He was scrupulously neat in person, and wore a
Quaker-like brown coat, brown cassimere breeches, white worsted
stockings and a straw hat. He walked or 'rather trotted' with his stick
Dapple, and took his 'ante-prandial' and other 'circumgyrations' with
absolute punctuality. He loved pets; he had a series of attached cats;
and cherished the memory of a 'beautiful pig' at Hendon, and of a donkey
at Ford Abbey. He encouraged mice to play in his study--a taste which
involved some trouble with his cats, and suggests problems as to the
greatest happiness of the greatest number. Kindness to animals was an
essential point of his moral creed. 'I love everything,' he said, 'that
has four legs.' He had a passion for flowers, and tried to introduce
useful plants. He loved music--especially Handel--and had an organ in
his house. He cared nothing for poetry: 'Prose,' he said,[351] 'is when
all the lines except the last go on to the margin. Poetry is when some
of them fall short of it.' He was courteous and attentive to his guests,
though occasionally irritable when his favourite crotchets were
transgressed, or especially if his fixed hours of work were deranged.

His regularity in literary work was absolute. He lived by a time-table,
working in the morning and turning out from ten to fifteen folio pages
daily. He read the newspapers regularly, but few books, and cared
nothing for criticisms on his own writings. His only substantial meal
was a dinner at six or half-past, to which he occasionally admitted a
few friends as a high privilege. He liked to discuss the topics of which
his mind was full, and made notes beforehand of particular points to be
introduced in conversation. He was invariably inaccessible to visitors,
even famous ones, likely to distract his thoughts. 'Tell Mr. Bentham
that Mr. Richard Lovell Edgeworth desires to see him.' 'Tell Mr. Richard
Lovell Edgeworth that Mr. Bentham does not desire to see him' was the
reply. When Mme. de Staël came to England, she said to Dumont: 'Tell
Bentham I shall see nobody till I have seen him.' 'I am sorry for it,'
said Bentham, 'for then she will never see anybody.' And he summed up
his opinion of the famous author of _Corinne_ by calling her 'a trumpery
magpie.'[352] There is a simplicity and vivacity about some of the
sayings reported by Bowring, which prove that Bentham could talk well,
and increase our regret for the absence of a more efficient Boswell. At
ten Bentham had his tea, at eleven his nightcap, and by twelve all his
guests were ignominiously expelled. He was left to sleep on a hard bed.
His sleep was light, and much disturbed by dreams.

Bentham was certainly amiable. The 'surest way to gain men,' he said,
'is to appear to love them, and the surest way to appear to love them is
to love them in reality.' The least pleasing part of his character,
however, is the apparent levity of his attachments. He was, as we have
seen, partly alienated from Dumont, though some friendly communications
are recorded in later years, and Dumont spoke warmly of Bentham only a
few days before his death in 1829.[353] He not only cooled towards James
Mill, but, if Bowring is to be trusted, spoke of him with great
harshness.[354] Bowring was not a judicious reporter, indeed, and
capable of taking hasty phrases too seriously. What Bentham's remarks
upon these and other friends suggest is not malice or resentment, but
the flippant utterance of a man whose feelings are wanting in depth
rather than kindliness. It is noticeable that, after his early visit at
Bowood, no woman seems to have counted for anything in Bentham's life.
He was not only never in love, but it looks as if he never even talked
to any woman except his cook or housemaid.

The one conclusion that I need draw concerns a question not, I think,
hard to be solved. It would be easy to make a paradox by calling Bentham
at once the most practical and most unpractical of men. This is to point
out the one-sided nature of Bentham's development. Bentham's habits
remind us in some ways of Kant; and the thought may be suggested that he
would have been more in his element as a German professor of
philosophies. In such a position he might have devoted himself to the
delight of classifying and co-ordinating theories, and have found
sufficient enjoyment in purely intellectual activity. After a fashion
that was the actual result. How far, indeed, Bentham could have achieved
much in the sphere of pure philosophy, and what kind of philosophy he
would have turned out, must be left to conjecture. The circumstances of
his time and country, and possibly his own temperament generally, turned
his thoughts to problems of legislation and politics, that is to say, of
direct practical interest. He was therefore always dealing with concrete
facts, and a great part of his writings may be considered as raw
material for acts of parliament. Bentham remained, however, unpractical,
in the sense that he had not that knowledge which we ascribe either to
the poet or to the man of the world. He had neither the passion nor the
sympathetic imagination. The springs of active conduct which Byron knew
from experience were to Bentham nothing more than names in a careful
classification. Any shrewd attorney or Bow Street runner would have been
a better judge of the management of convicts; and here were dozens of
party politicians, such as Rigby and Barré, who could have explained to
him beforehand those mysteries in the working of the political
machinery, which it took him half a lifetime to discover. In this sense
Bentham was unpractical in the highest degree, for at eighty he had not
found out of what men are really made. And yet by his extraordinary
intellectual activity and the concentration of all his faculties upon
certain problems, he succeeded in preserving an example, and though not
a unique yet an almost unsurpassable example, of the power which belongs
to the man of one idea.

NOTES:

[325] See correspondence upon his codification plans in Russia, America,
and Geneva in _Works_, iv. 451-594.

[326] Borrow's _Bible in Spain_, ch. xxx.

[327] _Works_, viii. 555-600.

[328] _Ibid._ x. 534. See Blaquière's enthusiastic letter to
Bentham.--_Works_, x. 475.

[329] See, however, Bentham's reference to this story.--_Works_, xi. 66.

[330] _Works_, x. 539.

[331] _Ibid._ x. 522.

[332] _Works_, x. 516.

[333] _Ibid._ x. 591.

[334] A letter from Mill in the University College MSS. describes a
misunderstanding about borrowed books, a fertile, but hardly adequate,
cause of quarrel.

[335] Bowring's religious principles prevented him from admitting some
of Bentham's works to the collective edition.

[336] _Works_, x. 471-72.

[337] _Ibid._ x. 576.

[338] _Ibid._ x. 588.

[339] _Works_, xi. 37. Papers preserved at University College show that
during Peel's law reforms at this time Bentham frequently communicated
with him.

[340] _Ibid._ xi. 50.

[341] _Ibid._ v. 549.

[342] _Ibid._ v. 609.

[343] _Works_, x. 594.

[344] _Ibid._ xi. 26.

[345] _Ibid._ xi. 13, 28.

[346] _Works_, x. 468.

[347] _Ibid._ x. 551.

[348] _Ibid._ xi. 75.

[349] _Ibid._ xi. 33.

[350] Mill's _Dissertations_, i. 354 and 392 _n._

[351] _Works_, x. 442.

[352] _Works_, x. 467; xi. 79.

[353] _Ibid._ xi. 23-24.

[354] _Ibid._ x. 450.




CHAPTER VI

BENTHAM'S DOCTRINE


I. FIRST PRINCIPLES

Bentham's position is in one respect unique. There have been many
greater thinkers; but there has been hardly any one whose abstract
theory has become in the same degree the platform of an active political
party. To accept the philosophy was to be also pledged to practical
applications of Utilitarianism. What, then, was the revelation made to
the Benthamites, and to what did it owe its influence? The central
doctrine is expressed in Bentham's famous formula: the test of right and
wrong is the 'greatest happiness of the greatest number.' There was
nothing new in this assertion. It only expresses the fact that Bentham
accepted one of the two alternatives which have commended themselves to
conflicting schools ever since ethical speculation was erected into a
separate department of thought. Moreover, the side which Bentham took
was, we may say, the winning side. The ordinary morality of the time was
Utilitarian in substance. Hutcheson had invented the sacred phrase: and
Hume had based his moral system upon 'utility.'[355] Bentham had
learned much from Helvétius the French freethinker, and had been
anticipated by Paley the English divine. The writings in which Bentham
deals explicitly with the general principles of Ethics would hardly
entitle him to a higher position than that of a disciple of Hume without
Hume's subtlety; or of Paley without Paley's singular gift of
exposition. Why, then, did Bentham's message come upon his disciples
with the force and freshness of a new revelation? Our answer must be in
general terms that Bentham founded not a doctrine but a method: and that
the doctrine which came to him simply as a general principle was in his
hands a potent instrument applied with most fruitful results to
questions of immediate practical interest.

Beyond the general principle of utility, therefore, we have to consider
the 'organon' constructed by him to give effect to a general principle
too vague to be applied in detail. The fullest account of this is
contained in the _Introduction to the Principles of Morals and
Legislation_. This work unfortunately is a fragment, but it gives his
doctrine vigorously and decisively, without losing itself in the minute
details which become wearisome in his later writings. Bentham intended
it as an introduction to a penal code; and his investigation sent him
back to more general problems. He found it necessary to settle the
relations of the penal code to the whole body of law; and to settle
these he had to consider the principles which underlie legislation in
general. He had thus, he says, to 'create a new science,' and then to
elaborate one department of the science. The 'introduction' would
contain prolegomena not only for the penal code but for the other
departments of inquiry which he intended to exhaust.[356] He had to lay
down primary truths which should be to this science what the axioms are
to mathematical sciences.[357] These truths therefore belong to the
sphere of conduct in general, and include his ethical theory.

'Nature has placed mankind' (that is his opening phrase) 'under the
governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure. It is for them
alone to point out what we ought to do, as well as to determine what we
shall do.' There is the unassailable basis. It had been laid down as
unequivocally by Locke,[358] and had been embodied in the brilliant
couplets of Pope's _Essay on Man_.[359] At the head of the curious table
of universal knowledge, given in the _Chrestomathia_, we have Eudæmonics
as an all-comprehensive name of which every art is a branch.[360]
Eudæmonics, as an art, corresponds to the science 'ontology.' It covers
the whole sphere of human thought. It means knowledge in general as
related to conduct. Its first principle, again, requires no more proof
than the primary axioms of arithmetic or geometry. Once understood, it
is by the same act of the mind seen to be true. Some people, indeed, do
not see it. Bentham rather ignores than answers some of their arguments.
But his mode of treating opponents indicates his own position.
'Happiness,' it is often said, is too vague a word to be the keystone of
an ethical system; it varies from man to man: or it is 'subjective,'
and therefore gives no absolute or independent ground for morality. A
morality of 'eudæmonism' must be an 'empirical' morality, and we can
never extort from it that 'categorical imperative,' without which we
have instead of a true morality a simple system of 'expediency.' From
Bentham's point of view the criticism must be retorted. He regards
'happiness' as precisely the least equivocal of words; and 'happiness'
itself as therefore affording the one safe clue to all the intricate
problems of human conduct. The authors of the _Federalist_, for example,
had said that justice was the 'end of government.' 'Why not happiness?'
asks Bentham. 'What happiness is every man knows, because what pleasure
is, every man knows, and what pain is, every man knows. But what justice
is--this is what on every occasion is the subject-matter of
dispute.'[361] That phrase gives his view in a nutshell. Justice is the
means, not the end. That is just which produces a maximum of happiness.
Omit all reference to Happiness, and Justice becomes a meaningless word
prescribing equality, but not telling us equality of what. Happiness, on
the other hand, has a substantial and independent meaning from which the
meaning of justice can be deduced. It has therefore a logical priority:
and to attempt to ignore this is the way to all the labyrinths of
hopeless confusion by which legislation has been made a chaos. Bentham's
position is indicated by his early conflict with Blackstone, not a very
powerful representative of the opposite principle. Blackstone, in fact,
had tried to base his defence of that eminently empirical product, the
British Constitution, upon some show of a philosophical groundwork. He
had used the vague conception of a 'social contract,' frequently invoked
for the same purpose at the revolution of 1688, and to eke out his
arguments applied the ancient commonplaces about monarchy, aristocracy,
and democracy. He thus tried to invest the constitution with the
sanctity derived from this mysterious 'contract,' while appealing also
to tradition or the incarnate 'wisdom of our ancestors,' as shown by
their judicious mixture of the three forms. Bentham had an easy task,
though he performed it with remarkable vigour, in exposing the weakness
of this heterogeneous aggregate. Look closely, and this fictitious
contract can impose no new obligation: for the obligation itself rests
upon Utility. Why not appeal to Utility at once? I am bound to obey, not
because my great-grandfather may be regarded as having made a bargain,
which he did not really make, with the great-grandfather of George III.;
but simply because rebellion does more harm than good. The forms of
government are abstractions, not names of realities, and their 'mixture'
is a pure figment. King, Lords, and Commons are not really incarnations
of power, wisdom, and goodness. Their combination forms a system the
merits of which must in the last resort be judged by its working. 'It is
the principle of utility, accurately apprehended and steadily applied,
that affords the only clew to guide a man through these streights.'[362]
So much in fact Bentham might learn from Hume; and to defend upon any
other ground the congeries of traditional arrangements which passed for
the British Constitution was obviously absurd. It was in this warfare
against the shifting and ambiguous doctrines of Blackstone that Bentham
first showed the superiority of his own method: for, as between the two,
Bentham's position is at least the most coherent and intelligible.

Blackstone, however, represents little more than a bit of rhetoric
embodying fragments of inconsistent theories. The _Morals and
Legislation_ opens by briefly and contemptuously setting aside more
philosophical opponents of Utilitarianism. The 'ascetic' principle, for
example, is the formal contradiction of the principle of Utility, for it
professedly declares pleasure to be evil. Could it be consistently
carried out it would turn earth into hell. But in fact it is at bottom
an illegitimate corollary from the very principle which it ostensibly
denies. It professes to condemn pleasure in general; it really means
that certain pleasures can only be bought at an excessive cost of pain.
Other theories are contrivances for avoiding the appeal 'to any external
standard'; and in substance, therefore, they make the opinion of the
individual theorist an ultimate and sufficient reason. Adam Smith by his
doctrine of 'sympathy' makes the sentiment of approval itself the
ultimate standard. My feeling echoes yours, and reciprocally; each
cannot derive authority from the other. Another man (Hutcheson) invents
a thing made on purpose to tell him what is right and what is wrong and
calls it a 'moral sense.' Beattie substitutes 'common' for 'moral'
sense, and his doctrine is attractive because every man supposes himself
to possess common sense. Others, like Price, appeal to the
Understanding, or, like Clarke, to the 'Fitness of Things,' or they
invent such phrases as 'Law of Nature,' or 'Right Reason' or 'Natural
Justice,' or what you please. Each really means that whatever he says
is infallibly true and self-evident. Wollaston discovers that the only
wrong thing is telling a lie; or that when you kill your father, it is a
way of saying that he is not your father, and the same method is
applicable to any conduct which he happens to dislike. The 'fairest and
openest of them all' is the man who says, 'I am of the number of the
Elect'; God tells the Elect what is right: therefore if you want to know
what is right, you have only to come to me.[363] Bentham is writing here
in his pithiest style. His criticism is of course of the rough and ready
order; but I think that in a fashion he manages to hit the nail pretty
well on the head.

His main point, at any rate, is clear. He argues briefly that the
alternative systems are illusory because they refer to no 'external
standard.' His opponents, not he, really make morality arbitrary. This,
whatever the ultimate truth, is in fact the essential core of all the
Utilitarian doctrine descended from or related to Benthamism. Benthamism
aims at converting morality into a science. Science, according to him,
must rest upon facts. It must apply to real things, and to things which
have definite relations and a common measure. Now, if anything be real,
pains and pleasures are real. The expectation of pain or pleasure
determines conduct; and, if so, it must be the sole determinant of
conduct. The attempt to conceal or evade this truth is the fatal source
of all equivocation and confusion. Try the experiment. Introduce a
'moral sense.' What is its relation to the desire for happiness? If the
dictates of the moral sense be treated as ultimate, an absolutely
arbitrary element is introduced; and we have one of the 'innate ideas'
exploded by Locke, a belief summarily intruded into the system without
definite relations to any other beliefs: a dogmatic assertion which
refuses to be tested or to be correlated with other dogmas; a reduction
therefore of the whole system to chaos. It is at best an instinctive
belief which requires to be justified and corrected by reference to some
other criterion. Or resolve morality into 'reason,' that is, into some
purely logical truth, and it then remains in the air--a mere nonentity
until experience has supplied some material upon which it can work. Deny
the principle of utility, in short, as he says in a vigorous
passage,[364] and you are involved in a hopeless circle. Sooner or later
you appeal to an arbitrary and despotic principle and find that you have
substituted words for thoughts.

The only escape from this circle is the frank admission that happiness
is, in fact, the sole aim of man. There are, of course, different kinds
of happiness as there are different kinds of physical forces. But the
motives to action are, like the physical forces, commensurable. Two
courses of conduct can always be compared in respect of the happiness
produced, as two motions of a body can be compared in respect of the
energy expended. If, then, we take the moral judgment to be simply a
judgment of amounts of happiness, the whole theory can be systematised,
and its various theorems ranged under a single axiom or consistent set
of axioms. Pain and pleasure give the real value of actions; they are
the currency with a definite standard into which every general rule may
be translated. There is always a common measure applicable in every
formula for the estimation of conduct. If you admit your Moral Sense,
you profess to settle values by some standard which has no definite
relation to the standard which in fact governs the normal transactions.
But any such double standard, in which the two measures are absolutely
incommensurable, leads straight to chaos. Or, if again you appeal to
reason in the abstract, you are attempting to settle an account by pure
arithmetic without reference to the units upon which your operation is
performed. Two pounds and two pounds will make four pounds whatever a
pound may be; but till I know what it is, the result is nugatory.
Somewhere I must come upon a basis of fact, if my whole construction is
to stand.

This is the fundamental position implied in Bentham's doctrine. The
moral judgment is simply one case of the judgment of happiness. Bentham
is so much convinced of this that to him there appeared to be in reality
no other theory. What passed for theories were mere combinations of
words. Having said this, we know where to lay the foundations of the new
science. It deals with a vast complicity of facts: it requires
'investigations as severe as mathematical ones, but beyond all
comparison more intricate and extensive.'[365] Still it deals with
facts, and with facts which have a common measure, and can, therefore,
be presented as a coherent system. To present this system, or so much of
it as is required for purposes of legislation, is therefore his next
task. The partial execution is the chief substance of the
_Introduction_. Right and wrong conduct, we may now take for granted,
mean simply those classes of conduct which are conducive to or opposed
to happiness; or, in the sacred formula, to act rightly means to promote
the greatest happiness of the greatest number. The legislator, like
every one else, acts rightly in so far as he is guided by the principle
(to use one of the phrases coined by Bentham) of 'maximising' happiness.
He seeks to affect conduct; and conduct can be affected only by annexing
pains or pleasures to given classes of actions. Hence we have a vitally
important part of his doctrine--the theory of 'sanctions.' Pains and
pleasures as annexed to action are called 'sanctions.' There are
'physical or natural,' 'political, 'moral or popular,' and 'religious'
sanctions. The 'physical' sanctions are such pleasures and pains as
follow a given course of conduct independently of the interference of
any other human or supernatural being; the 'political' those which are
annexed by the action of the legislator; the 'moral or popular' those
which are annexed by other individuals not acting in a corporate
capacity; and the 'religious' those which are annexed by a 'superior
invisible being,' or, as he says elsewhere,[366] 'such as are capable of
being expected at the hands of an invisible Ruler of the Universe.' The
three last sanctions, he remarks, 'operate through the first.' The
'magistrate' or 'men at large' can only operate, and God is supposed
only to operate, 'through the powers of nature,' that is, by applying
some of the pains and pleasures which may also be natural sanctions. A
man is burnt: if by his own imprudence, that is a 'physical' sanction;
if by the magistrate, it is a 'political' sanction; if by some neglect
of his neighbours, due to their dislike of his 'moral character,' a
'moral' sanction; if by the immediate act of God or by distraction
caused by dread of God's displeasure, it is a 'religious' sanction. Of
these, as Bentham characteristically observes[367] in a later writing
the political is much stronger than the 'moral' or 'religious.' Many men
fear the loss of character or the 'wrath of Heaven,' but all men fear
the scourge and the gallows.[368] He admits, however, that the religious
sanction and the additional sanction of 'benevolence' have the advantage
of not requiring that the offender should be found out.[369] But in any
case, the 'natural' and religious sanctions are beyond the legislator's
power. His problem, therefore, is simply this: what sanctions ought he
to annex to conduct, or remembering that 'ought' means simply 'conducive
to happiness,' what political sanctions will increase happiness?

To answer this fully will be to give a complete system of legislation;
but in order to answer it we require a whole logical and psychological
apparatus. Bentham shows this apparatus at work, but does not expound
its origin in any separate treatise. Enough information, however, is
given as to his method in the curious collection of the fragments
connected with the _Chrestomathia_. A logical method upon which he
constantly insisted is that of 'bipartition,'[370] called also the
'dichotomous' or 'bifurcate' method, and exemplified by the so-called
'Porphyrian Tree.' The principle is, of course, simple. Take any genus:
divide it into two classes, one of which has and the other has not a
certain mark. The two classes must be mutually exclusive and together
exhaustive. Repeat the operation upon each of the classes and continue
the process as long as desired.[371] At every step you thus have a
complete enumeration of all the species, varieties, and so on, each of
which excludes all the others. No mere logic, indeed, can secure the
accuracy and still less the utility of the procedure. The differences
may be in themselves ambiguous or irrelevant. If I classify plants as
'trees' and 'not trees,' the logical form is satisfied: but I have still
to ask whether 'tree' conveys a determinate meaning, and whether the
distinction corresponds to a difference of any importance. A perfect
classification, however, could always be stated in this form. Each
species, that is, can be marked by the presence or absence of a given
difference, whether we are dealing with classes of plants or actions:
and Bentham aims at that consummation though he admits that centuries
may be required for the construction of an accurate classification in
ethical speculations.[372] He exaggerates the efficiency of his method,
and overlooks the tendency of tacit assumptions to smuggle themselves
into what affects to be a mere enumeration of classes. But in any case,
no one could labour more industriously to get every object of his
thought arranged and labelled and put into the right pigeon-hole of his
mental museum. To codify[373] is to classify, and Bentham might be
defined as a codifying animal.

Things thus present themselves to Bentham's mind as already prepared to
fit into pigeon-holes. This is a characteristic point, and it appears in
what we must call his metaphysical system. 'Metaphysics,' indeed,
according to him, is simply 'a sprig,' and that a small one, of the
'branch termed Logic.'[374] It is merely the explanation of certain
general terms such as 'existence,' 'necessity,' and so forth.[375] Under
this would apparently fall the explanation of 'reality' which leads to a
doctrine upon which he often insists, and which is most implicitly given
in the fragment called _Ontology_. He there distinguishes 'real' from
'fictitious entities,' a distinction which, as he tells us,[376] he
first learned from d'Alembert's phrase _Êtres fictifs_ and which he
applies in his _Morals and Legislation_. 'Real entities,' according to
him,[377] are 'individual perceptions,' 'impressions,' and 'ideas.' In
this, of course, he is following Hume, though he applies the Johnsonian
argument to Berkeley's immaterialism.[378] A 'fictitious entity' is a
name which does note 'raise up in the mind any correspondent
images.'[379] Such names owe their existence to the necessities of
language. Without employing such fictions, however, 'the language of man
could not have risen above the language of brutes';[380] and he
emphatically distinguishes them from 'unreal' or 'fabulous entities.' A
'fictitious entity' is not a 'nonentity.'[381] He includes among such
entities all Aristotle's 'predicaments' except the first:
'substance.'[382] Quantity, quality, relation, time, place are all
'physical fictitious entities.' This is apparently equivalent to saying
that the only 'physical entities' are concrete things--sticks, stones,
bodies, and so forth--the 'reality' of which he takes for granted in the
ordinary common sense meaning. It is also perfectly true that things are
really related, have quantity and quality, and are in time and space.
But we cannot really conceive the quality or relation apart from the
concrete things so qualified and related. We are forced by language to
use substantives which in their nature have only the sense of
adjectives. He does not suppose that a body is not really square or
round; but he thinks it a fiction to speak of squareness or roundness or
space in general as something existing apart from matter and, in some
sense, alongside of matter.

This doctrine, which brings us within sight of metaphysical problems
beyond our immediate purpose, becomes important to his moral
speculation. His special example of a 'fictitious entity' in politics is
'obligation.'[383] Obligations, rights, and similar words are
'fictitious entities.' Obligation in particular implies a metaphor. The
statement that a man is 'obliged' to perform an act means simply that he
will suffer pain if he does not perform it. The use of the word
obligation, as a noun substantive, introduces the 'fictitious entity'
which represents nothing really separable from the pain or pleasure.
Here, therefore, we have the ground of the doctrine already noticed.
'Pains and pleasures' are real.[384] 'Their existence,' he says,[385]
'is matter of universal and constant experience.' But other various
names referring to these: emotion, inclination, vice, virtue, etc., are
only 'psychological entities.' 'Take away pleasures and pains, not only
happiness but justice and duty and obligation and virtue--all of which
have been so elaborately held up to view as independent of them--are so
many empty sounds.'[386] The ultimate facts, then, are pains and
pleasures. They are the substantives of which these other words are
properly the adjectives. A pain or a pleasure may exist by itself, that
is without being virtuous or vicious: but virtue and vice can only exist
in so far as pain and pleasure exists.

This analysis of 'obligation' is a characteristic doctrine of the
Utilitarian school. We are under an 'obligation' so far as we are
affected by a 'sanction.' It appeared to Bentham so obvious as to need
no demonstration, only an exposition of the emptiness of any verbal
contradiction. Such metaphysical basis as he needed is simply the
attempt to express the corresponding conception of reality which, in his
opinion, only requires to be expressed to carry conviction.

NOTES:

[355] See note under Bentham's life, _ante_, p. 178.

[356] Preface to _Morals and Legislation_.

[357] _Works_, i. ('Morals and Legislation'), ii. _n._

[358] _Essay_, bk. ii. ch. xxi. § 39-§ 44. The will, says Locke, is
determined by the 'uneasiness of desire.' What moves desire? Happiness,
and that alone. Happiness is pleasure, and misery pain. What produces
pleasure we call good; and what produces pain we call evil. Locke,
however, was not a consistent Utilitarian.

[359] Epistle iv., opening lines.

[360] _Works_, vii. 82.

[361] _Works_ ('Constitutional Code'), ix. 123.

[362] _Works_ ('Fragment'), i. 287.

[363] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 8-10. Mill quotes this
passage in his essay on Bentham in the first volume of his
_Dissertations_. This essay, excellent in itself must be specially
noticed as an exposition by an authoritative disciple.

[364] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 13.

[365] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. v.

[366] _Works_ ('Evidence'), vi. 261.

[367] _Works_ ('Evidence'), vii. 116.

[368] _Ibid._ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 14, etc.; _Ibid._ vi. 260.
In _Ibid._ ('Evidence') vii. 116, 'humanity,' and in 'Logical
Arrangements,' _Ibid._ ii. 290, 'sympathy' appears as a fifth sanction.
Another modification is suggested in _Ibid._ i. 14 _n._

[369] _Ibid._ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 67.

[370] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 96 _n._

[371] See especially _Ibid._ viii. 104, etc.; 253, etc.; 289, etc.

[372] _Ibid._ viii. 106.

[373] 'Codify' was one of Bentham's successful neologisms.

[374] _Works_ ('Logic'), viii. 220.

[375] Here Bentham coincides with Horne Tooke, to whose 'discoveries' he
refers in the _Chrestomathia_ (_Works_, viii. 120, 185, 188).

[376] _Works_, iii. 286; viii. 119.

[377] _Ibid._ ('Ontology') viii. 196 _n._

[378] _Ibid._ viii, 197 _n._

[379] _Ibid._ viii. 263.

[380] _Works_ ('Ontology'), viii. 119.

[381] _Ibid._ viii. 198.

[382] _Ibid._ viii. 199.

[383] _Ibid._ viii. 206, 247.

[384] Helvétius adds to this that the only real pains and pleasures are
the physical, but Bentham does not follow him here. See Helvétius,
_OEuvres_ (1781), ii. 121, etc.

[385] _Works_, i. 211 ('Springs of Action').

[386] _Ibid._ i. 206.


II. SPRINGS OF ACTION

Our path is now clear. Pains and pleasures give us what mathematicians
call the 'independent variable.' Our units are (in Bentham's phrase)
'lots' of pain or pleasure. We have to interpret all the facts in terms
of pain or pleasure, and we shall have the materials for what has since
been called a 'felicific calculus.' To construct this with a view to
legislation is his immediate purpose. The theory will fall into two
parts: the 'pathological,' or an account of all the pains and pleasures
which are the primary data; and the 'dynamical,' or an account of the
various modes of conduct determined by expectations of pain and
pleasure. This gives the theory of 'springs of action,' considered in
themselves, and of 'motives,' that is, of the springs as influencing
conduct.[387] The 'pathology' contains, in the first place, a discussion
of the measure of pain and pleasure in general; secondly, a discussion
of the various species of pain and pleasure; and thirdly, a discussion
of the varying sensibilities of different individuals to pain and
pleasure.[388] Thus under the first head, we are told that the value of
a pleasure, considered by itself, depends upon its intensity, duration,
certainty, and propinquity; and, considered with regard to modes of
obtaining it, upon its fecundity (or tendency to produce other pains and
pleasures) and its purity (or freedom from admixture of other pains and
pleasures). The pain or pleasure is thus regarded as an entity which is
capable of being in some sense weighed and measured.[389] The next step
is to classify pains and pleasures, which though commensurable as
psychological forces, have obviously very different qualities. Bentham
gives the result of his classification without the analysis upon which
it depends. He assures us that he has obtained an 'exhaustive' list of
'simple pleasures.' It must be confessed that the list does not commend
itself either as exhaustive or as composed of 'simple pleasures.' He
does not explain the principle of his analysis because he says, it was
of 'too metaphysical a cast,'[390] but he thought it so important that
he published it, edited with considerable modifications by James Mill,
in 1817, as a _Table of the Springs of Action_.[391]

J. S. Mill remarks that this table should be studied by any one who
would understand Bentham's philosophy. Such a study would suggest some
unfavourable conclusions. Bentham seems to have made out his table
without the slightest reference to any previous psychologist. It is
simply constructed to meet the requirements of his legislative theories.
As psychology it would be clearly absurd, especially if taken as giving
the elementary or 'simple' feelings. No one can suppose, for example,
that the pleasures of 'wealth' or 'power' are 'simple' pleasures. The
classes therefore are not really distinct, and they are as far from
being exhaustive. All that can be said for the list is that it gives a
sufficiently long enumeration to call attention from his own point of
view to most of the ordinary pleasures and pains; and contains as much
psychology as he could really turn to account for his purpose.

The omissions with which his greatest disciple charges him are certainly
significant. We find, says Mill, no reference to 'Conscience,'
'Principle,' 'Moral Rectitude,' or 'Moral Duty' among the 'springs of
action,' unless among the synonyms of a 'love of reputation,' or in so
far as 'Conscience' and 'Principle' are sometimes synonymous with the
'religious' motive or the motive of 'sympathy.' So the sense of
'honour,' the love of beauty, and of order, of power (except in the
narrow sense of power over our fellows) and of action in general are all
omitted. We may conjecture what reply Bentham would have made to this
criticism. The omission of the love of beauty and æsthetic pleasures may
surprise us when we remember that Bentham loved music, if he cared
nothing for poetry. But he apparently regarded these as 'complex
pleasures,'[392] and therefore not admissible into his table, if it be
understood as an analysis into the simple pleasures alone. The pleasures
of action are deliberately omitted, for Bentham pointedly gives the
'pains' of labour as a class without corresponding pleasure; and this,
though indicative, I think, of a very serious error, is characteristic
rather of his method of analysis than of his real estimate of pleasure.
Nobody could have found more pleasure than Bentham in intellectual
labour, but he separated the pleasure from the labour. He therefore
thought 'labour,' as such, a pure evil, and classified the pleasure as a
pleasure of 'curiosity.' But the main criticism is more remarkable. Mill
certainly held himself to be a sound Utilitarian; and yet he seems to be
condemning Bentham for consistent Utilitarianism. Bentham, by admitting
the 'conscience' into his simple springs of action, would have fallen
into the very circle from which he was struggling to emerge. If, in
fact, the pleasures of conscience are simple pleasures, we have the
objectionable 'moral sense' intruded as an ultimate factor of human
nature. To get rid of that 'fictitious entity' is precisely Bentham's
aim. The moral judgment is to be precisely equivalent to the judgment:
'this or that kind of conduct increases or diminishes the sum of human
pains or pleasures.' Once allow that among the pains and pleasures
themselves is an ultimate conscience--a faculty not constructed out of
independent pains and pleasures--and the system becomes a vicious
circle. Conscience on any really Utilitarian scheme must be a
derivative, not an ultimate, faculty. If, as Mill seems to say, the
omission is a blunder, Bentham's Utilitarianism at least must be an
erroneous system.

We have now our list both of pains and pleasures and of the general
modes of variation by which their value is to be measured. We must also
allow for the varying sensibilities of different persons. Bentham
accordingly gives a list of thirty-two 'circumstances influencing
sensibility.'[393] Human beings differ in constitution, character,
education, sex, race, and so forth, and in their degrees of sensibility
to all the various classes of pains and pleasures; the consideration of
these varieties is of the highest utility for the purposes of the judge
and the legislator.[394] The 'sanctions' will operate differently in
different cases. A blow will have different effects upon the sick and
upon the healthy; the same fine imposed upon the rich and the poor will
cause very different pains; and a law which is beneficent in Europe may
be a scourge in America.

We have thus our 'pathology' or theory of the passive sensibilities of
man. We know what are the 'springs of action,' how they vary in general,
and how they vary from one man to another. We can therefore pass to the
dynamics.[395] We have described the machinery in rest, and can now
consider it in motion. We proceed as before by first considering action
in general: which leads to consideration of the 'intention' and the
'motive' implied by any conscious action: and hence of the relation of
these to the 'springs of action' as already described. The discussion is
minute and elaborate; and Bentham improves as he comes nearer to the
actual problems of legislation and further from the ostensible bases of
psychology. The analysis of conduct, and of the sanctions by which
conduct is modified, involves a view of morals and of the relations
between the spheres of morality and legislation which is of critical
importance for the whole Utilitarian creed. 'Moral laws' and a 'Positive
law' both affect human action. How do they differ? Bentham's treatment
of the problem shows, I think, a clearer appreciation of some
difficulties than might be inferred from his later utterances. In any
case, it brings into clear relief a moral doctrine which deeply affected
his successors.

NOTES:

[387] _Works_, i. 205; and Dumont's _Traités_ (1820), i. xxv, xxvi. The
word 'springs of action' perhaps comes from the marginal note to the
above-mentioned passage of Locke (bk. ii. chap. xxvi, § 41, 42).

[388] _Morals and Legislation_, chaps. iv., v., vi.

[389] See 'Codification Proposal' (_Works_, iv. 540), where Bentham
takes money as representing pleasure, and shows how the present value
may be calculated like that of a sum put out to interest. The same
assumption is often made by Political Economists in regard to
'utilities.'

[390] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 17 _n._

[391] It is not worth while to consider this at length; but I give the
following conjectural account of the list as it appears in the _Morals
and Legislation_ above. In classifying pain or pleasures, Bentham is, I
think, following the clue suggested by his 'sanctions.' He is really
classifying according to their causes or the way in which they are
'annexed.' Thus pleasures may or may not be dependent upon other
persons, or if upon other persons, may be indirectly or directly caused
by their pleasures or pains. Pleasures not caused by persons correspond
to the 'physical sanction,' and are those (1) of the 'senses,' (2) of
wealth, _i.e._ caused by the possession of things, and (3) of 'skill,'
_i.e._ caused by our ability to use things. Pleasures caused by persons
indirectly correspond first to the 'popular or moral sanction,' and are
pleasures (4) of 'amity,' caused by the goodwill of individuals, and (5)
of a 'good name,' caused by the goodwill of people in general; secondly,
to 'political sanction,' namely (6) pleasures of 'power'; and thirdly,
to the 'religious sanction,' or (7) pleasures of 'piety.' All these are
'self-regarding pleasures.' The pleasures caused directly by the
pleasure of others are those (8) of 'benevolence,' and (9) of
malevolence. We then have what is really a cross division by classes of
'derivative' pleasures; these being due to (10) memory, (11)
imagination, (12) expectation, (13) association. To each class of
pleasures corresponds a class of pains, except that there are no pains
corresponding to the pleasures of wealth or power. We have, however, a
general class of pains of 'privation,' which might include pains of
poverty or weakness: and to these are opposed (14) pleasures of
'relief,' _i.e._ of the privation of pains. In the _Table_, as
separately published, Bentham modified this by dividing pleasures of
sense into three classes, the last of which includes the two first; by
substituting pleasures of 'curiosity' for pleasures of 'skill' by
suppressing pleasures of relief and pains of privation; and by adding,
as a class of 'pains' without corresponding pleasures, pains (1) of
labour, (2) of 'death, and bodily pains in general.' These changes seem
to have been introduced in the course of writing his _Introduction_,
where they are partly assumed. Another class is added to include all
classes of 'self-regarding pleasures or pains.' He is trying to give a
list of all 'synonyms' for various pains and pleasures, and has
therefore to admit classes corresponding to general names which include
other classes.

[392] _Works_ i. 210, where he speaks of pleasures of the 'ball-room,'
the 'theatre,' and the 'fine arts' as derivable from the 'simple and
elementary' pleasures.

[393] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 22 etc.

[394] _Ibid._ i. 33.

[395] _Morals and Legislation_, ch. vii. to xi.


III. THE SANCTIONS

Let us first take his definitions of the fundamental conceptions. All
action of reasonable beings implies the expectation of consequences. The
agent's 'intention' is defined by the consequences actually
contemplated. The cause of action is the hope of the consequent
pleasures or the dread of the consequent pains. This anticipated
pleasure or pain constitutes the 'internal motive' (a phrase used by
Bentham to exclude the 'external motive' or event which causes the
anticipation).[396] The motive, or 'internal motive,' is the
anticipation of pain to be avoided or pleasure to be gained. Actions are
good or bad simply and solely as they are on the whole 'productive of a
balance of pleasure or pain.' The problem of the legislator is how to
regulate actions so as to incline the balance to the right side. His
weapons are 'sanctions' which modify 'motives.' What motives, then,
should be strengthened or checked? Here we must be guided by a principle
which is, in fact, the logical result of the doctrines already laid
down. We are bound to apply our 'felicific calculus' with absolute
impartiality. We must therefore assign equal value to all motives. 'No
motives,' he says,[397] are 'constantly good or constantly bad.'
Pleasure is itself a good; pain itself an evil: nay, they are 'the only
good and the only evil.' This is true of every sort of pain and
pleasure, even of the pains and pleasures of illwill. The pleasures of
'malevolence' are placed in his 'table' by the side of pleasures of
'benevolence.' Hence it 'follows immediately and incontestably, that
there is no such thing as any sort of motive that is in itself a bad
one.' The doctrine is no doubt a logical deduction from Bentham's
assumptions, and he proceeds to illustrate its meaning. A 'motive'
corresponds to one of his 'springs of action.' He shows how every one of
the motives included in his table may lead either to good or to bad
consequences. The desire of wealth may lead me to kill a man's enemy or
to plough his field for him; the fear of God may prompt to fanaticism
or to charity; illwill may lead to malicious conduct or may take the
form of proper 'resentment,' as, for example, when I secure the
punishment of my father's murderer. Though one act, he says, is approved
and the other condemned, they spring from the same motive, namely,
illwill.[398] He admits, however, that some motives are more likely than
others to lead to 'useful' conduct; and thus arranges them in a certain
'order of pre-eminence.'[399] It is obvious that 'goodwill,' 'love of
reputation,' and the 'desire of amity' are more likely than others to
promote general happiness. 'The dictates of utility,' as he observes,
are simply the 'dictates of the most extensive and enlightened (that is,
_well advised_) benevolence.' It would, therefore, seem more appropriate
to call the 'motive' good; though no one doubts that when directed by an
erroneous judgment it may incidentally be mischievous.

The doctrine that morality depends upon 'consequences' and not upon
'motives' became a characteristic Utilitarian dogma, and I shall have to
return to the question. Meanwhile, it was both a natural and, I think,
in some senses, a correct view, when strictly confined to the province
of legislation. For reasons too obvious to expand, the legislator must
often be indifferent to the question of motives. He cannot know with
certainty what are a man's motives. He must enforce the law whatever may
be the motives for breaking it; and punish rebellion, for example, even
if he attributes it to misguided philanthropy. He can, in any case,
punish only such crimes as are found out; and must define crimes by
palpable 'external' marks. He must punish by such coarse means as the
gallows and the gaol: for his threats must appeal to the good and the
bad alike. He depends, therefore, upon 'external' sanctions, sanctions,
that is, which work mainly upon the fears of physical pain; and even if
his punishments affect the wicked alone, they clearly cannot reach the
wicked as wicked, nor in proportion to their wickedness. That is quite
enough to show why in positive law motives are noticed indirectly or not
at all. It shows also that the analogy between the positive and the
moral law is treacherous. The exclusion of motive justifiable in law may
take all meaning out of morality. The Utilitarians, as we shall see,
were too much disposed to overlook the difference, and attempt to apply
purely legal doctrine in the totally uncongenial sphere of ethical
speculation. To accept the legal classification of actions by their
external characteristics is, in fact, to beg the question in advance.
Any outward criterion must group together actions springing from
different 'motives' and therefore, as other moralists would say,
ethically different.

There is, however, another meaning in this doctrine which is more to the
purpose here. Bentham was aiming at a principle which, true or false, is
implied in all ethical systems based upon experience instead of pure
logic or _a priori_ 'intuitions.' Such systems must accept human nature
as a fact, and as the basis of a scientific theory. They do not aim at
creating angels but at developing the existing constitution of mankind.
So far as an action springs from one of the primitive or essential
instincts of mankind, it simply proves the agent to be human, not to be
vicious or virtuous, and therefore is no ground for any moral judgment.
If Bentham's analysis could be accepted, this would be true of his
'springs of action.' The natural appetites have not in themselves a
moral quality: they are simply necessary and original data in the
problem. The perplexity is introduced by Bentham's assumption that
conduct can be analysed so that the 'motive' is a separate entity which
can be regarded as the sole cause of a corresponding action. That
involves an irrelevant abstraction. There is no such thing as a single
'motive.' One of his cases is a mother who lets her child die for love
of 'ease.' We do not condemn her because she loves ease, which is a
motive common to all men and therefore unmoral, not immoral. But neither
do we condemn her merely for the bad consequences of a particular
action. We condemn her because she loves ease better than she loves her
child: that is, because her whole character is 'unnatural' or
ill-balanced, not on account of a particular element taken by itself.
Morality is concerned with concrete human beings, and not with 'motives'
running about by themselves. Bentham's meaning, if we make the necessary
correction, would thus be expressed by saying that we don't blame a man
because he has the 'natural' passions, but because they are somehow
wrongly proportioned or the man himself wrongly constituted. Passions
which may make a man vicious may also be essential to the highest
virtue. That is quite true; but the passion is not a separate agent,
only one constituent of the character.

Bentham admits this in his own fashion. If 'motives' cannot be properly
called good or bad, is there, he asks, nothing good or bad in the man
who on a given occasion obeys a certain motive? 'Yes, certainly,' he
replies, 'his disposition.'[400] The disposition, he adds, is a
'fictitious entity, and designed for the convenience of discourse in
order to express what there is supposed to be permanent in a man's frame
of mind.' By 'fictitious,' as we have seen, he means not 'unreal' but
simply not tangible, weighable, or measurable--like sticks and stones,
or like pains and pleasures. 'Fictitious' as they may be, therefore, the
fiction enables us to express real truths, and to state facts which are
of the highest importance to the moralist and the legislator. Bentham
discusses some cases of casuistry in order to show the relation between
the tendency of an action and the intention and motives of the agent.
Ravaillac murders a good king; Ravaillac's son enables his father to
escape punishment, or conveys poison to his father to enable him to
avoid torture by suicide.[401] What is the inference as to the son's
disposition in either case? The solution (as he substantially and, I
think, rightly suggests) will have to be reached by considering whether
the facts indicate that the son's disposition was mischievous or
otherwise; whether it indicates political disloyalty or filial
affection, and so forth, and in what proportions. The most interesting
case perhaps is that of religious persecution, where the religious
motive is taken to be good, and the action to which it leads is yet
admitted to be mischievous. The problem is often puzzling, but we are
virtually making an inference as to the goodness or badness of the
'disposition' implied by the given action under all the supposed
circumstances. This gives what Bentham calls the 'meritoriousness'[402]
of the disposition. The 'intention' is caused by the 'motive.' The
'disposition' is the 'sum of the intentions'; that is to say, it
expresses the agent's sensibility to various classes of motives; and the
merit therefore will be in proportion to the total goodness or badness
of the disposition thus indicated. The question of merit leads to
interesting moral problems. Bentham, however, observes that he is not
here speaking from the point of view of the moralist but of the
legislator. Still, as a legislator he has to consider what is the
'depravity' of disposition indicated by different kinds of conduct. This
consideration is of great importance. The 'disposition' includes
sensibility to what he calls 'tutelary motives'--motives, that is, which
deter a man from such conduct as generally produces mischievous
consequences. No motive can be invariably, though some, especially the
motive of goodwill, and in a minor degree those of 'amity' and a 'love
of reputation,' are generally, on the right side. The legislator has to
reinforce these 'tutelary motives' by 'artificial tutelary motives,' and
mainly by appealing to the 'love of ease,' that is, by making
mischievous conduct more difficult, and to 'self-preservation,' that is,
by making it more dangerous.[403] He has therefore to measure the force
by which these motives will be opposed; or, in other words, the
'strength of the temptation.' Now the more depraved a man's disposition,
the weaker the temptation which will seduce him to crime. Consequently
if an act shows depravity, it will require a stronger counter-motive or
a more severe punishment, as the disposition indicated is more
mischievous. An act, for example, which implies deliberation proves a
greater insensibility to these social motives which, as Bentham
remarks,[404] determine the 'general tenor of a man's life,' however
depraved he may be. The legislator is guided solely by 'utility,' or
aims at maximising happiness without reference to its quality. Still, so
far as action implies disposition, he has to consider the depravity as a
source of mischief. The legislator who looks solely at the moral quality
implied is wrong; and, if guided solely by his sympathies, has no
measure for the amount of punishment to be inflicted. These
considerations will enable us to see what is the proper measure of
resentment.[405]

The doctrine of the neutrality or 'unmorality' of motive is thus
sufficiently clear. Bentham's whole aim is to urge that the criterion of
morality is given by the consequences of actions. To say the conduct is
good or bad is to say in other words that it produces a balance of
pleasure or pain. To make the criterion independent, or escape the
vicious circle, we must admit the pleasures and pains to be in
themselves neutral; to have, that is, the same value, if equally strong,
whatever their source. In our final balance-sheet we must set down pains
of illwill and of goodwill, of sense and of intellect with absolute
impartiality, and compare them simply in respect of intensity. We must
not admit a 'conscience' or 'moral sense' which would be autocratic;
nor, indeed, allow moral to have any meaning as applied to the separate
passions. But it is quite consistent with this to admit that some
motives, goodwill in particular, generally tend to bring out the
desirable result, that is, a balance of pleasure for the greatest
number. The pains and pleasures are the ultimate facts, and the
'disposition' is a 'fictitious entity' or a name for the sum of
sensibilities. It represents the fact that some men are more inclined
than others to increase the total of good or bad.

NOTES:

[396] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 46.

[397] _Ibid._ i. 48.

[398] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 56.

[399] _Ibid._ i. 56.

[400] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 60.

[401] _Ibid._ i. 62.

[402] _Ibid._ i. 65.

[403] These are the two classes of 'springs of action' omitted in the
_Table_.

[404] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 68.

[405] Here Bentham lays down the rule that punishment should rise with
the strength of the temptation, a theory which leads to some curious
casuistical problems. He does not fully discuss, and I cannot here
consider, them. I will only note that it may conceivably be necessary to
increase the severity of punishment, instead of removing the temptation
or strengthening the preventive action. If so, the law becomes immoral
in the sense of punishing more severely as the crime has more moral
excuse. This was often true of the old criminal law, which punished
offences cruelly because it had no effective system of police. Bentham
would of course have agreed that the principle in this case was a bad
one.


IV. CRIMINAL LAW

We have now, after a long analysis, reached the point at which the
principles can be applied to penal law. The legislator has to discourage
certain classes of conduct by annexing 'tutelary motives.' The classes
to be suppressed are of course those which diminish happiness. Pursuing
the same method, and applying results already reached, we must in the
first place consider how the 'mischief of an act' is to be
measured.[406] Acts are mischievous as their 'consequences' are
mischievous; and the consequences may be 'primary' or 'secondary.'
Robbery causes pain to the loser of the money. That is a primary evil.
It alarms the holders of money; it suggests the facility of robbery to
others; and it weakens the 'tutelary motive' of respect for property.
These are secondary evils. The 'secondary' evil may be at times the most
important. The non-payment of a tax may do no appreciable harm in a
particular case. But its secondary effects in injuring the whole
political fabric may be disastrous and fruitful beyond calculation.
Bentham proceeds to show carefully how the 'intentions' and 'motives' of
the evildoer are of the greatest importance, especially in determining
these secondary consequences, and must therefore be taken into account
by the legislator. A homicide may cause the same primary evil, whether
accidental or malignant; but accidental homicide may cause no alarm,
whereas the intentional and malignant homicide may cause any quantity of
alarm and shock to the general sense of security. In this way,
therefore, the legislator has again indirectly to take into account the
moral quality which is itself dependent upon utility.

I must, however, pass lightly over a very clear and interesting
discussion to reach a further point of primary importance to the
Utilitarian theory, as to the distinction between the moral and legal
spheres.[407] Bentham has now 'made an analysis of evil.' He has, that
is, classified the mischiefs produced by conduct, measured simply by
their effect upon pleasures or pains, independently of any consideration
as to virtue and vice. The next problem is: what conduct should be
criminal?--a subject which is virtually discussed in two chapters (xv.
and xix.) 'on cases unmeet for punishment' and on 'the limits between
Private Ethics and the act of legislation.' We must, of course, follow
the one clue to the labyrinth. We must count all the 'lots' of pain and
pleasure indifferently. It is clear, on the one hand, that the pains
suffered by criminals are far less than the pains which would be
suffered were no such sanctions applied. On the other hand, all
punishment is an evil, because punishment means pain, and it is
therefore only to be inflicted when it excludes greater pain. It must,
therefore, not be inflicted when it is 'groundless,' 'inefficacious,'
'unprofitable,' or 'needless.' 'Needless' includes all the cases in
which the end may be attained 'as effectually at a cheaper rate.'[408]
This applies to all 'dissemination of pernicious principles'; for in
this case reason and not force is the appropriate remedy. The sword
inflicts more pain, and is less efficient than the pen. The argument
raises the wider question, What are the true limits of legislative
interference? Bentham, in his last chapter, endeavours to answer this
problem. 'Private ethics,' he says, and 'legislation' aim at the same
end, namely, happiness, and the 'acts with which they are conversant are
_in great measure_ the same.' Why, then, should they have different
spheres? Simply because the acts 'are not _perfectly and throughout_ the
same.'[409] How, then, are we to draw the line? By following the
invariable clue of 'utility.' We simply have to apply an analysis to
determine the cases in which punishment does more harm than good. He
insists especially upon the cases in which punishment is 'unprofitable';
upon such offences as drunkenness and sexual immorality, where the law
could only be enforced by a mischievous or impossible system of minute
supervision, and such offences as ingratitude or rudeness, where the
definition is so vague that the judge could not safely be entrusted with
the power to punish.'[410] He endeavours to give a rather more precise
distinction by subdividing 'ethics in general' into three classes. Duty
may be to oneself, that is 'prudence'; or to one's neighbour negatively,
that is 'probity'; or to one's neighbour positively, that is
'benevolence.'[411] Duties of the first class must be left chiefly to
the individual, because he is the best judge of his own interest. Duties
of the third class again are generally too vague to be enforced by the
legislator, though a man ought perhaps to be punished for failing to
help as well as for actually injuring. The second department of ethics,
that of 'probity,' is the main field for legislative activity.[412] As a
general principle, 'private ethics' teach a man how to pursue his own
happiness, and the art of legislation how to pursue the greatest
happiness of the community. It must be noticed, for the point is one of
importance, that Bentham's purely empirical method draws no definite
line. It implies that no definite line can be drawn. It does not suggest
that any kind of conduct whatever is outside the proper province of
legislator except in so far as the legislative machinery may happen to
be inadequate or inappropriate.

Our analysis has now been carried so far that we can proceed to consider
the principles by which we should be guided in punishing. What are the
desirable properties of a 'lot of punishment'? This occupies two
interesting chapters. Chapter xvi., 'on the proportion between
punishments and offences,' gives twelve rules. The punishment, he urges,
must outweigh the profit of the offence; it must be such as to make a
man prefer a less offence to a greater--simple theft, for example, to
violent robbery; it must be such that the punishment must be adaptable
to the varying sensibility of the offender; it must be greater in
'value' as it falls short of certainty; and, when the offence indicates
a habit, it must outweigh not only the profit of the particular offence,
but of the undetected offences. In chapter xvii. Bentham considers the
properties which fit a punishment to fulfil these conditions. Eleven
properties are given. The punishment must be (1) 'variable,' that is,
capable of adjustment to particular cases; and (2) equable, or
inflicting equal pain by equal sentences. Thus the 'proportion' between
punishment and crimes of a given class can be secured. In order that the
punishments of different classes of crime may be proportional, the
punishments should (3) be commensurable. To make punishments efficacious
they should be (4) 'characteristical' or impressive to the imagination;
and that they may not be excessive they should be (5) exemplary or
likely to impress others, and (6) frugal. To secure minor ends they
should be (7) reformatory; (8) disabling, _i.e._ from future offences;
and (9) compensatory to the sufferer. Finally, to avoid collateral
disadvantages they should be (10) popular, and (11) remittable. A
twelfth property, simplicity, was added in Dumont's redaction. Dumont
calls attention here to the value of Bentham's method.[413] Montesquieu
and Beccaria had spoken in general terms of the desirable qualities of
punishment. They had spoken of 'proportionality,' for example, but
without that precise or definite meaning which appears in Bentham's
Calculus. In fact, Bentham's statement, compared to the vaguer
utterances of his predecessors, but still more when compared to the
haphazard brutalities and inconsistencies of English criminal law,
gives the best impression of the value of his method.

Bentham's next step is an elaborate classification of offences, worked
out by a further application of his bifurcatory method.[414] This would
form the groundwork of the projected code. I cannot, however, speak of
this classification, or of many interesting remarks contained in the
_Principles of Penal Law_, where some further details are considered. An
analysis scarcely does justice to Bentham, for it has to omit his
illustrations and his flashes of real vivacity. The mere dry logical
framework is not appetising. I have gone so far in order to illustrate
the characteristic of Bentham's teaching. It was not the bare appeal to
utility, but the attempt to follow the clue of utility systematically
and unflinchingly into every part of the subject. This one doctrine
gives the touchstone by which every proposed measure is to be tested;
and which will give to his system not such unity as arises from the
development of an abstract logical principle, but such as is introduced
into the physical sciences when we are able to range all the
indefinitely complex phenomena which arise under some simple law of
force. If Bentham's aim could have been achieved, 'utility' would have
been in legislative theories what gravitation is in astronomical
theories. All human conduct being ruled by pain and pleasure, we could
compare all motives and actions, and trace out the consequences of any
given law. I shall have hereafter to consider how this conception worked
in different minds and was applied to different problems: what were the
tenable results to which it led, and what were the errors caused by the
implied oversight of some essential considerations.

Certain weaknesses are almost too obvious to be specified. He claimed to
be constructing a science, comparable to the physical sciences. The
attempt was obviously chimerical if we are to take it seriously. The
makeshift doctrine which he substitutes for psychology would be a
sufficient proof of the incapacity for his task. He had probably not
read such writers as Hartley or Condillac, who might have suggested some
ostensibly systematic theory. If he had little psychology he had not
even a conception of 'sociology.' The 'felicific calculus' is enough to
show the inadequacy of his method. The purpose is to enable us to
calculate the effects of a proposed law. You propose to send robbers to
the gallows or the gaol. You must, says Bentham, reckon up all the evils
prevented: the suffering to the robbed, and to those who expect to be
robbed, on the one hand; and, on the other, the evils caused, the
suffering to the robber, and to the tax-payer who keeps the constable;
then strike your balance and make your law if the evils prevented exceed
the evils caused. Some such calculation is demanded by plain common
sense. It points to the line of inquiry desirable. But can it be
adequate? To estimate the utility of a law we must take into account all
its 'effects.' What are the 'effects' of a law against robbery? They are
all that is implied in the security of property. They correspond to the
difference between England in the eighteenth century and England in the
time of Hengist and Horsa; between a country where the supremacy of law
is established, and a country still under the rule of the strong hand.
Bentham's method may be applicable at a given moment, when the social
structure is already consolidated and uniform. It would represent the
practical arguments for establishing the police-force demanded by
Colquhoun, and show the disadvantages of the old constables and
watchmen. Bentham, that is, gives an admirable method for settling
details of administrative and legislative machinery, and dealing with
particular cases when once the main principles of law and order are
established. Those principles, too, may depend upon 'utility,' but
utility must be taken in a wider sense when we have to deal with the
fundamental questions. We must consider the 'utility' of the whole
organisation, not the fitness of separate details. Finally, if Bentham
is weak in psychology and in sociology, he is clearly not satisfactory
in ethics. Morality is, according to him, on the same plane with law.
The difference is not in the sphere to which they apply, or in the end
to which they are directed; but solely in the 'sanction.' The legislator
uses threats of physical suffering; the moralist threats of 'popular'
disapproval. Either 'sanction' may be most applicable to a given case;
but the question is merely between different means to the same end under
varying conditions. This implies the 'external' character of Bentham's
morality, and explains his insistence upon the neutrality of motives. He
takes the average man to be a compound of certain instincts, and merely
seeks to regulate their action by supplying 'artificial tutelary
motives.' The 'man' is given; the play of his instincts, separately
neutral, makes his conduct more or less favourable to general happiness;
and the moralist and the legislator have both to correct his deviations
by supplying appropriate 'sanctions.' Bentham, therefore, is inclined to
ignore the intrinsic character of morality, or the dependence of a man's
morality upon the essential structure of his nature. He thinks of the
superficial play of forces, not of their intimate constitution. The man
is not to be changed in either case; only his circumstances. Such
defects no doubt diminish the value of Bentham's work. Yet, after all,
in his own sphere they are trifles. He did very well without philosophy.
However imperfect his system might be considered as a science or an
ultimate explanation of society and human nature, it was very much to
the point as an expression of downright common sense. Dumont's eulogy
seems to be fully deserved, when we contrast Bentham's theory of
punishment with the theories (if they deserve the name) of contemporary
legislators. His method involved a thoroughgoing examination of the
whole body of laws, and a resolution to apply a searching test to every
law. If that test was not so unequivocal or ultimate as he fancied, it
yet implied the constant application of such considerations as must
always carry weight, and, perhaps, be always the dominant
considerations, with the actual legislator or jurist. What is the use of
you? is a question which may fairly be put to every institution and to
every law; and it concerns legislators to find some answer, even though
the meaning of the word 'use' is not so clear as we could wish.

NOTES:

[406] _Morals and Legislation_, ch. xii.

[407] _Morals and Legislation_, ch. xiv. (a chapter inserted from
Dumont's _Traités_).

[408] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. p. 86.

[409] _Ibid._ i. 144.

[410] _Ibid._ i. 145.

[411] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 143.

[412] _Ibid._ i. 147-48.

[413] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i 406 _n._

[414] _Works_ ('Morals and Legislation'), i. 96 _n._


V. ENGLISH LAW

The practical value of Bentham's method is perhaps best illustrated by
his _Rationale of Evidence_. The composition of the papers ultimately
put together by J. S. Mill had occupied Bentham from 1802 to 1812. The
changed style is significant. Nobody could write more pointedly, or with
happier illustrations, than Bentham in his earlier years. He afterwards
came to think that a didactic treatise should sacrifice every other
virtue to fulness and precision. To make a sentence precise, every
qualifying clause must be somehow forced into the original formula.
Still more characteristic is his application of what he calls the
'substantive-preferring principle.'[415] He would rather say, 'I give
extension to an object,' than 'I extend an object.' Where a substantive
is employed, the idea is 'stationed upon a rock'; if only a verb, the
idea is 'like a leaf floating on a stream.' A verb, he said,[416] 'slips
through your fingers like an eel.' The principle corresponds to his
'metaphysics.' The universe of thought is made up of a number of
separate 'entities' corresponding to nouns-substantive, and when these
bundles are distinctly isolated by appropriate nouns, the process of
arranging and codifying according to the simple relations indicated by
the copula is greatly facilitated. The ideal language would resemble
algebra, in which symbols, each representing a given numerical value,
are connected by the smallest possible number of symbols of operation,
+, -, =, and so forth. To set two such statements side by side, or to
modify them by inserting different constants, is then a comparatively
easy process, capable of being regulated by simple general rules.
Bentham's style becomes tiresome, and was often improperly called
obscure. It requires attention, but the meaning is never doubtful--and
to the end we have frequent flashes of the old vivacity.

The _Rationale of Evidence_, as Mill remarks,[417] is 'one of the
richest in matter of all Bentham's productions.' It contains, too, many
passages in Bentham's earlier style, judiciously preserved by his young
editor; indeed, so many that I am tempted even to call the book amusing.
In spite of the wearisome effort to say everything, and to force
language into the mould presented by his theory, Bentham attracts us by
his obvious sincerity. The arguments may be unsatisfactory, but they are
genuine arguments. They represent conviction; they are given because
they have convinced; and no reader can deny that they really tend to
convince. We may complain that there are too many words, and that the
sentences are cumbrous; but the substance is always to the point. The
main purpose may be very briefly indicated. Bentham begins by general
considerations upon evidence, in which he and his youthful editor
indicate their general adherence to the doctrines of Hume.[418] This
leads to an application of the methods expounded in the 'Introduction,'
in order to show how the various motives or 'springs of action' and the
'sanctions' based upon them may affect the trustworthiness of evidence.
Any motive whatever may incidentally cause 'mendacity.' The second book,
therefore, considers what securities may be taken for 'securing
trustworthiness.' We have, for example, a discussion of the value of
oaths (he thinks them valueless), of the advantages and disadvantages of
reducing evidence to writing, of interrogating witnesses, and of the
publicity or privacy of evidence. Book iii. deals with the 'extraction
of evidence.' We have to compare the relative advantages of oral and
written evidence, the rules for cross-examining witnesses and for taking
evidence as to their character. Book iv. deals with 'pre-appointed
evidence,' the cases, that is, in which events are recorded at the time
of occurrence with a view to their subsequent use as evidence. We have
under this head to consider the formalities which should be required in
regard to contracts and wills; and the mode of recording judicial and
other official decisions and registering births, deaths, and marriages.
In Books v. and vi. we consider two kinds of evidence which is in one
way or other of inferior cogency, namely, 'circumstantial evidence,' in
which the evidence if accepted still leaves room for a process of more
or less doubtful inference; and 'makeshift evidence,' such evidence as
must sometimes be accepted for want of the best, of which the most
conspicuous instance is 'hearsay evidence.' Book vii. deals with the
'authentication' of evidence. Book viii. is a consideration of the
'technical' system, that namely which was accepted by English lawyers;
and finally Book ix. deals with a special point, namely, the exclusion
of evidence. Bentham announces at starting[419] that he shall establish
'one theorem' and consider two problems. The problems are: 'what
securities can be taken for the truth of evidence?' and 'what rules can
be given for estimating the value of evidence?' The 'theorem' is that no
evidence should be excluded with the professed intention of obtaining a
right decision; though some must be excluded to avoid expense, vexation,
and delay. This, therefore, as his most distinct moral, is fully treated
in the last book.

Had Bentham confined himself to a pithy statement of his leading
doctrines, and confirmed them by a few typical cases, he would have been
more effective in a literary sense. His passion for 'codification,' for
tabulating and arranging facts in all their complexity, and for applying
his doctrine at full length to every case that he can imagine, makes him
terribly prolix. On the other hand, this process no doubt strengthened
his own conviction and the conviction of his disciples as to the value
of his process. Follow this clue of utility throughout the whole
labyrinth, see what a clear answer it offers at every point, and you
cannot doubt that you are in possession of the true compass for such a
navigation. Indeed, it seems to be indisputable that Bentham's arguments
are the really relevant and important arguments. How can we decide any
of the points which come up for discussion? Should a witness be
cross-examined? Should his evidence be recorded? Should a wife be
allowed to give evidence against her husband? or the defendant to give
evidence about his own case? These and innumerable other points can only
be decided by reference to what Bentham understood by 'utility.' This or
that arrangement is 'useful' because it enables us to get quickly and
easily at the evidence, to take effective securities for its
truthfulness, to estimate its relevance and importance, to leave the
decision to the most qualified persons, and so forth. These points,
again, can only be decided by a careful appeal to experience, and by
endeavouring to understand the ordinary play of 'motives' and
'sanctions.' What generally makes a man lie, and how is lying to be made
unpleasant? By rigorously fixing our minds at every point on such
issues, we find that many questions admit of very plain answers, and are
surprised to discover what a mass of obscurity has been dispelled. It
is, however, true that although the value of the method can hardly be
denied unless we deny the value of all experience and common sense, we
may dispute the degree in which it confirms the general principle. Every
step seems to Bentham to reflect additional light upon his primary
axiom. Yet it is possible to hold that witnesses should be encouraged to
speak the truth, and that experience may help us to discover the best
means to that end without, therefore, admitting the unique validity of
the 'greatest happiness' principle. That principle, so far as true, may
be itself a deduction from some higher principle; and no philosopher of
any school would deny that 'utility' should be in some way consulted by
the legislator.

The book illustrates the next critical point in Bentham's system--the
transition from law to politics. He was writing the book at the period
when the failure of the Panopticon was calling his attention to the
wickedness of George III. and Lord Eldon, and when the English demand
for parliamentary reform was reviving and supplying him with a
sympathetic audience. Now, in examining the theory of evidence upon the
plan described, Bentham found himself at every stage in conflict with
the existing system, or rather the existing chaos of unintelligible
rules. English lawyers, he discovered, had worked out a system of rules
for excluding evidence. Sometimes the cause was pure indolence. 'This
man, were I to hear him,' says the English judge, 'would come out with a
parcel of lies. It would be a plague to hear him: I have heard enough
already; shut the door in his face.'[420] But, as Bentham shows with
elaborate detail, a reason for suspecting evidence is not a reason for
excluding it. A convicted perjurer gives evidence, and has a pecuniary
interest in the result. That is excellent ground for caution; but the
fact that the man makes a certain statement may still be a help to the
ascertainment of truth. Why should that help be rejected? Bentham
scarcely admits of any exception to the general rule of taking any
evidence you can get--one exception being the rather curious one of
confession to a Catholic priest; secrecy in such cases is on the whole,
he thinks, useful. He exposes the confusion implied in an exclusion of
evidence because it is not fully trustworthy, which is equivalent to
working in the dark because a partial light may deceive. But this is
only a part of a whole system of arbitrary, inconsistent, and technical
rules worked out by the ingenuity of lawyers. Besides the direct injury
they gave endless opportunity for skilful manoeuvring to exclude or
admit evidence by adopting different forms of procedure. Rules had been
made by judges as they were wanted and precedents established of
contradictory tendency and uncertain application. Bentham contrasts the
simplicity of the rules deducible from 'utility' with the amazing
complexity of the traditional code of technical rules. Under the
'natural' system, that of utility, you have to deal with a quarrel
between your servants or children. You send at once for the disputants,
confront them, take any relevant evidence, and make up your mind as to
the rights of the dispute. In certain cases this 'natural' procedure has
been retained, as, for example, in courts-martial, where rapid decision
was necessary. Had the technical system prevailed, the country would
have been ruined in six weeks.[421] But the exposure of the technical
system requires an elaborate display of intricate methods involving at
every step vexation, delay, and injustice. Bentham reckons up nineteen
separate devices employed by the courts. He describes the elaborate
processes which had to be gone through before a hearing could be
obtained; the distance of courts from the litigants; the bandying of
cases from court to court; the chicaneries about giving notice; the
frequent nullification of all that had been done on account of some
technical flaw; the unintelligible jargon of Latin and Law-French which
veiled the proceedings from the public; the elaborate mysteries of
'special pleading'; the conflict of jurisdictions, and the manufacture
of new 'pleas' and new technical rules; the 'entanglement of
jurisdictions,' and especially the distinction between law and equity,
which had made confusion doubly confounded. English law had become a
mere jungle of unintelligible distinctions, contradictions, and cumbrous
methods through which no man could find his way without the guidance of
the initiated, and in which a long purse and unscrupulous trickery gave
the advantage over the poor to the rich, and to the knave over the
honest man. One fruitful source of all these evils was the 'judge-made'
law, which Bentham henceforth never ceased to denounce. His ideal was a
distinct code which, when change was required, should be changed by an
avowed and intelligible process. The chaos which had grown up was the
natural result of the gradual development of a traditional body of law,
in which new cases were met under cover of applying precedents from
previous decisions, with the help of reference to the vague body of
unwritten or 'common law,' and of legal fictions permitting some
non-natural interpretation of the old formulæ. It is the judges, he had
already said in 1792,[422] 'that make the common law. Do you know how
they make it? Just as a man makes laws for his dog. When your dog does
anything you want to break him of, you wait till he does it and then
beat him. This is the way you make laws for your dog, and this is the
way the judges make laws for you and me.' The 'tyranny of judge-made
law' is 'the most all-comprehensive, most grinding, and most crying of
all grievances,'[423] and is scarcely less bad than 'priest-made
religion.'[424] Legal fictions, according to him, are simply lies. The
permission to use them is a 'mendacity licence.' In 'Rome-bred law ...
fiction' is a 'wart which here and there disfigures the face of justice.
In English law fiction is a syphilis which runs into every vein and
carries into every part of the system the principle of rottenness.'[425]

The evils denounced by Bentham were monstrous. The completeness of the
exposure was his great merit; and his reputation has suffered, as we are
told on competent authority, by the very efficiency of his attack. The
worst evils are so much things of the past, that we forget the extent
of the evil and the merits of its assailant. Bentham's diagnosis of the
evil explains his later attitude. He attributes all the abuses to
consciously corrupt motives even where a sufficient explanation can be
found in the human stupidity and honest incapacity to look outside of
traditional ways of thought. He admits, indeed, the personal purity of
English judges. No English judge had ever received a bribe within living
memory.[426] But this, he urges, is only because the judges find it more
profitable as well as safer to carry out a radically corrupt system. A
synonym for 'technical' is 'fee-gathering.' Lawyers of all classes had a
common interest in multiplying suits and complicating procedure: and
thus a tacit partnership had grown up which he describes as 'Judge and
Co.' He gives statistics showing that in the year 1797 five hundred and
forty-three out of five hundred and fifty 'writs of error' were 'shams,'
or simply vexatious contrivances for delay, and brought a profit to the
Chief Justice of over £1400.[427] Lord Eldon was always before him as
the typical representative of obstruction and obscurantism. In his
_Indications respecting Lord Eldon_ (1825) he goes into details which it
must have required some courage to publish. Under Eldon, he says,
'equity has become an instrument of fraud and extortion.'[428] He
details the proceedings by which Eldon obtained the sanction of
parliament for a system of fee-taking, which he had admitted to be
illegal, and which had been denounced by an eminent solicitor as leading
to gross corruption. Bentham intimates that the Masters in Chancery were
'swindlers,'[429] and that Eldon was knowingly the protector and sharer
of their profits. Romilly, who had called the Court of Chancery 'a
disgrace to a civilised nation,' had said that Eldon was the cause of
many of the abuses, and could have reformed most of the others. Erskine
had declared that if there was a hell, the Court of Chancery was
hell.[430] Eldon, as Bentham himself thought, was worse than Jeffreys.
Eldon's victims had died a lingering death, and the persecutor had made
money out of their sufferings. Jeffreys was openly brutal; while Eldon
covered his tyranny under the 'most accomplished indifference.'[431]

Yet Eldon was but the head of a band. Judges, barristers, and solicitors
were alike. The most hopeless of reforms would be to raise a
'thorough-paced English lawyer' to the moral level of an average
man.[432] To attack legal abuses was to attack a class combined under
its chiefs, capable of hoodwinking parliament and suppressing open
criticism. The slave-traders whom Wilberforce attacked were
comparatively a powerless excrescence. The legal profession was in the
closest relations to the monarchy, the aristocracy, and the whole
privileged and wealthy class. They were welded into a solid 'ring.' The
king, and his ministers who distributed places and pensions; the
borough-mongers who sold votes for power; the clergy who looked for
bishoprics; the monied men who aspired to rank and power, were all parts
of a league. It was easy enough to talk of law reform. Romilly had
proposed and even carried a 'reformatiuncle' or two;[433] but to achieve
a serious success required not victory in a skirmish or two, not the
exposure of some abuse too palpable to be openly defended even by an
Eldon, but a prolonged war against an organised army fortified and
entrenched in the very heart of the country.

NOTES:

[415] _Works_, iii. 267.

[416] _Ibid._ x. 569

[417] _Autobiography_, p. 116.

[418] The subject is again treated in Book v. on 'Circumstantial
Evidence.'

[419] _Works_, vi. 204.

[420] _Works_, vii. 391.

[421] _Works_, vii. 321-25. Court-martials are hardly a happy example
now.

[422] 'Truth _v._ Ashhurst' (1792), _Works_, v. 235.

[423] _Works_ ('Codification Petition'), v. 442.

[424] _Ibid._ vi. 11.

[425] _Ibid._ v. 92.

[426] _Works_, vii. 204, 331; ix. 143.

[427] _Ibid._ vii. 214.

[428] _Ibid._ v. 349.

[429] _Ibid._ v. 364.

[430] _Works_, v. 371.

[431] _Ibid._ v. 375.

[432] _Ibid._ vii. 188.

[433] _Ibid._ v. 370.


VI. RADICALISM

Thus Bentham, as his eyes were opened, became a Radical. The political
purpose became dominant, although we always see that the legal abuses
are uppermost in his mind; and that what he really seeks is a fulcrum
for the machinery which is to overthrow Lord Eldon. Some of the
pamphlets deal directly with the special instruments of corruption. The
_Elements of the Art of Packing_ shows how the crown managed to have a
permanent body of special 'jurors' at its disposal. The 'grand and
paramount use'[434] of this system was to crush the liberty of the
press. The obscure law of libel, worked by judges in the interest of the
government, enabled them to punish any rash Radical for 'hurting the
feelings' of the ruling classes, and to evade responsibility by help of
a 'covertly pensioned' and servile jury. The pamphlet, though tiresomely
minute and long-winded, contained too much pointed truth to be published
at the time. The _Official Aptitude minimised_ contains a series of
attacks upon the system of patronage and pensions by which the machinery
of government was practically worked. In the _Catechism_ of reformers,
written in 1809, Bentham began the direct application of his theories to
the constitution; and the final and most elaborate exposition of these
forms the _Constitutional Code_, which was the main work of his later
years. This book excited the warmest admiration of Bentham's
disciples.[435] J. S. Mill speaks of its 'extraordinary power ... of at
once seizing comprehensive principles and scheming out minute details,'
and of its 'surpassing intellectual vigour.' Nor, indeed, will any one
be disposed to deny that it is a singular proof of intellectual
activity, when we remember that it was begun when the author was over
seventy, and that he was still working at eighty-four.[436] In this book
Bentham's peculiarities of style reach their highest development, and it
cannot be recommended as light reading. Had Bentham been a mystical
philosopher, he would, we may conjecture, have achieved a masterpiece of
unintelligibility which all his followers would have extolled as
containing the very essence of his teaching. His method condemned him to
be always intelligible, however crabbed and elaborate. Perhaps, however,
the point which strikes one most is the amazing simple-mindedness of the
whole proceeding. Bentham's light-hearted indifference to the
distinction between paper constitutions and operative rules of conduct
becomes almost pathetic.

Bentham was clearly the victim of a common delusion. If a system will
work, the minutest details can be exhibited. Therefore, it is inferred,
an exhibition of minute detail proves that it will work. Unfortunately,
the philosophers of Laputa would have had no more difficulty in filling
up details than the legislators of England or the United States. When
Bentham had settled in his 'Radical Reform Bill'[437] that the
'voting-box' was to be a double cube of cast-iron, with a slit in the
lid, into which cards two inches by one, white on one side and black on
the other, could be inserted, he must have felt that he had got very
near to actual application: he can picture the whole operation and
nobody can say that the scheme is impracticable for want of working
plans of the machinery. There will, doubtless, be no difficulty in
settling the shape of the boxes, when we have once agreed to have the
ballot. But a discussion of such remote details of Utopia is of
incomparably less real interest than the discussion in the _Rationale of
Evidence_ of points, which, however minute, were occurring every day,
and which were really in urgent need of the light of common sense.

Bentham's general principles may be very simply stated. They are, in
fact, such as were suggested by his view of legal grievances. Why, when
he had demonstrated that certain measures would contribute to the
'greatest happiness of the greatest number,' were they not at once
adopted? Because the rulers did not desire the greatest happiness of the
greatest number. This, in Bentham's language, is to say that they were
governed by a 'sinister interest.' Their interest was that of their
class, not that of the nation; they aimed at the greatest happiness of
some, not at the greatest happiness of all. A generalisation of this
remark gives us the first axioms of all government. There are two
primary principles: the 'self-preference' principle, in virtue of which
every man always desires his own greatest happiness'; and the 'greatest
happiness' principle, in virtue of which 'the right and proper end' of
government is the 'greatest happiness of the greatest number.'[438] The
'actual end' of every government, again, is the greatest happiness of
the governors. Hence the whole problem is to produce a coincidence of
the two ends, by securing an identity of interest between governors and
governed. To secure that we have only to identify the two classes or to
put the government in the hands of all.[439] In a monarchy, the ruler
aims at the interest of one--himself; in a 'limited monarchy' the aim is
at the happiness of the king and the small privileged class; in a
democracy, the end is the right one--the greatest happiness of the
greatest number. This is a short cut to all constitutional questions.
Probably it has occurred in substance to most youthful members of
debating societies. Bentham's confidence in his logic lifts him above
any appeal to experience; and he occasionally reminds us of the proof
given in _Martin Chuzzlewit_ that the queen must live in the Tower of
London. The 'monarch,' as he observes,[440] 'is naturally the very
worst--the most maleficent member of the whole community.' Wherever an
aristocracy differs from the democracy, their judgment will be
erroneous.[441] The people will naturally choose 'morally apt agents,'
and men who wish to be chosen will desire truly to become 'morally apt,'
for they can only recommend themselves by showing their desire to serve
the general interest.[442] 'All experience testifies to this theory,'
though the evidence is 'too bulky' to be given. Other proofs, however,
may at once be rendered superfluous by appealing to 'the uninterrupted
and most notorious experience of the United States.'[443] To that happy
country he often appeals indeed[444] as a model government. In it, there
is no corruption, no useless expenditure, none of the evils illustrated
by our 'matchless constitution.'

The constitution deduced from these principles has at least the merit of
simplicity. We are to have universal suffrage, annual parliaments, and
vote by ballot. He inclines to give a vote to women.[445] There is to be
no king, no house of peers, no established church. Members of parliament
are not to be re-eligible, till after an interval. Elaborate rules
provide for their regular attendance and exclusive devotion to their
masters' business. They are to be simply 'deputies,' not
'representatives.' They elect a prime minister who holds office for four
years. Officials are to be appointed by a complex plan of competitive
examination; and they are to be invited to send in tenders for doing the
work at diminished salary. When once in office, every care is taken for
their continual inspection by the public and the verification of their
accounts. They are never for an instant to forget that they are
servants, not the masters, of the public.

Bentham, of course, is especially minute and careful in regard to the
judicial organisation--a subject upon which he wrote much, and much to
the purpose. The functions and fees of advocates are to be narrowly
restricted, and advocates to be provided gratuitously for the poor. They
are not to become judges: to make a barrister a judge is as sensible as
it would be to select a procuress for mistress of a girls' school.[446]
Judges should be everywhere accessible: always on duty, too busy to have
time for corruption, and always under public supervision. One
characteristic device is his quasi-jury. The English system of requiring
unanimity was equivalent to enforcing perjury by torture. Its utility as
a means of resisting tyranny would disappear when tyranny had become
impossible. But public opinion might be usefully represented by a
'quasi-jury' of three or five, who should not pronounce a verdict, but
watch the judge, interrogate, if necessary, and in case of need demand a
rehearing. Judges, of course, were no longer to make law, but to propose
amendments in the 'Pannomion' or universal code, when new cases arose.

His leading principle may be described in one word as 'responsibility,'
or expressed in his leading rule, 'Minimise Confidence.'[447] 'All
government is in itself one vast evil.'[448] It consists in applying
evil to exclude worse evil. Even 'to reward is to punish,'[449] when
reward is given by government. The less government, then, the better;
but as governors are a necessary evil, they must be limited by every
possible device to the sole legitimate aim, and watched at every turn by
the all-seeing eye of public opinion. Every one must admit that this is
an application of a sound principle, and that one condition of good
government is the diffusion of universal responsibility. It must be
admitted, too, that Bentham's theory represents a vigorous embodiment
and unflinching application of doctrines which since his time have
spread and gained more general authority. Mill says that granting one
assumption, the Constitutional Code is 'admirable.'[450] That assumption
is that it is for the good of mankind to be under the absolute authority
of a majority. In other words, it would justify what Mill calls the
'despotism of public opinion.' To protest against that despotism was one
of the main purposes of Mill's political writings. How was it that the
disciple came to be in such direct opposition to his master? That
question cannot be answered till we have considered Mill's own position.
But I have now followed Bentham far enough to consider the more general
characteristics of his doctrine.

I have tried, in the first place, to show what was the course of
Bentham's own development; how his observation of certain legal abuses
led him to attempt the foundation of a science of jurisprudence; how the
difficulty of obtaining a hearing for his arguments led him to discover
the power of 'Judge and Co.'; how he found out that behind 'Judge and
Co.' were George III. and the base Sidmouth, and the whole band of
obstructors entrenched within the 'matchless constitution'; and how thus
his attack upon the abuses of the penal law led him to attack the whole
political framework of the country. I have also tried to show how
Bentham's development coincided with that of the English reformers
generally. They too began with attacking specific abuses. They were for
'reform, not revolution.' The constitution satisfied them in the main:
they boasted of the palladia of their liberties, 'trial by jury' and the
'Habeas Corpus' Act, and held Frenchmen to be frog-eating slaves in
danger of _lettres de cachet_ and the Bastille. English public opinion
in spite of many trammels had a potent influence. Their first impulse,
therefore, was simply to get rid of the trammels--the abuses which had
grown up from want of a thorough application of the ancient principles
in their original purity. The English Whig, even of the more radical
persuasion, was profoundly convinced that the foundations were sound,
however unsatisfactory might be the superstructure. Thus, both Bentham
and the reformers generally started--not from abstract principles, but
from the assault upon particular abuses. This is the characteristic of
the whole English movement, and gives the meaning of their claim to be
'practical.' The Utilitarians were the reformers on the old lines; and
their philosophy meant simply a desire to systematise the ordinary
common sense arguments. The philosophy congenial to this vein is the
philosophy which appeals to experience. Locke had exploded 'innate
ideas.' They denounced 'intuitions,' or beliefs which might override
experience as 'innate ideas' in a new dress; and the attempt to carry
out this view systematically became the distinctive mark of the whole
school. Bentham accepted, though he did little to elaborate, this
doctrine. That task remained for his disciples. But the tendency is
shown by his view of a rival version of Radicalism.

Bentham, as we have seen, regarded the American Declaration of
Independence as so much 'jargon.' He was entirely opposed to the theory
of the 'rights of man,' and therefore to the 'ideas of 1789.' From that
theory the revolutionary party professed to deduce their demands for
universal suffrage, the levelling of all privileges, and the absolute
supremacy of the people. Yet Bentham, repudiating the premises, came to
accept the conclusion. His Constitutional Code scarcely differs from the
ideal of the Jacobins', except in pushing the logic further. The
machinery by which he proposed to secure that the so-called rulers
should become really the servants of the people was more thoroughgoing
and minutely worked out than that of any democratic constitution that
has ever been adopted. How was it that two antagonist theories led to
identical results; and that the 'rights of man,' absurd in philosophy,
represented the ideal state of things in practice?

The general answer may be that political theories are not really based
upon philosophy. The actual method is to take your politics for granted
on the one side and your philosophy for granted on the other, and then
to prove their necessary connection. But it is, at any rate, important
to see what was the nature of the philosophical assumptions implicitly
taken for granted by Bentham.

The 'rights of man' doctrine confounds a primary logical canon with a
statement of fact. Every political theory must be based upon facts as
well as upon logic. Any reasonable theory about politics must no doubt
give a reason for inequality and a reason, too, for equality. The maxim
that all men were, or ought to be, 'equal' asserts correctly that there
must not be arbitrary differences. Every inequality should have its
justification in a reasonable system. But when this undeniable logical
canon is taken to prove that men actually are equal, there is an obvious
begging of the question. In point of fact, the theorists immediately
proceeded to disfranchise half the race on account of sex, and a third
of the remainder on account of infancy. They could only amend the
argument by saying that all men were equal in so far as they possessed
certain attributes. But those attributes could only be determined by
experience, or, as Bentham would have put it, by an appeal to 'utility.'
It is illogical, said the anti-slavery advocate, to treat men
differently on account of the colour of their skins. No doubt it is
illogical if, in fact, the difference of colour does not imply a
difference of the powers which fit a man for the enjoyment of certain
rights. We may at least grant that the burden of proof should be upon
those who would disfranchise all red-haired men. But this is because
experience shows that the difference of colour does not mark a relevant
difference. We cannot say, _a priori_, whether the difference between a
negro and a white man may not be so great as to imply incapacity for
enjoyment of equal rights. The black skin might--for anything a mere
logician can say--indicate the mind of a chimpanzee. The case against
slavery does not rest on the bare fact that negroes and whites both
belong to the class 'man,' but on the fact that the negro has powers and
sensibilities which fit him to hold property, to form marriages, to
learn his letters, and so forth. But that fact is undeniably to be
proved, not from the bare logic, but from observation of the particular
case.

Bentham saw with perfect clearness that sound political theory requires
a basis of solid fact. The main purpose of his whole system was to carry
out that doctrine thoroughly. His view is given vigorously in the
'Anarchical Fallacies'--a minute examination of the French Declaration
of Rights in 1791. His argument is of merciless length, and occasionally
so minute as to sound like quibbling. The pith, however, is clear
enough. 'All men are born and remain free and equal in respect of
rights' are the first words of the Declaration. Nobody is 'born free,'
retorts Bentham. Everybody is born, and long remains, a helpless child.
All men born free! Absurd and miserable nonsense! Why, you are
complaining in the same breath that nearly everybody is a slave.[451] To
meet this objection, the words might be amended by substituting 'ought
to be' for 'is.' This, however, on Bentham's showing, at once introduces
the conception of utility, and therefore leads to empirical
considerations. The proposition, when laid down as a logical necessity,
claims to be absolute. Therefore it implies that all authority is bad;
the authority, for example, of parent over child, or of husband over
wife; and moreover, that all laws to the contrary are _ipso facto_ void.
That is why it is 'anarchical.' It supposes a 'natural right,' not only
as suggesting reasons for proposed alterations of the legal right, but
as actually annihilating the right and therefore destroying all
government. '_Natural rights_,' says Bentham,[452] is simple nonsense;
natural and imprescriptible rights 'rhetorical nonsense--nonsense upon
stilts.' For 'natural right' substitute utility, and you have, of
course, a reasonable principle, because an appeal to experience. But lay
down 'liberty' as an absolute right and you annihilate law, for every
law supposes coercion. One man gets liberty simply by restricting the
liberty of others.[453] What Bentham substantially says, therefore, is
that on this version absolute rights of individuals could mean nothing
but anarchy; or that no law can be defended except by a reference to
facts, and therefore to 'utility.'

One answer might be that the demand is not for absolute liberty, but for
as much liberty as is compatible with equal liberty for all. The fourth
article of the Declaration says: 'Liberty consists in being able to do
that which is not hurtful to another, and therefore the exercise of the
natural rights of each man has no other bounds than those which ensure
to the other members of the society the enjoyment of the same rights.'
This formula corresponds to a theory held by Mr. Herbert Spencer; and,
as he observes,[454] held on different grounds by Kant. Bentham's view,
indicated by his criticism of this article in the 'Anarchical
Fallacies,' is therefore worth a moment's notice. The formula does not
demand the absolute freedom which would condemn all coercion and all
government; but it still seems to suggest that liberty, not utility, is
the ultimate end. Bentham's formula, therefore, diverges. All
government, he holds, is an evil, because coercion implies pain. We must
therefore minimise, though we cannot annihilate, government; but we must
keep to utility as the sole test. Government should, of course, give to
the individual all such rights as are 'useful'; but it does not follow,
without a reference to utility, that men should not be restrained even
in 'self-regarding' conduct. Some men, women, and children require to be
protected against the consequences of their own 'weakness, ignorance, or
imprudence.'[455] Bentham adheres, that is, to the strictly empirical
ground. The absolute doctrine requires to be qualified by a reference to
actual circumstances: and, among those circumstances, as Bentham
intimates, we must include the capacity of the persons concerned to
govern themselves. Carried out as an absolute principle, it would imply
the independence of infants; and must therefore require some reference
to 'utility.'

Bentham, then, objects to the Jacobin theory as too absolute and too
'individualist.' The doctrine begs the question; it takes for granted
what can only be proved by experience; and therefore lays down as
absolute theories which are only true under certain conditions or with
reference to the special circumstances to which they are applied. That
is inconsistent with Bentham's thoroughgoing empiricism. But he had
antagonists to meet upon the other side: and, in meeting them, he was
led to a doctrine which has been generally condemned for the very same
faults--as absolute and individualist. We have only to ask in what sense
Bentham appealed to 'experience' to see how he actually reached his
conclusions. The adherents of the old tradition appealed to experience
in their own way. The English people, they said, is the freest, richest,
happiest in the world; it has grown up under the British Constitution:
therefore the British Constitution is the best in the world, as Burke
tells you, and the British common law, as Blackstone tells you, is the
'perfection of wisdom.' Bentham's reply was virtually that although he,
like Burke, appealed to experience, he appealed to experience
scientifically organised, whereas Burke appealed to mere blind
tradition. Bentham is to be the founder of a new science, founded like
chemistry on experiment, and his methods are to be as superior to those
of Burke as those of modern chemists to those of the alchemists who also
invoked experience. The true plan was not to throw experience aside
because it was alleged by the ignorant and the prejudiced, but to
interrogate experience systematically, and so to become the Bacon or the
Newton of legislation, instead of wandering off into the _a priori_
constructions of a Descartes or a Leibniz.

Bentham thus professes to use an 'inductive' instead of the deductive
method of the Jacobins; but reaches the same practical conclusions from
the other end. The process is instructive. He objected to the existing
inequalities, not as inequalities simply, but as mischievous
inequalities. He, as well as the Jacobins, would admit that inequality
required justification; and he agreed with them that, in this case,
there was no justification. The existing privileges did not promote the
'greatest happiness of the greatest number.' The attack upon the
'Anarchical Fallacies' must be taken with the _Book of Fallacies_, and
the _Book of Fallacies_ is a sustained and vigorous, though a curiously
cumbrous, assault upon the Conservative arguments. Its pith may be found
in Sydney Smith's _Noodle's Oration_; but it is itself well worth
reading by any one who can recognise really admirable dialectical power,
and forgive a little crabbedness of style in consideration of genuine
intellectual vigour. I only notice Bentham's assault upon the 'wisdom of
our ancestors.' After pointing out how much better we are entitled to
judge now that we have got rid of so many superstitions, and have
learned to read and write, he replies to the question, 'Would you have
us speak and act as if we never had any ancestors?' 'By no means,' he
replies; 'though their opinions were of little value, their practice is
worth attending to; but chiefly because it shows the bad consequences of
their opinions.' 'From foolish opinion comes foolish conduct; from
foolish conduct the severest disaster; and from the severest disaster
the most useful warning. It is from the folly, not from the wisdom, of
our ancestors that we have so much to learn.'[456] Bentham has become an
'ancestor,' and may teach us by his errors. Pointed and vigorous as is
his exposure of many of the sophistries by which Conservatives defended
gross abuses and twisted the existence of any institution into an
argument for its value, we get some measure from this of Bentham's view
of history. In attacking an abuse, he says, we have a right to inquire
into the utility of any and every arrangement. The purpose of a court of
justice is to decide litigation; it has to ascertain facts and apply
rules: does it then ascertain facts by the methods most conducive to the
discovery of truth? Are the rules needlessly complex, ambiguous,
calculated to give a chance to knaves, or to the longest purse? If so,
undoubtedly they are mischievous. Bentham had done inestimable service
in stripping away all the disguises and technical phrases which had
evaded the plain issue, and therefore made of the laws an unintelligible
labyrinth. He proceeded to treat in the same way of government
generally. Does it work efficiently for its professed ends? Is it worked
in the interests of the nation, or of a special class, whose interests
conflict with those of the nation? He treated, that is, of government as
a man of business might investigate a commercial undertaking. If he
found that clerks were lazy, ignorant, making money for themselves, or
bullying and cheating the customers, he would condemn the management.
Bentham found the 'matchless constitution' precisely in this state. He
condemned political institutions worked for the benefit of a class, and
leading, especially in legal matters, to endless abuses and chicanery.
The abuses everywhere imply 'inequality' in some sense; for they arise
from monopoly. The man who holds a sinecure, or enjoys a privilege, uses
it for his own private interest. The 'matter of corruption,' as Bentham
called it, was provided by the privilege and the sinecure. The Jacobin
might denounce privileges simply as privileges, and Bentham denounce
them because they were used by the privileged class for corrupt
purposes. So far, Bentham and the Jacobins were quite at one. It
mattered little to the result which argument they preferred to use, and
without doubt they had a very strong case, and did in fact express a
demand for justice and for a redress of palpable evils. The difference
seems to be that in one case the appeal is made in the name of justice
and equality; in the other case, in the name of benevolence and utility.

The important point here, however, is to understand Bentham's implicit
assumptions. J. S. Mill, in criticising his master, points out very
forcibly the defects arising from Bentham's attitude to history. He
simply continued, as Mill thinks, the hostility with which the critical
or destructive school of the eighteenth century regarded their
ancestors. To the revolutionary party history was a record of crimes and
follies and of little else. The question will meet us again; and here it
is enough to ask what is the reason of his tacit implication of
Bentham's position. Bentham's whole aim, as I have tried to show, was to
be described as the construction of a science of legislation. The
science, again, was to be purely empirical. It was to rest throughout
upon the observation of facts. That aim--an admirable aim--runs through
his whole work and that of his successors. I have noticed, indeed, how
easily Bentham took for granted that his makeshift classification of
common motives amounted to a scientific psychology. A similar assumption
that a rough sketch of a science is the same thing as its definite
constitution is characteristic of the Utilitarians in general. A
scientific spirit is most desirable; but the Utilitarians took a very
short cut to scientific certainty. Though appealing to experience, they
reach formulæ as absolute as any 'intuitionist' could desire. What is
the logical process implied? To constitute an empirical science is to
show that the difference between different phenomena is due simply to
'circumstances.' The explanation of the facts becomes sufficient when
the 'law' can be stated, as that of a unit of constant properties placed
in varying positions. This corresponds to the procedure in the physical
sciences, where the ultimate aim is to represent all laws as
corresponding to the changes of position of uniform atoms. In social and
political changes the goal is the same. J. S. Mill states in the end of
his _Autobiography_[457] that one main purpose of his writing was to
show that 'differences between individuals, races, or sexes' are due to
'differences in circumstances.' In fact, this is an aim so
characteristic from the beginning of the whole school, that it may be
put down almost as a primary postulate. It was not, indeed, definitely
formulated; but to 'explain' a social theorem was taken to be the same
thing as to show how differences of character or conduct could be
explained by 'circumstance'--meaning by 'circumstance' something not
given in the agent himself. We have, however, no more right as good
empiricists to assert than to deny that all difference comes from
'circumstance.' If we take 'man' as a constant quantity in our
speculations, it requires at least a great many precautions before we
can assume that our abstract entity corresponds to a real concrete unit.
Otherwise we have a short cut to a doctrine of 'equality.' The theory of
'the rights of man' lays down the formula, and assumes that the facts
will correspond. The Utilitarian assumes the equality of fact, and of
course brings out an equally absolute formula. 'Equality,' in some
sense, is introduced by a side wind, though not explicitly laid down as
an axiom.[458] This underlying tendency may partly explain the
coincidence of results--though it would require a good many
qualifications in detail; but here I need only take Bentham's more or
less unconscious application.

Bentham's tacit assumption, in fact, is that there is an average 'man.'
Different specimens of the race, indeed, may vary widely according to
age, sex, and so forth; but, for purposes of legislation, he may serve
as a unit. We can assume that he has on the average certain qualities
from which his actions in the mass can be determined with sufficient
accuracy, and we are tempted to assume that they are mainly the
qualities obvious to an inhabitant of Queen's Square Place about the
year 1800. Mill defends Bentham against the charge that he assumed his
codes to be good for all men everywhere. To that, says Mill,[459] the
essay upon the 'Influence of Time and Place in Matters of Legislation'
is a complete answer. Yet Mill[460] admits in the same breath that
Bentham omitted all reference to 'national character.' In fact, as we
have seen, Bentham was ready to legislate for Hindoostan as well as for
his own parish; and to make codes not only for England, Spain, and
Russia, but for Morocco. The Essay mentioned really explains the point.
Bentham not only admitted but asserted as energetically as became an
empiricist, that we must allow for 'circumstances'; and circumstances
include not only climate and so forth, but the varying beliefs and
customs of the people under consideration. The real assumption is that
all such circumstances are superficial, and can be controlled and
altered indefinitely by the 'legislator.' The Moor, the Hindoo, and the
Englishman are all radically identical; and the differences which must
be taken into account for the moment can be removed by judicious means.
Without pausing to illustrate this from the Essay, I may remark that for
many purposes such an assumption is justifiable and guides ordinary
common sense. If we ask what would be the best constitution for a
commercial company, or the best platform for a political party, we can
form a fair guess by arguing from the average of Bentham and his
contemporaries--especially if we are shrewd attornies or political
wirepullers. Only we are not therefore in a position to talk about the
'science of human nature' or to deal with problems of 'sociology.' This,
however, gives Bentham's 'individualism' in a sense of the phrase
already explained. He starts from the 'ready-made man,' and deduces all
institutions or legal arrangements from his properties. I have tried to
show how naturally this view fell in with the ordinary political
conceptions of the time. It shows, again, why Bentham disregards
history. When we have such a science, empirical or _a priori_, history
is at most of secondary importance. We can deduce all our maxims of
conduct from the man himself as he is before us. History only shows how
terribly he blundered in the pre-scientific period. The blunders may
give us a hint here and there. Man was essentially the same in the first
and the eighteenth century, and the differences are due to the clumsy
devices which he made by rule of thumb. We do not want to refer to them
now, except as illustrations of errors. We may remark how difficult it
was to count before the present notation was invented; but when it has
once been invented, we may learn to use it without troubling our heads
about our ancestors' clumsy contrivances for doing without it. This
leads to the real shortcoming. There is a point at which the historical
view becomes important--the point, namely, where it is essential to
remember that man is not a ready-made article, but the product of a long
and still continuing 'evolution.' Bentham's attack (in the _Fragment_)
upon the 'social contract' is significant. He was, no doubt, perfectly
right in saying that an imaginary contract could add no force to the
ultimate grounds for the social union. Nobody would now accept the
fiction in that stage. And yet the 'social contract' may be taken to
recognise a fact; namely, that the underlying instincts upon which
society alternately rests correspond to an order of reasons from those
which determine more superficial relations. Society is undoubtedly
useful, and its utility may be regarded as its ground. But the utility
of society means much more than the utility of a railway company or a
club, which postulates as existing a whole series of already established
institutions. To Bentham an 'utility' appeared to be a kind of permanent
and ultimate entity which is the same at all periods--it corresponds to
a psychological currency of constant value. To show, therefore, that the
social contract recognises 'utility' is to show that the whole organism
is constructed just as any particular part is constructed. Man comes
first and 'society' afterwards. I have already noticed how this applies
to his statements about the utility of a law; how his argument assumes
an already constituted society, and seems to overlook the difference
between the organic law upon which all order essentially depends, and
some particular modification or corollary which may be superinduced. We
now have to notice the political version of the same method. The 'law,'
according to Bentham, is a rule enforced by a 'sanction.' The imposer of
the rule in the phrase which Hobbes had made famous is the 'sovereign.'
Hobbes was a favourite author, indeed, of the later Utilitarians, though
Bentham does not appear to have studied him. The relation is one of
natural affinity. When in the _Constitutional Code_ Bentham transfers
the 'sovereignty' from the king to the 'people,'[461] he shows the
exact difference between his doctrine and that of the _Leviathan_. Both
thinkers are absolutists in principle, though Hobbes gives to a monarch
the power which Bentham gives to a democracy. The attributes remain
though their subject is altered. The 'sovereign,' in fact, is the
keystone of the whole Utilitarian system. He represents the ultimate
source of all authority, and supplies the motive for all obedience. As
Hobbes put it, he is a kind of mortal God.

Mill's criticism of Bentham suggests the consequences. There are, he
says,[462] three great questions: What government is for the good of the
people? How are they to be induced to obey it? How is it to be made
responsible? The third question, he says, is the only one seriously
considered by Bentham; and Bentham's answer, we have seen, leads to that
'tyranny of the majority' which was Mill's great stumbling-block. Why,
then, does Bentham omit the other questions? or rather, how would he
answer them? for he certainly assumes an answer. People, in the first
place, are 'induced to obey' by the sanctions. They don't rob that they
may not go to prison. That is a sufficient answer at a given moment. It
assumes, indeed, that the law will be obeyed. The policeman, the gaoler,
and the judge will do what the sovereign--whether despot or
legislature--orders them to do. The jurist may naturally take this for
granted. He does not go 'behind the law.' That is the law which the
sovereign has declared to be the law. In that sense, the sovereign is
omnipotent. He can, as a fact, threaten evildoers with the gallows; and
the jurist simply takes the fact for granted, and assumes that the
coercion is an ultimate fact. No doubt it is ultimate for the individual
subject. The immediate restraint is the policeman, and we need not ask
upon what does the policeman depend. If, however, we persist in asking,
we come to the historical problems which Bentham simply omits. The law
itself, in fact, ultimately rests upon 'custom,'--upon the whole system
of instincts, beliefs, and passions which induce people to obey
government, and are, so to speak, the substance out of which loyalty and
respect for the law is framed. These, again, are the product of an
indefinitely long elaboration, which Bentham takes for granted. He
assumes as perfectly natural and obvious that a number of men should
meet, as the Americans or Frenchmen met, and create a constitution. That
the possibility of such a proceeding involves centuries of previous
training does not occur to him. It is assumed that the constitution can
be made out of hand, and this assumption is of the highest importance,
not only historically, but for immediate practice. Mill assumes too
easily that Bentham has secured responsibility. Bentham assumes that an
institution will work as it is intended to work--perhaps the commonest
error of constitution-mongers. If the people use the instruments which
he provides, they have a legal method for enforcing obedience. To infer
that they will do so is to infer that all the organic instincts will
operate precisely as he intends; that each individual, for example, will
form an independent opinion upon legislative questions, vote for men who
will apply his opinions, and see that his representatives perform his
bidding honestly. That they should do so is essential to his scheme; but
that they will do so is what he takes for granted. He assumes, that is,
that there is no need for inquiring into the social instincts which lie
beneath all political action. You can make your machine and assume the
moving force. That is the natural result of considering political and
legislative problems without taking into account the whole character of
the human materials employed in the construction. Bentham's sovereign is
thus absolute. He rules by coercion, as a foreign power may rule by the
sword in a conquered province. Thus, force is the essence of government,
and it is needless to go further. To secure the right application of the
force, we have simply to distribute it among the subjects. Government
still means coercion, and ultimately nothing else; but then, as the
subjects are simply moved by their own interests, that is, by utility,
they will apply the power to secure those interests. Therefore, all that
is wanted is this distribution, and Mill's first problem, What
government is for the good of the people? is summarily answered. The
question, how obedience is to be secured, is evaded by confining the
answer to the 'sanctions,' and taking for granted that the process of
distributing power is perfectly simple, or that a new order can be
introduced as easily as parliament can pass an act for establishing a
new police in London. The 'social contract' is abolished; but it is
taken for granted that the whole power of the sovereign can be
distributed, and rules made for its application by the common sense of
the various persons interested. Finally, the one bond outside of the
individual is the sovereign. He represents all that holds society
together; his 'sanctions,' as I have said, are taken to be on the same
plane with the 'moral sanctions'--not dependent upon them, but other
modes of applying similar motives. As the sovereign, again, is in a
sense omnipotent, and yet can be manufactured, so to speak, by voluntary
arrangements among the individual members of society, there is no limit
to the influence which he may exercise. I note, indeed, that I am
speaking rather of the tendencies of the theory than of definitely
formulated conclusions. Most of the Utilitarians were exceedingly
shrewd, practical people, whose regard for hard facts imposed limits
upon their speculations. They should have been the last people to
believe too implicitly in the magical efficacy of political
contrivances, for they were fully aware that many men are knaves and
most men fools. They probably put little faith in Bentham's Utopia,
except as a remote ideal, and an ideal of unimaginative minds. The
Utopia was constructed on 'individualist' principles, because common
sense naturally approves individualism. The whole social and political
order is clearly the sum of the individuals, who combine to form an
aggregate; and theories about social bonds take one to the mystical and
sentimental. The absolute tendency is common to Bentham and the
Jacobins. Whether the individual be taken as a unit of constant
properties, or as the subject of absolute rights, we reach equally
absolute conclusions. When all the social and political regulations are
regarded as indefinitely modifiable, the ultimate laws come to depend
upon the absolute framework of unalterable fact. This, again, is often
the right point of view for immediate questions in which we may take for
granted that the average individual is in fact constant; and, as I have
said in regard to Bentham's legislative process, leads to very relevant
and important, though not ultimate, questions. But there are certain
other results which require to be noticed. 'Individualism,' like other
words that have become watchwords of controversy, has various shades of
meaning, and requires a little more definition.

NOTES:

[434] _Works_, v. 97, etc.

[435] See preface to _Constitutional Code_ in vol. ix.

[436] Bentham's nephew, George, who died when approaching his
eighty-fourth birthday, devoted the last twenty-five years of his life
with equal assiduity to his _Genera Plantarum_. See a curious anecdote
of his persistence in the _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[437] _Works_, iii. 573.

[438] _Works_, ix. 5, 8.

[439] The theory, as Mill reminds us, had been very pointedly
anticipated by Helvétius. Bentham's practical experience, however, had
forced it upon his attention.

[440] _Works_, ix. 141. The general principle, however, is confirmed by
the case of George III.

[441] _Ibid._ ix. 45.

[442] _Ibid._ ix. 98.

[443] _Works_, ix. 98.

[444] e.g. _Ibid._ ix. 38, 50, 63, 99, etc.

[445] _Ibid._ ('Plan of Parliamentary Reform,') iii. 463.

[446] _Works_, ix. 594.

[447] _Ibid._ ix. 62.

[448] _Ibid._ ix. 24.

[449] _Ibid._ ix. 48.

[450] _Dissertations_, i. 377.

[451] _Works_, ii. 497.

[452] _Ibid._ ii. 501.

[453] _Ibid._ ii. 503.

[454] _Justice_, p. 264; so Price, in his _Observations on Liberty_,
lays it down that government is never to entrench upon private liberty,
'except so far as private liberty entrenches on the liberty of others.'

[455] _Works_, ii. 506.

[456] _Works_, ii. 401.

[457] _Autobiography_, p. 274.

[458] Hobbes, in the _Leviathan_ (chap. xiii.), has in the same way to
argue for the _de facto_ equality of men.

[459] _Dissertations_, i. 375.

[460] I remark by anticipation that this expression implies a reference
to Mill's _Ethology_, of which I shall have to speak.

[461] _Works_, ix. 96, 113.

[462] _Dissertations_, i. 376.


VII. INDIVIDUALISM

'Individualism' in the first place is generally mentioned in a different
connection. The 'ready-made' man of whom I have spoken becomes the
'economic man.' Bentham himself contributed little to economic theory.
His most important writing was the _Defence of Usury_, and in this, as
we have seen, he was simply adding a corollary to the _Wealth of
Nations_. The _Wealth of Nations_ itself represented the spirit of
business; the revolt of men who were building up a vast industrial
system against the fetters imposed by traditional legislation and by
rulers who regarded industry in general, as Telford is said to have
regarded rivers. Rivers were meant to supply canals, and trade to supply
tax-gatherers. With this revolt, of course, Bentham was in full
sympathy, but here I shall only speak of one doctrine of great interest,
which occurs both in his political treatises and his few economical
remarks. Bentham objected, as we have seen, to the abstract theory of
equality; yet it was to the mode of deduction rather than to the
doctrine itself which he objected. He gave, in fact, his own defence;
and it is one worth notice.[463] The principle of equality is
derivative, not ultimate. Equality is good because equality increases
the sum of happiness. Thus, as he says,[464] if two men have £1000, and
you transfer £500 from one to the other, you increase the recipient's
wealth by one-third, and diminish the loser's wealth by one-half. You
therefore add less pleasure than you subtract. The principle is given
less mathematically[465] by the more significant argument that
'felicity' depends not simply on the 'matter of felicity' or the
stimulus, but also on the sensibility to felicity which is necessarily
limited. Therefore by adding wealth--taking, for example, from a
thousand labourers to give to one king--you are supersaturating a
sensibility already glutted by taking away from others a great amount of
real happiness. With this argument, which has of late years become
conspicuous in economics, he connects another of primary importance. The
first condition of happiness, he says, is not 'equality' but 'security.'
Now you can only equalise at the expense of security. If I am to have my
property taken away whenever it is greater than my neighbour's, I can
have no security.[466] Hence, if the two principles conflict, equality
should give way. Security is the primary, which must override the
secondary, aim. Must the two principles, then, always conflict? No; but
'time is the only mediator.'[467] The law may help to accumulate
inequalities; but in a prosperous state there is a 'continual progress
towards equality.' The law has to stand aside; not to maintain
monopolies; not to restrain trade; not to permit entails; and then
property will diffuse itself by a natural process, already exemplified
in the growth of Europe. The 'pyramids' heaped up in feudal times have
been lowered, and their '_débris_ spread abroad' among the industrious.
Here again we see how Bentham virtually diverges from the _a priori_
school. Their absolute tendencies would introduce 'equality' by force;
he would leave it to the spontaneous progress of security. Hence Bentham
is in the main an adherent of what he calls[468] the '_laissez-nous
faire_' principle. He advocates it most explicitly in the so-called
_Manual of Political Economy_--a short essay first printed in 1798.[469]
The tract, however, such as it is, is less upon political economy proper
than upon economic legislation; and its chief conclusion is that almost
all legislation is improper. His main principle is 'Be quiet' (the
equivalent of the French phrase, which surely should have been excluded
from so English a theory). Security and freedom are all that industry
requires; and industry should say to government only what Diogenes said
to Alexander, 'Stand out of my sunshine.'[470]

Once more, however, Bentham will not lay down the 'let alone' principle
absolutely. His adherence to the empirical method is too decided. The
doctrine 'be quiet,' though generally true, rests upon utility, and may,
therefore, always be qualified by proving that in a particular case the
balance of utility is the other way. In fact, some of Bentham's
favourite projects would be condemned by an absolute adherent of the
doctrine. The Panopticon, for example, though a 'mill to grind rogues
honest' could be applied to others than rogues, and Bentham hoped to
make his machinery equally effective in the case of pauperism. A system
of national education is also included in his ideal constitution. It is,
in fact, important to remember that the 'individualism' of Benthamism
does not necessarily coincide with an absolute restriction of government
interference. The general tendency was in that direction; and in purely
economical questions, scarcely any exception was admitted to the rule.
Men are the best judges, it was said, of their own interest; and the
interference of rulers in a commercial transaction is the interference
of people inferior in knowledge of the facts, and whose interests are
'sinister' or inconsistent with those of the persons really concerned.
Utility, therefore, will, as a rule, forbid the action of government:
but, as utility is always the ultimate principle, and there may be cases
in which it does not coincide with the 'let alone' principle, we must
always admit the possibility that in special cases government can
interfere usefully, and, in that case, approve the interference.

Hence we have the ethical application of these theories. The
individualist position naturally tends to take the form of egoism. The
moral sentiments, whatever they may be, are clearly an intrinsic part of
the organic social instincts. They are intimately involved in the whole
process of social evolution. But this view corresponds precisely to the
conditions which Bentham overlooks. The individual is already there. The
moral and the legal sanctions are 'external'; something imposed by the
action of others; corresponding to 'coercion,' whether by physical force
or the dread of public opinion; and, in any case, an accretion or
addition, not a profound modification of his whole nature. The
Utilitarian 'man' therefore inclines to consider other people as merely
parts of the necessary machinery. Their feelings are relevant only as
influencing their outward conduct. If a man gives me a certain 'lot' of
pain or pleasure, it does not matter what may be his motives. The
'motive' for all conduct corresponds in all cases to the pain or
pleasure accruing to the agent. It is true that his happiness will be
more or less affected by his relations to others. But as conduct is
ruled by a calculation of the balance of pains or pleasures dependent
upon any course of action, it simplifies matters materially, if each man
regards his neighbour's feelings simply as instrumental, not
intrinsically interesting. And thus the coincidence between that conduct
which maximises my happiness and that conduct which maximises happiness
in general, must be regarded as more or less accidental or liable in
special cases to disappear. If I am made happier by action which makes
others miserable, the rule of utility will lead to my preference of
myself.

Here we have the question whether the Utilitarian system be essentially
a selfish system. Bentham, with his vague psychology, does not lay down
the doctrine absolutely. After giving this list of self-regarding
'springs of action,' he proceeds to add the pleasures and pains of
'sympathy' and 'antipathy' which, he says, are not self-regarding.
Moreover, as we have seen, he has some difficulty in denying that
'benevolence' is a necessarily moral motive: it is only capable of
prompting to bad conduct in so far as it is insufficiently enlightened;
and it is clear that a moralist who makes the 'greatest happiness of the
greatest number' his universal test, has some reason for admitting as an
elementary pleasure the desire for the greatest happiness. This comes
out curiously in the _Constitutional Code_. He there lays down the
'self-preference principle'--the principle, namely, that 'every human
being' is determined in every action by his judgment of what will
produce the greatest happiness to himself, 'whatsoever be the effect ...
in relation to the happiness of other similar beings, any or all of them
taken together.'[471] Afterwards, however, he observes that it is 'the
constant and arduous task of every moralist' and of every legislator who
deserves the name to 'increase the influence of sympathy at the expense
of that of self-regard and of sympathy for the greater number at the
expense of sympathy for the lesser number.'[472] He tries to reconcile
these views by the remark 'that even sympathy has its root in
self-regard,' and he argues, as Mr. Herbert Spencer has done more fully,
that if Adam cared only for Eve and Eve only for Adam--neither caring at
all for himself or herself--both would perish in less than a year.
Self-regard, that is, is essential, and sympathy supposes its existence.
Hence Bentham puts himself through a catechism.[473] What is the 'best'
government? That which causes the greatest happiness of the given
community. What community? 'Any community, which is as much as to say,
every community.' But _why_ do you desire this happiness? Because the
establishment of that happiness would contribute to _my_ greatest
happiness. And _how_ do you prove that you desire this result? By my
labours to obtain it, replies Bentham. This oddly omits the more obvious
question, how can you be sure that your happiness will be promoted by
the greatest happiness of all? What if the two criteria differ? I desire
the general happiness, he might have replied, because my benevolence is
an original or elementary instinct which can override my self-love; or
I desire it, he would perhaps have said, because I know as a fact that
the happiness of others will incidentally contribute to my own. The
first answer would fall in with some of his statements; but the second
is, as I think must be admitted, more in harmony with his system.
Perhaps, indeed, the most characteristic thing is Bentham's failure to
discuss explicitly the question whether human action is or is not
necessarily 'selfish.' He tells us in regard to the 'springs of action'
that all human action is always 'interested,' but explains that
the word properly includes actions in which the motive is not
'self-regarding.'[474] It merely means, in fact, that all conduct has
motives. The statement, which I have quoted about the 'self-preference'
principle may only mean a doctrine which is perfectly compatible with a
belief in 'altruism'--the doctrine, namely, that as a fact most people
are chiefly interested by their own affairs. The legislator, he tells
us, should try to increase sympathy, but the less he takes sympathy for
the 'basis of his arrangements'--that is, the less call he makes upon
purely unselfish motives--the greater will be his success.[475] This is
a shrewd and, I should say, a very sound remark, but it implies--not
that all motives are selfish in the last analysis, but--that the
legislation should not assume too exalted a level of ordinary morality.
The utterances in the very unsatisfactory _Deontology_ are of little
value, and seem to imply a moral sentiment corresponding to a petty form
of commonplace prudence.[476]

Leaving this point, however, the problem necessarily presented itself
to Bentham in a form in which selfishness is the predominating force,
and any recognition of independent benevolence rather an incumbrance
than a help. If we take the 'self-preference principle' absolutely, the
question becomes how a multitude of individuals, each separately
pursuing his own happiness, can so arrange matters that their joint
action may secure the happiness of all. Clearly a man, however selfish,
has an interest generally in putting down theft and murder. He is
already provided with a number of interests to which security, at least,
and therefore a regular administration of justice, is essential. His
shop could not be carried on without the police; and he may agree to pay
the expenses, even if others reap the benefit in greater proportion. A
theory of legislation, therefore, which supposes ready formed all the
instincts which make a decent commercial society possible can do without
much reference to sympathy or altruism. Bentham's man is not the
colourless unit of _a priori_ writing, nor the noble savage of Rousseau,
but the respectable citizen with a policeman round the corner. Such a
man may well hold that honesty is the best policy; he has enough
sympathy to be kind to his old mother, and help a friend in distress;
but the need of romantic and elevated conduct rarely occurs to him; and
the heroic, if he meets it, appears to him as an exception, not far
removed from the silly. He does not reflect--especially if he cares
nothing for history--how even the society in which he is a contented
unit has been built up, and how much loyalty and heroism has been needed
for the work; nor even, to do him justice, what unsuspected capacities
may lurk in his own commonplace character. The really characteristic
point is, however, that Bentham does not clearly face the problem. He is
content to take for granted as an ultimate fact that the self-interest
principle in the long run coincides with the greatest 'happiness'
principle, and leaves the problem to his successors. There we shall meet
it again.

Finally, Bentham's view of religion requires a word. The short reply,
however, would be sufficient, that he did not believe in any theology,
and was in the main indifferent to the whole question till it
encountered him in political matters. His first interest apparently was
roused by the educational questions which I have noticed, and the
proposal to teach the catechism. Bentham, remembering the early bullying
at Oxford, examines the catechism; and argues in his usual style that to
enforce it is to compel children to tell lies. But this leads him to
assail the church generally; and he regards the church simply as a part
of the huge corrupt machinery which elsewhere had created Judge and Co.
He states many facts about non-residence and bloated bishoprics which
had a very serious importance; and he then asks how the work might be
done more cheaply. As a clergyman's only duty is to read weekly services
and preach sermons, he suggests (whether seriously may be doubted) that
this might be done as well by teaching a parish boy to read properly,
and provide him with the prayer-book and the homilies.[477] A great deal
of expense would be saved. This, again, seems to have led him to attack
St. Paul, whom he took to be responsible for dogmatic theology, and
therefore for the catechism; and he cross-examines the apostle, and
confronts his various accounts of the conversion with a keenness worthy
of a professional lawyer. In one of the MSS. at University College the
same method is applied to the gospels. Bentham was clearly not capable
of anticipating Renan. From these studies he was led to the far more
interesting book, published under the name of _Philip Beauchamp_.
Bentham supplied the argument in part; but to me it seems clear that it
owes so much to the editor, Grote, that it may more fitly be discussed
hereafter.

The limitations and defects of Bentham's doctrine have been made
abundantly evident by later criticism. They were due partly to his
personal character, and partly to the intellectual and special
atmosphere in which he was brought up. But it is more important to
recognise the immense real value of his doctrine. Briefly, I should say,
that there is hardly an argument in Bentham's voluminous writings which
is not to the purpose so far as it goes. Given his point of view, he is
invariably cogent and relevant. And, moreover, that is a point of view
which has to be taken. No ethical or political doctrine can, as I hold,
be satisfactory which does not find a place for Bentham, though he was
far, indeed, from giving a complete theory of his subject. And the main
reason of this is that which I have already indicated. Bentham's whole
life was spent in the attempt to create a science of legislation. Even
where he is most tiresome, there is a certain interest in his unflagging
working out of every argument, and its application to all conceivable
cases. It is all genuine reasoning; and throughout it is dominated by a
respect for good solid facts. His hatred of 'vague generalities'[478]
means that he will be content with no formula which cannot be
interpreted in terms of definite facts. The resolution to insist upon
this should really be characteristic of every writer upon similar
subjects, and no one ever surpassed Bentham in attention to it. Classify
and re-classify, to make sure that at every point your classes
correspond to realities. In the effort to carry out these principles,
Bentham at least brought innumerable questions to a sound test, and
exploded many pestilent fallacies. If he did not succeed further, if
whole spheres of thought remained outside of his vision, it was because
in his day there was not only no science of 'sociology' or
psychology--there are no such sciences now--but no adequate perception
of the vast variety of investigation which would be necessary to lay a
basis for them. But the effort to frame a science is itself valuable,
indeed of surpassing value, so far as it is combined with a genuine
respect for facts. It is common enough to attempt to create a science by
inventing technical terminology. Bentham tried the far wider and far
more fruitful method of a minute investigation of particular facts. His
work, therefore, will stand, however different some of the results may
appear when fitted into a different framework. And, therefore, however
crudely and imperfectly, Bentham did, as I believe, help to turn
speculation into a true and profitable channel. Of that, more will
appear hereafter; but, if any one doubts Bentham's services, I will only
suggest to him to compare Bentham with any of his British
contemporaries, and to ask where he can find anything at all comparable
to his resolute attempt to bring light and order into a chaotic infusion
of compromise and prejudice.

NOTES:

[463] _Works_, 'Civil Code' (from Dumont), i. 302, 305; _Ibid._
('Principles of Constitutional Code') ii. 271; _Ibid._ ('Constitutional
Code') ix. 15-18.

[464] _Works_, i. 306 _n._

[465] _Ibid._ ix. 15.

[466] _Ibid._ ('Principles of Penal Code') i. 311.

[467] _Ibid._ i. 312.

[468] _Works_, x. 440.

[469] _Ibid._ iii. 33, etc.

[470] _Ibid._ iii. 35.

[471] _Works_, ix. 5.

[472] _Ibid._ ix. 192.

[473] _Ibid._ ix. 7.

[474] _Works_, i. 212.

[475] _Ibid._ ix. 192.

[476] See, _e.g._, i. 83, where sympathy seems to be taken as an
ultimate pleasure; and ii. 133, where he says 'dream not that men will
move their little finger to serve you unless their advantage in so doing
be obvious to them.' See also the apologue of 'Walter Wise,' who becomes
Lord Mayor, and 'Timothy Thoughtless,' who ends at Botany Bay (i. 118),
giving the lowest kind of prudential morality. The manuscript of the
_Deontology_, now in University College, London, seems to prove that
Bentham was substantially the author, though the Mills seem to have
suspected Bowring of adulterating the true doctrine. He appears to have
been an honest if not very intelligent editor; though the rewriting,
necessary in all Bentham's works, was damaging in this case; and he is
probably responsible for some rhetorical amplification, especially in
the later part.

[477] _Church of Englandism_ (Catechism examined), p. 207.

[478] See this phrase expounded in _Works_ ('Book of Fallacies'), ii.
440, etc.

END OF VOL. I




NOTE ON BENTHAM'S WRITINGS


The following account of Bentham's writings may be of some use. The
arrangement is intended to show what were the topics which attracted his
attention at successive periods.

The collected _Works_, edited by Bowring, appeared from 1838 to 1843 in
eleven volumes, the last two containing the life and an elaborate index.
The first nine volumes consist partly of the works already published;
partly of works published for the first time from Bentham's MSS.; and
partly of versions of Dumont's redactions of Bentham. Dumont's
publications were (1) _Traités de Legislation civile et pénale_ (1802;
second edition, revised, 1820): [vol. i. contains _Principes généraux de
Legislation_ and _Principes du Code civil_; vol. ii. _Principes du Code
pénal_; and vol. iii. _Mémoire sur le Panoptique_, _De la Promulgation
des Lois_, _De l'Influence du Temps et des Lieux_, and _Vue générale
d'un Corps complet des Lois_]; (2) _Théorie des Peines et des
Récompenses_, 1811, 1818, 1825; (3) _Tactiques des Assemblées
déliberantes et Traité des Sophismes politiques_, 1816; (4) _Traité des
Preuves judiciaires_, 1823; and (5) _De l'Organisation judiciaire et de
la Codification_, 1823.

In the following I give references to the place of each work in
Bowring's edition.

Bentham's first book was the _Fragment on Government_, 1776 (i.
221-295). An interesting 'historical preface,' intended for a second
edition (i. 240-259), was first printed in 1828. The _Fragment_, edited
by Mr. F. C. Montague, was republished in 1891.

The _Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation_ was
published in 1789, in one vol. 4to (i. 1-154). It had been printed in
1780. A second edition, in two vols. 8vo, appeared in 1823. It was
intended as an introduction to the plan of a penal code. Bentham says in
his preface that his scheme would be completed by a series of works
applying his principles to (1) civil law; (2) penal law; (3) procedure;
(4) reward; (5) constitutional law; (6) political tactics; (7)
international law; (8) finance; and (9) political economy, and by a
tenth treatise giving a plan of a body of law 'considered in respect of
its form,' that is, upon 'nomography.' He wrote more or less in the
course of his life upon all these topics. Dumont's _Traités_ of 1802
were based partly upon the _Introduction_ and partly upon Bentham's MSS.
corresponding to unfinished parts of this general scheme.

The two first sections of this scheme are represented in the _Works_ by
_Principles of the Civil Code_ (i. 297-364) and _Principles of Penal
Law_ (i. 365-580). The _Principles of the Civil Code_ is translated from
Dumont's _Traités_, where it follows a condensed statement of 'general
principles' taken from the opening chapters of the _Introduction_. An
appendix 'on the levelling system' is added in the _Works_ from
Bentham's MSS. The _Principles of Penal Law_ consists of three parts:
the first and third (on 'political remedies for the evil of offences'
and on 'indirect means of preventing crimes') are translated from parts
2 and 4 of Dumont's _Principes du Code pénal_ (parts 1 and 3 of Dumont
being adaptations from the _Introduction to Morals and Legislation_).
The second part of the _Penal Law_, or _The Rationale of Punishment_ is
from Dumont's _Théorie des Peines et des Récompenses_. Dumont took it
from a MS. written by Bentham in 1775. (See Bentham's _Works_, i. 388.)
An appendix on 'Death Punishment,' addressed by Bentham to the French
people in 1830, is added to Part II. in the _Works_ (i. 525-532). No. 4
of Bentham's general scheme corresponds to the _Rationale of Reward_,
founded upon two MSS., one in French and one in English, used by Dumont
in the _Théorie des Peines et des Récompenses_. The English version in
the _Works_, chiefly translated from Dumont and compared with the
original manuscript, was first published in 1825 (ii. 189-266). Richard
Smith 'of the Stamps and Taxes' was the editor of this and of an edition
of the _Rationale of Punishment_ in 1831, and of various minor
treatises. (Bentham's _Works_, x. 548 _n._)

The _Table of the Springs of Action_ (i. 195-220), written at an early
period, was printed in 1815, and published, with modifications, in 1817.
The _Vue générale_ included in the _Traités_ of 1802 was intended by
Bentham as a sketch for his own guidance, and is translated as _View of
a Complete Code of Laws_ in the _Works_ (iii. 154-210). The two essays
in the 1802 _Traités_ on 'the promulgation of laws' and the 'influence
of time and place in matters of legislation' are translated in _Works_
(i. 157-194). A fragment on _International Law_--a phrase invented by
Bentham--written between 1786 and 1789, first appeared in the _Works_
(ii. 535-571), with _Junctiana proposal_--a plan for a canal between the
Atlantic and the Pacific--written in 1822, as an appendix.

Besides the above, all written before 1789 in pursuance of his scheme,
Bentham had published in 1778 his _View of the Hard Labour Bill_ (iv.
1-36); and in 1787 his _Defence of Usury_ (iii. 1-29). A third edition
of the last (with the 'protest against law taxes') was published in
1816.

During the following period (1789-1802) Bentham wrote various books,
more or less suggested by the French revolution. The _Essay on Political
Tactics_ (ii. 299-373), (corresponding to No. 6 of the scheme), was sent
to Morellet in 1789, but first published by Dumont in 1816. With it
Dumont also published the substance of the _Anarchical Fallacies_ (ii.
489-534), written about 1791. A _Draught of a Code for the Organisation
of the Judicial Establishment of France_, dated March 1790, is reprinted
in _Works_ iv. 285-406. _Truth v. Ashhurst_, written in 1792 (v.
231-237), was first published in 1823. A _Manual of Political Economy_,
written by 1793 (see _Works_, iii. 73 _n._), corresponds to No. 9 of his
scheme. A chapter appeared in the _Bibliothèque Britannique_ in 1798. It
was partly used in Dumont's _Théorie des Récompenses_, and first
published in English in _Works_ (iii. 31-84). _Emancipate your
Colonies_ (iv. 407-481) was privately printed in 1793, and first
published for sale in 1830. A _Protest against Law Taxes_, printed in
1793, was published in 1795 together with _Supply without Burthen, or
Escheat vice Taxation_, written in 1794. To them is appended a short
paper called _Tax with Monopoly_ (ii. 573-600). _A Plan for saving all
Trouble and Expense in the Transfer of Stock_, written and partly
printed in 1800, was first published in _Works_ (iii. 105-153).

During this period Bentham was also occupied with the Panopticon, and
some writings refer to it. _The Panopticon, or the Inspection House_
(iv. 37-172), written in 1787, was published in 1791. _The Panopticon
versus New South Wales_ (iv. 173-248) appeared in 1802; and _A Plea for
the Constitution_ (on transportation to New South Wales) (iv. 249-284),
in 1803. Closely connected with these are _Poor-laws and Pauper
Management_ (viii. 358-461), reprinted from Arthur Young's _Annals_ of
September 1797 and following months; and _Observations on the Poor Bill_
(viii. 440-459), written in February 1797, privately printed in 1838,
and first published in the _Works_.

About 1802 Bentham returned to jurisprudence. James Mill prepared from
the papers then written an _Introductory View of the Rationale of
Evidence_, finished and partly printed in 1812 (see _Works_, x. 468 _n._
and Bain's _James Mill_, 105, 120). Dumont's _Traité des Preuves
judiciaires_ (1823) was a redaction of the original papers, and an
English translation of this appeared in 1825. The parts referring to
English Law were omitted. The _Rationale of Evidence_ (5 vols. 8vo,
1827), edited by J. S. Mill, represents a different and fuller redaction
of the same papers. It is reprinted in vols. vi. and vii. of the _Works_
with the _Introductory View_ (now first published) prefixed. To the same
period belongs _Scotch Reform_, with a _Summary View of a Plan for a
Judicatory_, 1808 (second edition 1811, v. 1-60).

After 1808 Bentham's attention was especially drawn to political
questions. His _Catechism of Parliamentary Reform_ (iii. 433-557),
written in 1809, was first published with a long 'introduction' in the
_Pamphleteer_ for January 1817. Bentham's _Radical Reform Bill, with
explanations_ (iii. 558-597) followed in December 1819. _Radicalism not
dangerous_ (iii. 598-622), written at the same time, first appeared in
the _Works_ (iii. 398-622). _Elements of the Art of Packing as applied
to Special Juries, especially in Cases of Libel Law_ (v. 61-186),
written in 1809, was published in 1821. _Swear not at all_ (v. 188-229)
(referring chiefly to Oxford tests), written in 1813, was published in
1817. _The King against Edmonds_ and _The King against Wolseley_ (v.
239-261) were published in 1820. _Official Aptitude minimized; Official
Expense limited_ (v. 263-286), is a series of papers, first collected in
1831. It contains a _Defence of Economy against Burke_, and a _Defence
of Economy against George Rose_, both written in 1810, and published in
the _Pamphleteer_ in 1817, with _Observations_ on a speech by Peel in
1825, and _Indications respecting Lord Eldon_. The two last appeared in
1825. Connected with these political writings is the _Book of Fallacies_
(ii. 375-488), edited by Bingham in 1824, from the 'most unfinished of
all Bentham's writings.' Allusions seem to show that the original MSS.
were written from 1810 to 1819. It was partly published by Dumont with
the _Tactique, etc._

Bentham, during this period (1808-1820), was also led into various
outlying questions. _The Pannomial Fragments_, _Nomography_, and
_Appendix on Logical Arrangements employed by Jeremy Bentham_ (iii.
211-295) were first published in the _Works_ from MSS. written from 1813
to 1831. With the _Chrestomathia_ (viii. 1-192), first published in
1816, are connected fragments upon 'Ontology,' 'Language,' and
'Universal Grammar' (viii. 193-358), first published in _Works_ from
fragments of MSS. of 1813 and later. George Bentham's _Outline of a New
System of Logic_ was partly founded upon his uncle's papers. Bentham at
the Ford Abbey time (1814-1818) was also writing his _Church of
Englandism and its Catechism examined_, 1818. The _Analysis of the
Influence of Natural Religion upon the Temporal Happiness of Mankind_,
by Philip Beauchamp, edited by George Grote, appeared in 1822; and _Not
Paul but Jesus_, by Gamaliel Smith, in 1823. Francis Place helped in
preparing this at Ford Abbey in 1817 (Mr. Wallas's _Life of Place_, p.
83). _Mother Church of England relieved by Bleeding_ (1823) and the
_Book of Church Reform_ (1831) are extracted from _Church of
Englandism_. Bowring did not admit these works to his collection.

In his later years (1820-1832) Bentham began to be specially occupied
with codification. _Papers upon Codification and Public Instruction_
(iv. 451-534) consist chiefly of letters, written from 1811 to 1815,
offering himself for employment in codification in America and Russia,
and first published in 1817. In 1821 appeared _Three Tracts relating to
Spanish and Portuguese Affairs, with a Continual Eye to English ones_;
and in 1822 _Three Letters to Count Toreno on the proposed Penal Code_
(in Spain) (viii. 460-554). A short tract on _Liberty of the Press_ was
addressed to the Spanish people in 1821 (ii. 275-299). _Codification
Proposals_ (iv. 535-594) appeared in 1823, offering to prepare an
'all-comprehensive code of law' for 'any nation professing liberal
opinions.' _Securities against Misrule addressed to a Mahommedan State,
and prepared with a special Reference to Tripoli_, written in 1822-23,
was first published in the _Works_ (viii. 551-600). A tract on the
_Leading Principles of a Constitutional Code_ (ii. 267-274) appeared in
the _Pamphleteer_ in 1823. The first volume of the _Constitutional
Code_, printed in 1827, was published with the first chapter of the
second volume in 1830. The whole book, edited by R. Doane from papers
written between 1818 and 1832, was published in 1841, and forms volume
ix. of the _Works_. Doane also edited _Principles of Judicial Procedure_
(ii. 1-188) from papers written chiefly from 1820 to 1827, though part
had been written in 1802. Several thousand pages upon this subject--the
third part of the original scheme--were left by Bentham at his death.

During his last years Bentham also wrote a _Commentary on Mr. Humphrey's
Real Property Code_, published in the _Westminster Review_ for October
1826 (v. 387-416); _Justice and Codification Petitions_ (v. 437-548),
printed in 1829; _Jeremy Bentham to his Fellow-Citizens in France on
Houses of Peers and Senates_ (iv. 419-450), dated 15th October 1830;
_Equity Dispatch Court Proposals_ (iii. 297-432), first published in
_Works_ and written from 1829 to 1831; _Outline of a Plan of a General
Register of Real Property_ (v. 417-435), published in the Report of the
Real Property Commission in 1832; and _Lord Brougham Displayed_ (v.
549-612), 1832.

The _Deontology_ or _Science of Morality_ was published by Bowring in
two vols. 8vo in 1834, but omitted from the _Works_, as the original
edition was not exhausted. The MS. preserved at University College,
London, shows that a substantial beginning had been made in 1814; most
of the remainder about 1820. The second volume, made, as Bowring says,
from a number of scraps, is probably more 'Bowringised' than the first.

Dumont's _Traités_ were translated into Spanish in 1821, and the _Works_
in 1841-43. There are also Russian and Italian translations. In 1830 a
translation from Dumont, edited by F. E. Beneke, as _Grundsätze der
Civil- und Criminal-Gesetzgebung_, etc., was published at Berlin. Beneke
observes that Bentham had hitherto received little attention in Germany,
though well known in other countries. He reports a saying attributed to
Mme. de Staël that the age was that of Bentham, not of Byron or
Buonaparte. The neglect of Bentham in Germany was due, as Beneke says,
to the prevalence of the Kantian philosophy. Bentham, however, had been
favourably noticed in the _Hermes_ for 1822, and his merits since
acknowledged by Mittermaier and Warnkönig in the _Zeitschrift für
Rechtswissenschaft_. Beneke (1798-1854) was opposed to the Hegelian
tendencies of his time, and much influenced by Herbart. See Ueberweg's
_History of Philosophy_ (English translation, 1874, ii. 281, etc.) and
the account of Bentham in Robert von Mohl's _Staatswissenschaften_, etc.
(1853), iii. 595-635.

A great mass of Bentham MSS. belongs to University College, London. They
are contained in 148 boxes, which were examined and catalogued by Mr. T.
Whittaker in 1892. A few of these contain correspondence, part of which
was printed by Bowring. Others are the manuscripts of published works.
Some are upon the same subjects as the published works, and others refer
to topics not included in his publications. Besides the _Deontology_
manuscripts and a fragment upon 'Political Deontology,' there is a
discussion of the means of suppressing duels, an argument against the
legal punishment of certain offences against decency, and a criticism of
the gospel narrative similar to _Not Paul_, etc. I have not thought it
necessary to examine these fragments after reading Mr. Whittaker's
report. Bentham's principles are sufficiently stated in his published
works; and the papers which have been reposing in the cellars of
University College can have had no influence upon the world. There is
another large collection of MSS. in the British Museum from the papers
of Bentham and his brother, Sir Samuel. Ten folio volumes contain
correspondence, much of it referring only to Sir Samuel. A long
correspondence upon the acquisition of the 'Panopticon' land is
included. Another volume contains many of Bentham's school and college
exercises. There are also the manuscripts of the _Nomography_, _Logical
Arrangements_, etc. This collection was used by Bowring and by Lady
Bentham in the life of her husband.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh
University Press